Chapter Thirteen.
September was not a pleasant month this year. There were not the usual clear, bright days, all the lovelier and more enjoyable that the frost in the morning air, and a tinge of brilliant colour here and there among the trees, gave warning that there could not be many more of them in the season. They were hot, oppressive days. The air was close, and the sky was hidden by a thick haze, which told of the coming of a storm.
It was no wonder, the children said, that their mother was worse than usual. Every one felt dull, and languid, and out of sorts. They would all feel better when the rain which had been gathering so many days should come, and it could not be long now. This was what Frederica said to her sister, Mrs Brandon, when she came to see them after her return from the seaside, where she had passed the summer. Mrs Brandon assented, and regretted for baby’s sake that she had returned home so soon. She regretted it for another reason. She did not know how to tell the business that had brought her to them that day. Their father had decided not to return home till spring, and had written to her to say that there would be an opportunity for Fred to travel with a Mrs Bury, who was about to return to England, and he wished her to hasten her preparations. Mrs Brandon was to tell Mrs Vane of the change of plan, and to help Fred in all necessary arrangements.
She did not like the task he had assigned her, and she liked it less when she saw the mother and her daughters together. She could not but feel that her father was exposing himself to remark—nay, to just censure—by remaining away so long in the circumstances of his family; and she felt the greatest unwillingness to say a word to Fred about leaving home. But Fred did not even take the matter into consideration. She dismissed the subject with a single word.
“I’m not going,” said she quietly. But an angry spot burned on her cheek. She would not say to Mrs Brandon, or even to Selina, that she thought it unkind of their father to ask such a thing—more than unkind to remain longer away. She checked the hasty words of blame that rose to. Tessie’s lips in Caroline’s presence. But she was grieved and vexed too.
“I am not going,” said she, “and nobody must tell mama that papa, wished it. He ought to know that—”
She stopped suddenly, not sure of her voice.
“She has been ill so long,” said Mrs Brandon. “I suppose papa thinks she is as she always has been, now a little better, now worse. He thinks you are over-anxious, and I am afraid he does not understand. What does Dr Gerard say?”
“If you were to tell him, Caroline, he might understand,” said Selina. “Will you not write and tell him how we all want him home?”
“I will write certainly, and I will also see Mrs Bury. It would make you too unhappy to leave now, though I trust your mother is not really worse.”
“Thank you. No, I could not go now. Even Mr St. Cyr is ill, and they have no one but me—” said Fred, speaking with difficulty.
“My darling,” said Mrs Brandon, moved to unwonted tenderness by the sight of Frederica’s tears, “you are not to be discouraged. Remember how often your mother has been worse than she is now; and papa will be sure to come when I write and tell him how much you all want him. And, dear, if you break down, what will become of the rest?”
“I am not going to break down,” said Fred, swallowing her tears, and trying to smile. “Be sure and bring baby next time, and hasten now, for the rain is near. Good-bye?”
She went to the gate, and stood looking after the carriage for a minute or two. Then, instead of going into the house, she walked round the garden several times, telling herself that there was no one but her to care for the rest, and that she must be strong and not discouraged for their sake. But for the moment she was utterly discouraged and afraid.
Though it was still early in the afternoon, it had grown very dark, and there was first the silence, and then the low sighing of the wind among the trees, that tells of the near approach of a storm; and the sudden recollection that her little brothers had not returned from their walk hastened Frederica’s footsteps again to the gate. A few large drops of rain fell before she reached it, and as she looked out a cloud of dust and leaves came whirling down the street, and a strong gust of wind made it necessary for her to cling for a moment to the gate, lest she should be thrown down.
There was nothing to be seen of her brothers; but, fighting against the wind, and shielding his eyes from the clouds of dust which it bore, came a slender bowed figure that made her forget them. For just a moment she thought it was Mr St. Cyr, but even before he came near, she saw it was not he, but an older man. His hair was snowy white, and he walked with a great effort, bowing his head low to meet the blast. Opposite the gate, a sudden gust nearly overthrew him. He let fall a book which he carried in his hand, and in stooping to recover it his cane slipped from his grasp. Frederica sprang forward to lift it for him; and when she met the sweet, grave smile that thanked her, she quite forgot that the face was the face of a stranger.
“Come in,” said she eagerly. “You are not strong enough to meet this terrible wind. And see, the rain has begun to fall already. Come in and rest.”
“I shall be glad to rest,” said the stranger; and so, at Frederica’s bidding, there passed over their threshold an angel unawares.
The brothers came home with a run and a shout, only in time to escape the rain that soon fell in torrents. In the house it grew as dark as night for a little while, and then the lightning flashed, and the thunder broke over the roof with a peal that seemed to shake the foundations. The servants of the house, awed and anxious, flocked into the hall where the stranger sat, and where the children had gathered. Their mother was there too, trembling and white with nervous terror. For a minute or two the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled continuously, and for a time not a word was spoken. Then that cloud passed, and it grew light.
“You are not afraid,” said Hubert, looking up into the face of the stranger.
“No,” said he gently, “I have no cause.”
“But we are afraid, except Selina,” said the boy, looking round on the terrified faces. “Selina does not see the lightning. But why are not you afraid?”
“‘God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present Help in trouble. Therefore shall not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.’ No, I am not afraid.”
“But the lightning might kill you.”
“Yes, it might kill me.”
“And yet you are not afraid! Why are you not afraid?”
“Because I hope—yes, I believe, that when death shall come to me, it will be as God’s messenger, not to hurt, but to take me beyond all reach of hurt for ever and for ever. Truly, my little lad, death is the last thing of which one whom God loves need be afraid.”
Another cloud was passing, and Hubert’s face was hidden in his sister’s lap as once more the thunder broke over them. But the worst of the storm was over. There were now longer pauses between the gradually receding peals, and in the silence of one of them Selina asked softly,—
“Frederica, who is he that is not afraid of death?”
And Frederica answered in the same tone, “One whom God loves, he says.”
“And surely He loves us all.”
Gradually the storm passed over. The servants went away to their duties, and Miss Agnace took the little boys to change their coats, which she only now discovered were quite wet. The girls helped their mother into her room again, and Tessie opened the window. There were clouds heavy and dark still in the sky, but beyond the clouds there was brightness, and the cool sweet air brought refreshment to them all. The stranger stood on the threshold, regarding with grave, compassionate eyes the group which the mother and daughters made.
“Mama,” said Frederica, answering her mother’s look of surprise, “I brought him in because of the rain.”
“Who is it?” said Selina eagerly. “Is it he whom God loves, and who has no cause to be afraid of death? Frederica, ask him why he is not afraid. And does not God love us all?”
“God is our Father. Truly He loves all His children.”
Drawn by his voice, Selina approached, and took in both hers his outstretched hand. Not once in a hundred times did the blind girl seek to get by the sense of touch a knowledge of strangers. But now she gently passed her hand over his, and over his face, and his soft white hair; and then she drew him gently into the room, and over towards her mother’s chair.
“Come and tell mama why you are not afraid.”
“Because ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ No one need fear death, who has the promise of life everlasting.”
“No,” said Selina. “And have you that promise? And is it for us too? for mama, and all of us?”
For answer, the old man repeated the text again, “God so loved the world,” and so on to the end.
“It is the world He loves; and the promise is to whosoever believeth.”
“Do you hear, mama? It says, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ Are you listening, mama?” said Selina eagerly.
“My darling, I know not what to believe, or what to do,” said Mrs Vane sadly. “I have never in all my life thought about these things.”
“No,” said Selina, turning her eager face towards the stranger. “We have never thought about these things. Could we begin now, do you think? and what must we do?”
Frederica and Tessie looked and listened in amazement. It was so unlike Selina to have anything to say to a stranger. Their mother looked as eager as she did, and very anxious; and she said, before the stranger could reply,—
“Yes, the children might begin now. As for me, I can do nothing.”
“But,” said the old man gently, “it does not say do, but believe.”
“Surely, mama, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ And what are we to believe?”
“The text says, ‘Whosoever believeth in Him’.”
“Yes—that is Jesus. And what are we to believe?”
“All that the Bible says of Him. Have you heard about Him at all, my child?”
“Yes. In the New Testament. We believe all that. What is the first, Fred? Oh! I remember: ‘Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save His people from their sins.’”
And Frederica added, “‘And they shall call His name Emmanuel, which is, being interpreted, God with us.’”
“We are to believe that He saves His people from their sins,” said Selina. “Does that mean us too? Who are God’s people?”
“They who seek to know Him. They who love Him, and do His will. They whom He loves and will save.”
There was a pause of some minutes; then Selina said,—
“We seek to know Him, and—I love Him. I do not know how to do His will.”
“His will is written in His Word, and He Himself will teach you,” said the stranger.
Then Tessie broke in flippantly,—
“But how are we to know? Some say one thing, and some another. Father Jerome says it is the last thing we should do—to read the Bible for ourselves. And how are we to know?”
“But we do read it,” said Frederica. “And there is no use in asking what Mr Jerome St. Cyr would wish us to do.”
“But for my part, I think he is quite as likely to be right as those others,” said Tessie. “There are many more who are of his opinion than of ours. And it would be a shocking thing to say that all the crowds of people who go to his church are all wrong.”
“Hush, Tessie dear, and listen,” said Selina. “Mama dear, are you very tired? Would you like to hear more?”
If Selina could have seen her mother’s face, she would not have asked.
“Tell us more!” said she.
“Begin at the beginning,” said Fred, and she read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise.”
But the beginning was before that, he showed them. The beginning was when, because of sin, man’s need began—when the first promise was given, and God said “that the woman’s seed should bruise the head of the serpent.” He showed them how, the Divine law being broken, Divine justice required satisfaction, and how One had said, “Lo! I come to do Thy will, O God!” He went on from promise to promise, from prophecy to prophecy, showing how all that went before was but a preparation for the coming of Him who was promised, who was “to save His people from their sins.”
Much that had been mysterious, even meaningless, in the things which they had read—the sacrifices, the ceremonies, the prophecies—became significant and beautiful as types of Him who was both sacrifice and priest, dying that His people might live. The old man did not use many words, and almost all of them were words with which the reading of the Bible had made them familiar, but they came to them with new meaning and power from his lips.
He told them how the ages had been waiting for Him who was called “Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace;” and how, “when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth His Son;” how “He bare our griefs, and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was on Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”
He spoke to them of Him as the son of Mary, as the babe in Bethlehem, and yet the Leader and Commander of His people. He reminded them how He lived and suffered; how He spake wonderful words, and did wonderful works; how He pitied, and taught, and healed the people; how He loved them, and how He died for them at last.
At last? No, that was not the last. He told them how the grave, that had held in bonds all the generations that had passed away, had no power to hold Him; how He had broken the chains of death, nay, had slain death, and how He had ascended up to heaven, to be still the Priest of His people, and their King. He told them that it was His delight to pardon and receive sinners who came to Him; that He would not only pardon and save from the punishment of sin, but take away the power of sin over the heart; so that instead of loving it, and yielding to it, sin would become hateful to the forgiven child of God, because God hated it. He told them how God kept His people safe in the midst of a world at enmity with Him, and how all things were theirs, because they were Christ’s; and how nothing, “neither life, nor death, nor things present, nor things to come, can separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
He told them that He was preparing a place for those who had loved Him, and that Death—no longer an enemy—was to come as His messenger to take them into His presence, there to dwell for evermore. And most wonderful, all this was God’s free gift. None were too sinful, or weak, or wayward, to be saved by Him, who asked only to be trusted and loved by those to whom He freely offered so much. Wonderful indeed, beyond the power of words to utter.
“Mama,” said Selina, touching her mother’s hand, “I think I see it now.”
The mother turned her eyes from the radiant face of the blind girl to the face of the stranger again.
“Will you trust Him?” asked he gently. “He is able and willing to save.”
“May I?” said she eagerly; “I, who can do nothing? I, who have never in all my life thought about these things? Ah! if it were possible!”
“Believe it. It is true.”
“But is there nothing we must do?” said Frederica doubtfully.
“There is nothing you need do to win His love. There is much you can do to prove your love to Him. ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments,’ He said. And ‘we love Him because He first loved us.’”
“And is there no good in all that Miss Agnace has told us?” said Tessie. “Indeed, Fred, it is not that I wish to be disagreeable. But Miss Agnace prays to the Virgin and to the saints, and she goes to confession. She says that is the only right way, and you know Miss Agnace is a good woman. And Mr Jerome—”
Mrs Vane’s eyes and Frederica’s were turned on the stranger; and Miss Agnace, who had been listening unseen, came forward at the sound of her name. The old man looked gravely from one to the other, and said,—
“‘He that believeth on the Son hath life.’ Of Him it is said, ‘Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is no other name given under heaven among men, whereby we can be saved.’ Of Him it is said, that He ‘hath redeemed us not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with His precious blood. Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree.’ Of Him it is said, ‘In Whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.’ Truly He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto Him by faith. They who put their trust in Him need no other saviour. ‘Other foundation can no man lay, than is laid down, which is Jesus Christ.’
“This is God’s truth, taught us in His Word. I do not desire to judge those of whom you speak. It is through Christ, once offered for sins, that they too can be saved.”
Mrs Vane made a movement to enjoin silence when Miss Agnace would have spoken; and then the stranger, kneeling down, said, “Let us pray;” and Mrs Vane and Selina for the first time heard the pouring out of a good man’s heart to God. What he asked for them need hardly be told: that Christ might reveal Himself to them as one mighty to save; that He might dwell in them by His Spirit, to make them holy and happy, and ready for an entrance into “the inheritance which is incorruptible, and undefiled, and which fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for those who love Him;” that even now, believing in Him, they might have “joy unspeakable and full of glory.”
Every heart went up with his as he prayed. Even Miss Agnace listened and joined in supplication, wondering and moved.
“And shall we never see you again?” said Frederica, as he took her mother’s hand to say farewell.
“I cannot tell. I am only passing through the town, and but for the storm I should have been already on the way. I shall never forget you.”
“I think God sent you to us,” said Selina.
Once more the blind girl touched softly his hand, and his face, and his silver hair. Praying, “God bless all beneath this roof,” he went away.
But they never forgot him, nor the words he had spoken to them.
For Selina after that there was neither doubt nor fear. The way which God has opened for the return of sinners to Himself was clearly revealed to her. She had much to learn yet, with regard to His will and His dealings in providence; but this she knew and declared, “I love Him because He first loved me.”
There were for her no anxious questionings, no groping in the dark, after that. Day by day the light grew clearer and brighter to the eyes of her soul, and she saw “wondrous things out of His law.” She was at peace, and with all the power of her loving and gentle nature she set herself to help her mother toward the same peace. There was the daily reading still, and daily also, kneeling by her mother’s bed, Selina asked for the blessing of peace to her mother’s heart. And she did not ask in vain. As the days went on the blessing came—God gave His own answer of peace.
Peace with God! That which all those weary years of sickness and solitude this poor soul had needed came to her at last, and all was changed. Her waiting for the end, that was slowly, but surely drawing near, was peaceful, at times it was joyful. Even Miss Agnace saw the change, and thanked God for it. Sister Magdalen saw it, and doubted its reality and its sufficiency. But she was suffered to utter no word of doubt in Mrs Vane’s hearing. Indeed, she hardly wished to do so.
“God may have ways of dealing with sinners of which we do not know,” said she, in answer to Miss Agnace’s anxious looks, not knowing what to say.
“Yes, truly,” said Miss Agnace to herself, with a sigh of relief and comfort.
It had come to her many times of late, that the dying mother’s peace must be from God, even though it had not come to her through the Church or its ministers; but she had hardly dared to believe it possible. She needed Sister Magdalen’s confirming word, and took more comfort from it than Sister Magdalen had meant it to convey.