“I am a nursing sister, yes.”
“And were they willing to let you come here? You do not wear the sisters’ dress. It was a very good thing you came here. What should we have done all this time? Was it Mr St. Cyr who sent you? Do you like to stay here, better than in the Hospital?”
Frederica could not expect that all her questions should be answered. Miss Agnace looked relieved as she listened to her.
“Yes, it was Mr St. Cyr who sent me. I like to stay here very well. I am glad to be of use.”
“You are very kind. I ought to call you Sister Agnace, ought I not? or ‘Ma tante,’ as the convent girls do? How odd that you should be here! And have you been nursing sick people all your life? You must have seen a great many sorrowful sights.”
“Yes, a great many sorrowful sights,” repeated Miss Agnace gravely; “but not all sorrowful. I have seen the joyful ending of many a troubled life, which is a happy thing to see.”
And she told her that night, and afterwards, about many sorrowful and joyful things, sickness and pain, grief and disappointment, and the blessed endings of all these; and a new view of life was presented to Frederica as she listened. She was getting better by this time, but not rapidly, and she did not grow cheerful and bright, as she ought to have done, when she was able to go out with her little brothers in the fine April days. Mrs Brandon came to see her, and would have taken her home with her for a few days, for a change, but because of baby it was not considered safe to do so, and she was obliged to content herself with the company of Miss Agnace and an hour’s reading now and then.
She was not very happy these days. She did not look back with much satisfaction on the winter. It had been agreeable enough in passing, and she had not been taught that such a life was wrong, or might lead to wrong—that “she who liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.” But somehow she was not content with herself. She had a feeling that she had “been weighed in the balance, and found wanting;” that she had not proved herself wise, or sensible, or discreet, as she had sometimes been called; that she had been seeking her own pleasure rather than the comfort of her mother and Selina. She had even been able to look forward to the prospect of leaving them for a long time, not without pain, certainly, but still with a vague expectation of enjoying the change for herself. She had failed them, and thinking about it made her more unhappy than she had ever been in all her life before.
But the root of her trouble lay deeper than any of these things. A year ago she had pleased herself with the thought that she wished to become religious, to become a Christian, not in name merely, but in reality. She then wished this less for herself than for her mother. She had felt the need less for herself, because she was young, and strong, and happy. But she had been near death, they told her, since then; and now, as her thoughts went back to that time, she could not but ask herself, What if she had died? would it have been the end of all trouble to her, as Miss Agnace said it was to so many of the suffering poor creatures, whose eyes she had closed? She hoped so. She had never done anything very wrong. She wished to be good.
But she was not religious. At least, she had not the religion that would make her happy in the midst of suffering and in the prospect of death. And when she thought of it in this way, she was not so sure that it would have been well with her if she had died.