Mr St. Cyr's vexation began the moment he went upstairs again into the
room where his brother was sitting. A good many years before this time,
Mr Jerome St. Cyr had known the St. Huberts, and had looked upon
Theresa's marriage with Mr Vane, as almost all her friends had done, as
a terrible sacrifice. He had been a young man then, he was much younger
than his brother. He had gone to Europe to pursue his studies soon
after that, and had remained there after they were finished. His
correspondence with his brother had not been very regular or frequent,
and he knew little of what was passing among his friends all that time.
He had only lately returned home, and he showed great interest in the
Vane family, and asked his brother many questions concerning them. Mr
St. Cyr gave him some particulars of them and their manner of life; of
Mrs Vane's ill-health, and the quiet way in which she and her blind
daughter lived together.
"But, my brother," said Jerome St. Cyr, "I do not understand how you
should have permitted affairs to take such a course, you who have so
long had the power in your own hand. Why should these girls be losing
their time at a second or third-rate school, as seems to be the case?
Why have they not been all these years with the Sisters of the Sacred
Heart? And the boys, too! Think of them wasting their time with some
foolish young person who goes to them daily! It is little less than
disgraceful."
"You mistake," said Mr St. Cyr quietly. "I have had the management of
their grandfathers property for their mother's use, but I have had no
power--no, nor the shadow of power, nor of influence, where Mr Vane's
children are concerned."
"Then permit me to say that you have been very culpable in this matter,
I should have obtained influence and power too."
Mr St. Cyr shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
"And all this immense property that has been accumulating since Mr St.
Hubert's death, this rascally Englishman is to have?"
"No, his children are to have it--Theresa St. Hubert's children. It has
made the Englishman sufficiently miserable thus far--the sight of I
mean, without the power to use it. Not but that he has had some good of
it too."
"But to think of these poor children growing up without Christian
instruction! Did Mr St. Hubert make no condition as to their
education--their religion? I cannot imagine how you and Pauline Precoe
can reconcile it to your sense of duty, to your conscience, that it
should be as it is with them. With Pauline Precoe's help, I should have
made it quite otherwise."
Mr St. Cyr laughed in a way which was not pleasant to hear.
"You have not forgotten Pauline Precoe, it seems," said he.
"I must see her," said Jerome. "It may not be too late yet. These
children must be saved."
"It is too late to think of availing yourself of Pauline Precoe's help
in your good work, however. She is now in Mrs Vane's house, but she
shall not be there long. I have no influence with Mr Vane--he hates me
like poison; but I think he may be made to see that it will not be for
his interest that Madame Ascot should stay much longer in his family."
"Why? What has she done, poor Pauline? You did not use to hate her
so."
"I never respected her. She was never worthy of respect. She was and
is an utterly unscrupulous person. I say to you what I mean to say to
her soon--she is a dishonest person. I might even say worse than that."
"She has not been under right direction," said his brother.
"And you would like to be her director henceforth. I wish you joy of
the office. But you must not hope through her to gain influence over
Theresa St. Hubert and her children."
"And they and their wealth must be lost to the Church? You are not so
good a Christian as you once were, Cyprien," said his brother.
"That is as may be. I do not think it is my Christian duty, or yours,
to seek to obtain possession of Mr St. Hubert's wealth, or any part of
it, by any means, or for any purpose whatever."
"I seek nothing for myself," said his brother; "and we will discuss the
subject no more."
"There is just this to be said more," said Mr St. Cyr, gravely and
firmly: "Do not meddle with their affairs, my brother. No good can come
of it, to you or to any one. You wish none of it for yourself? To wish
for it for any purpose--yes, even to build churches, or to feed and
clothe your orphans--is covetousness. To obtain possession of it would
be dishonesty. Put it altogether from your thoughts."
There was a silence of several minutes, and Mr St. Cyr rose to leave
the room.
"Brother," said Jerome, meekly, "I had hoped that after all these years
of separation we might at least have lived in peace together--the last
of our race as we are."
"With all my heart, let it be peace. Only there must be no meddling
with this matter, or with any matter in which my honour as a gentleman
and a man of business is involved. That must be clearly understood."
"I must be faithful with you," said Jerome, still speaking softly: "I
consider that you have been Culpably negligent with regard to these
children. It is their souls for which I am anxious, not their wealth.
It is for you to render an account of them--not me."
"So be it! I will answer," said Mr St. Cyr. After a moment he added,
"Do not, my brother, let us become unfriendly over this matter. When
Mr St. Hubert left his property to me, in trust for his daughter and
her children, I did all that was permitted me to do to have these
children placed under Christian influence and teaching. In fact, I
would have confided them to the care of the ladies of the Sacred Heart,
as you suggest, if I had been consulted. Mr Vane had other plans, and
I had no right to interfere. I cannot say that I now regret that my
plans for them failed. They are good and sweet children, frank and
loving, and conscientious, with far more strength of character and
truthfulness, than would have been developed in them had they been
educated within convent walls. And they will need these qualities, poor
children."
"All that sounds strangely from the lips of one who has the reputation
of being a religious man," said his brother gravely.
"Have I that reputation? Well, we will say no more, lest your next word
be not so flattering. And now I must leave you to amuse yourself, while
I without loss of time attend to this unpleasant business. We shall see
each other again soon."
It truly was an unpleasant business to all concerned; and all the more
so, that instead of shutting his eyes, and seeming not to see what was
wrong, as he had often done before, in matters where Mr Vane was
concerned, he was determined to search to the bottom the affair of the
misappropriated money. He had no expectation that it would be restored;
he did not care about that: the result he desired to bring about was the
departure of Mrs Ascot from the house. She would have been sent away
long before, if Mrs Vane in her ill-health could have found courage to
dissent from the will of her dead father who had placed her there, or to
oppose the expressed will of her husband, whose ease and interest Mrs
Ascot in all things studied.
So Mr St. Cyr did his best to make it unpleasant business to both Mrs
Ascot and Mr Vane, and they did the same for each other. With the
details our story has nothing to do, but the result was matter of
rejoicing to the Vanes. The very first thing that Fred and Tessie heard
when they came home for the holidays was that Madame Ascot was going to
be married! It was madame herself who told them. She was to many her
own cousin, Mr Joseph Precoe, who was a merchant in the city. It would
have happened long ago, only she had never been able to induce herself
to forsake dear Mrs Vane, who had been so much in need of her. But now
in justice to Mr Precoe, who had waited so long, she must wait no
longer.
Madame was determined to part in friendship with everybody, it seemed,
and she would not see the joyful looks the girls exchanged, nor any
other indications of delight at the prospect of her departure. She not
only did not resent these things, but took the utmost pains to
conciliate the young people and their mother as well. There was to be a
fine wedding, and Mrs Ascot's earnest wish was that she should go
directly from Mrs Vane's house to the church, and that her dear little
cousins should go with her as bridesmaids; and she had so much to say
about the charming dresses and ornaments that would be required, that
they desired it too.
Their mother did not desire it and their father, with more decision than
he usually displayed in matters that did not particularly affect his own
comfort, put an end to the discussion of the subject at once. Madame
Ascot, an inmate of their house, had been a person of some importance,
but Madame Precoe would be like any other common person with whom they
had nothing at all to do. This was made quite clear to the children by
him, and there was no reason, except the pretty bridesmaids' dresses,
why they should regret his decision. Madame was disappointed and angry.
She showed her disappointment, but she did not show her anger. She was
determined to part in friendship with them all, and she promised to come
and see them often, and to render them assistance in all matters where
assistance was needed.
"There must be none of that, however," said Mr Vane, when Frederica
told him of Mrs Ascot's kindness. "It would suit her purpose, I
daresay, to make good her position here, and it would suit other
people's also; but it will not suit me; and she is not to be encouraged;
remember that, Fred."
Frederica opened her eyes in astonishment at her father's unwonted
warmth.
"It would not suit mama, if that is what you mean, papa--nor any of us.
We are very glad to part with her, and Mr St. Cyr does not like her at
all, I am sure."
"He may wish to make use of her, though he does not like her. But she
is not to be encouraged to come here."
"Very well, papa," said Frederica: but she by no means understood what
her father meant, nor did it matter much that she did not.
The girls saw the wedding after all. They went to the church in the
early morning, and saw madame in her fine dress and veil, and her
bridesmaids, who were much better suited to the office than they would
have been. Madame did not see them. They kept out of sight, and
watched the ceremony with great interest, rather pitying the
good-natured-looking bridegroom, and exchanging serious doubts as to his
chances of good times in madame's hands. The usual carriages drawn by
white horses awaited them at the door; and as they watched them driving
away, Tessie said,--
"There! she has really gone at last. I have been afraid all along that
Mr Precoe would repent, or that somebody would do something to put a
stop to it, and that we should have Prickly Polly back again. I should
like to dance and sing for thankfulness."
But Frederica had no thought of dancing and singing.
"There is always, some drawback," said she gravely. "If everything does
not go on well in the house,--dinners, and servants, and all that,--papa
will not be pleased."
"Oh, well! Why should they not go on well? You are so sensible, you
know," said Tessie, laughing. "You are equal to Mrs Ascot, surely."
"I mean to be good, and try to do everything right, and then all will go
well. That is what Miss Robina said to me--at least, she said I must
always try to do right, whatever happened. If one could always know
what is right!"
Tessie laughed.
"I wonder if it was right for us to come and see the last of Madame
Ascot, after what papa said."
"Oh! our coming in this way was quite different. We were not guests,
and she did not see us. And after the first moment I daresay papa did
not think about it."
"That is true. Papa does not mind about things."
"But he minds about his dinner, and about everything being right when
his friends come to the house, and all that; and perhaps he might mind
about our coming here too. I think I shall tell him that we were in the
church."
Tessie said he would be sure not to care, and Frederica thought so too,
or perhaps she would not have been so ready to tell him about it. It is
possible he did not care very much; but he was rather cross about it,
Frederica confessed, when she told Tessie afterward. His comfort had
already been interfered with since Mrs Ascot's departure, for the
affairs of the house did not go on very well for a while, and he had
other causes for embarrassment which he could not tell to her. He only
said it was not a proper thing for her to be going about the streets
alone, or with no one but Tessie, and insisted that an end should be put
to it.
"You are no longer a child," said he; "you are almost a woman."
"But surely, papa, I should be all the fitter to go about for that,"
said she, laughing.
"That is your idea, is it? Well, it is not mine. You must amuse
yourselves within the bounds of the garden, while your vacation lasts."
"But, papa," said Frederica, with dignity, "it is not a question of
amusement: you forget that I am housekeeper."
"No, I am not likely to forget that," said her father drily. "If you
must go out, you must go in the carriage, or take Dixen with you. I
cannot have you going here and there by yourself."
"Very well, papa: I will remember."
It was very agreeable to her that her father should acknowledge that she
was no longer a child, but she was by no means sure that all the
consequences of being almost a woman would be agreeable. However, she
was determined to make the best of it.
"I am going to be very busy," said she. "You shall see what a
housekeeper I shall be. I shall have no time to be going here and
there. I shall like it, I am quite sure, better than school."
But Frederica had all her housekeeping to learn yet. She did not know
what she was saying when she was speaking in this way to her father. It
is not to be supposed that an inexperienced young girl like her could at
once have rightly governed and guided so large a household, even had she
set herself to the work with a full sense of its responsibility and
difficulty. She had some misgivings in the direction of "papa," but all
the rest seemed easy and pleasant. Indeed, she considered it "great
fun" to keep the keys, and order dinner, and hold consultations with the
cook over courses, and dishes, and sauces, of which she knew nothing at
all.
It was "great fun" to the cook too, but she tired of it after a while,
and so did Frederica. As a general thing, the cook heard the orders and
took her own way about obeying them, which, on the whole, answered
everybody's purpose best. But sometimes the young mistress forgot her
orders, or did what was worse, issued orders which were contradictory or
impossible to obey. And sometimes, in her ignorance, she was arbitrary
and unreasonable, and assumed dignified "airs," and asserted her
authority at wrong times, and made "no end" of trouble. "And as for
standing the like of that from a child that didn't know white sauce from
butter, it was not to be thought of for a minute," cook said, with
sufficient emphasis.
It was the cook who was Frederica's greatest trouble, because she was
the only servant in the house, except Dixen, who could in any measure
interfere with the comfort or temper of her father; and in trying to
keep things right for him, she put them often woefully wrong. So
domestic affairs were in rather a troubled state for a while. Tessie
was not altogether wrong, when she asserted that it would have been much
more comfortable for everybody if she had left the servants of the house
to do things in their own way, and of course it came to that at last.
Frederica grew tired of being anxious, and dignified, and out of temper,
and by-and-by let the cook and all the rest of them take their own
plans, and fell into the usual holiday ways, and devoted herself to her
mother and Selina. She kept the keys still, and ordered dinner; but
very often the store-room door was open, while the keys were safe in her
little basket, and her orders for dinner were very apt to degenerate
into amiable and undignified coaxings for certain favourite dishes at
the cook's hands. This was a great deal more agreeable for all
concerned, and was quite as well every way. For the servants had been
well trained by Mrs Ascot, and they sufficiently appreciated the
advantages of a good place and good wages, to be reasonably faithful in
the performance of their duties. And besides, in a little time they
grew quite fond and proud of their merry and pretty young mistress, and
took pains to please her, when it did not involve too much trouble to
themselves.
And so Mrs Ascot was less missed in the house than she would have
believed possible. Even "papa" ceased to be critical and vexatious when
he found that his dinner, and his boots, and his fine linen seemed to
make their appearance at proper times with no trouble to himself.
Household affairs settled into their new grooves quietly and regularly,
and the young housekeeper gave herself not much trouble about them for a
while. She had enough to do without them. Even in the busiest of
housekeeping times, the sisters had never neglected their mother and
Selina.
The presence of the girls in the house made a joyful difference to them.
The sound of their voices, as they danced out and in the rooms, usually
so silent and lonely, was music and medicine to their mother. She grew
better and stronger in these weeks, and made efforts that she would have
believed impossible before they came home.
Mr Vane's desire that the girls should confine themselves to the garden
for their walks and amusements was not so disagreeable to them as it
might have been. For the summer proved to be hot and dry, and the
streets were dusty and close, and the large and beautiful garden, with
its walks, and soft green turf and shady trees, was as pleasant a place
as could well be imagined in which to pass the sultry days.
From the first day of her return home Frederica had been faithful with
regard to the reading of the Bible with her mother and Selina. Eppie
had said that this was one of the ways by which she had been taught to
be religious. She knew that other good people valued the Bible for the
wisdom it contained, or for the comfort it could give. She had heard it
spoken of as the rule of life, and as the guide to heaven, and she
determined to know what it contained, and to get the good of it for
herself and for those she loved. So, beginning at the beginning, she
read regularly a portion every day. She might have grown tired of it
after a while, for though she found some of it full of interest, it was
not all so, and she did not find in it what she had hoped to find. It
did not tell her directly and plainly what she must do. She did not see
the way to be good and serve God pointed out in words that she could
understand, and she might have been tempted to betake herself to other
books for instruction and amusement, if it had not been for Selina. But
there was no doubt about her interest in what she heard.
Selina's life had been quiet and untroubled. There had been her
mother's ill-health, and the occasional irritability and despondency
consequent upon it, and there had been the vexations that from time to
time had come on them through the agency, direct or indirect, of Mrs
Ascot. But there had been nothing else to disturb in any painful way
the uneventful days to her. And there had been as little to heighten
beyond its usual quiet flow the contented current of daily occupation
and pleasure. There had been her little brothers' daily visit to their
mother's room, and the infrequent joyful holidays of her sisters, but
her life had been still and monotonous. Her interests and occupations
had not been of a kind to take her thoughts out of the house where she
had always lived. Their few visitors brought little to her but the
usual commonplace talk and superficial sympathy, and even the books that
were read, and the tales that were told her, were not of a kind to move
the unawakened heart and mind of one withdrawn by her blindness and
isolation from a young girl's interest in the world around her.
And so when Frederica came with her eager interest in the reading, and
her vague but joyful hopes of all that might spring out of it, Selina
did not know what it meant, but prepared herself to take pleasure in the
pleasure of her sisters, as she had often done before. But this state
of mind did not survive even the first day's reading. All the wonderful
new things to which she listened were for her, as well as for Frederica
and the rest. They were not new to Frederica. She had often read
before how in the beginning the heavens and the earth were made. The
mother, too, had some vague remembrance of what the Book contained, for
during the first years of her married life she had gone to church with
her husband. But strange as it may seem, all was new to Selina, and to
all that her sister read she listened eagerly, and thought and spoke of
it afterwards with a wonder and delight that encouraged her sister to
persevere in the reading; and whatever else was neglected or hurried
over, to the reading was always given its full share of time and
attention.
This was the beginning of a new life to Selina. If her beautiful blind
eyes had been suddenly opened on the world around her, it could hardly
have made a more entire change in her thoughts and feelings and
enjoyments, than did this daily reading of the Bible. She did not say
much about it. It had always been her way to listen to the others
rather than to speak, and it was her way still. But a great many new
thoughts came to her, and the knowledge of many wonderful truths. Her
thoughts were often confused, and her reception of truth partial and
imperfect, but her interest and enjoyment were real and deep. All that
came to her through the reading did not come at once, and the best did
not come first. The blessing for which Frederica hoped, and looked, and
sometimes prayed, did not come in its fulness to any of them for a good
while after that, but from the first the reading was a source of
happiness to them, and most of all to Selina.
Mrs Vane's enjoyment of it was in the enjoyment of her children. To be
sitting, free from pain, in the garden, where she had played as a child,
with her own children around her, and with no care or fear pressing
immediately upon her, was enough to satisfy her. Their delight in the
reading, and in the talk that often grew out of it, she did not share.
She did not understand it, nor cared to do so at first. To watch her
blind darling's bright absorbed face, and to see her sisters' tender
affection, and their desire to give her a part in the pleasure from
which her affliction tended to debar her, was happiness to the mother,
who had grieved so much over her in the past.
Mrs Vane was not a very wise mother, nor indeed a very wise woman in
any relation of life, and she wished nothing more for herself nor for
her children than a continuation of just such days as these. She felt
so safe and at rest in the sunshine of the dear old garden, shut in from
the world, where trouble was, and danger. It was a new experience to
her to have them all around her, with no one to interfere with their
plans and pleasures, and she desired nothing beyond.
Mr Vane had gone away, as he always did for a month or two in the
summer, and there were few interruptions in the quiet of their lives.
Once or twice Frederica and Tessie went to visit their half-sister Mrs
Brandon, who lived in a pretty house near the mountain. They went
because they knew their father wished them to go, but they did not enjoy
going very much. Their sister Caroline was very pretty and good, they
thought, and she meant to be very kind to them; but she had a way of
looking at them and listening to them as though she thought them odd
little creatures, different from other young girls, which was not
agreeable to them; and she had a way of speaking of their father as
"poor papa" or "poor dear papa," which was especially distasteful to
Frederica, and which she resented, not for her father's sake, but for
her mother's, and she did not always conceal her displeasure. So they
did not go often, nor stay long.
They drove out in the carriage when the days were clear and cool, and
once or twice they had a visit from Madame Precoe. Mr St. Cyr's
brother came several times; but for the most part they were alone, and
the days passed quietly away. They read other books as well as the
Bible. Selina took pleasure in them all, and Frederica promised, when
her holidays were over, seriously to attend to her sister's neglected
education, and even now favoured her with scraps of information
remembered from her own lessons, historical and geographical facts, and
bits of botany, and even grammatical rules. Selina declared herself
ready to be taught all that her sister knew, but in the meantime it was
the reading of the Bible about which she cared most.
Many grave discussions grew out of the reading. They made mistakes
often, and said foolish things, and any one listening to them must have
been sometimes amused and sometimes pained by the ignorance they
displayed, and by the opinions they expressed; but no one could have
failed to discern in them an eager desire to know the truth and to obey
it. And they who earnestly desire to know the truth have an infallible
teacher and guide, and it is certain of such, for He says it, that "they
shall know the truth, and the truth shall make them free."
"I have heard that before, more than once," said Selina one day, when
Frederica had read the promise of God to Isaac in Gerar: "And I will
make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy
seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the
earth be blessed."
"Yes, we have had it before," said Frederica. "The same promise was
given to Abraham, you know."
"What does it mean, I wonder?" asked Selina. "Oh! it means that the
children of Abraham were to become a great people, as they did
afterwards. They were God's own chosen people. All the Bible is
written about them, you know."
"Yes, but how are all the nations of the earth to be blessed through
them?"
"I have heard something about it," said Frederica meditatively. "Let me
think a minute. Oh, yes! it was because the Saviour was to come among
them. The Bible is all about the Jewish people, because Jesus was a
Jew."
"Was He?" said Selina wistfully.
"Yes, and of course that is what it means. Jesus died for all men.
Jesus is the Son of God, and the son of Mary, you know."
"No," said Selina gravely; "I don't know."
"Well, never mind, we can read about it," said Frederica, turning the
leaves of the Bible till she came to the first chapter of Matthew. "It
is all here, and we will read it."
Going rapidly over the first verses to herself, till she came to the
eighteenth, she then read, "Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this
wise," and so on. "Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save
His people from their sins. And they shall call His name Emmanuel,
which being interpreted is, God with us."
Frederica lingered over these passages, reading them many times, and
trying to remember all that she had heard about them.
"Jesus is God, you know, and He became man that He might die for us, and
save us from our sins, as the verse says; and we ought to love Him, and
obey Him, and serve Him."
"Yes," said Selina, "if we only knew the way. If we had any one to
teach us."
"We are going to learn the way. It is all here; in the Bible, I mean,"
said Frederica.
"They all say that--Miss Robina, and Miss Pardie, and all of them. And
the clergymen say it in church. And Mrs Glencairn said always that we
must not mind what people say about religion, unless it is in the Bible.
And Eppie told me once that God Himself would teach us."
"And do you think He will?"
"Yes, if we ask Him--when we say our prayers, you know."
"When we say `Our Father,' you mean?"
Every night and morning since she was a little child, Selina had said
"Our Father."
"Yes, and we may ask for other things, and God will give them. We
learned texts about it once, only I can't quite remember them. This is
one--`Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it
you.' Jesus Himself says that."
"And will He?" asked Selina.
"Yes," said Frederica, with a little hesitation, "if we ask right
things, I suppose."
"And would He make me see, if I were to ask Him? Oh, mama I only think
if He would!"
Mrs Vane clasped the eager little hand that touched hers, and sighed.
"But, mama, He could do it. He opened blind eyes many times while He
was on earth, and His being in heaven now would make no difference. He
_could_ do it, I suppose," said Frederica, not knowing very well what to
say.
"And will He, do you think, if I ask Him? Mama will ask Him too, and
you and Tessie."
"He could do it if He chose. But perhaps it means not such things we
are to ask for, but that He would teach us, and make us wise and good,
and forgive us our sins, and take us to heaven when we die," said
Frederica. "And you are very happy as you are, dear! You don't care
very much about it, do you?" said she, kissing softly the beautiful
blind eyes that were wet, though they were smiling, too.
"Frederica, love, you are making your sister unhappy, I fear," said her
mother anxiously. "My darling, come to me!"
Selina kissed her mother gently two or three times. "Unhappy! no, mama.
It was only for a moment, and it was for you that I wished it, mama,
more than for myself."
Her mother could only murmur fond words over her, as she caressed her
tenderly.
"But it cannot be true, all that Fred has been saying," broke in Tessie.
"It is a pity. But it is only one of Fred's ideas."
"But it must be true, because Jesus said those very words, only I
suppose we do not understand it yet," said Frederica. "We will read
more. And, mama, Selina will see when she gets to heaven."
Mrs Vane uttered an exclamation of impatience and astonishment.
"Frederica! why do you say such things?"
"Let us read more," said Selina, for she saw that her mother was
troubled at the discussion.
And so they read on. Not in the Old Testament, but in the New. They
read of the wonderful words and deeds of our Lord, and Selina drank in
the strange glad tidings with awe and delight. She never in her
mother's presence said anything more about her wish to see. She spoke
of it to her sisters, and for a little while the desire disturbed the
gentle current of her thoughts and enjoyments. But it passed away, and
the sweet content that had brightened all these years to her mother came
back again. She listened, and mused, and wondered at all she heard, and
by-and-by, as her mind opened, and she understood better the nature of
those things that are promised without reserve to those who ask for them
aright, she never ceased to ask humbly yet undoubtingly that to her and
to those whom she loved, they might be given in due time.