Frederica reached home excited and breathless, and sat down to rest for
a moment on the steps, before she went in.
"Miss Frederica--Thank God," said old Dixen, coming out of the shadow
where he had been waiting for the return of his young mistress in great
anxiety.
"All right, Dixen--only I am so tired, I cannot tell you about it now."
The hall door opened, and Miss Agnace came out. She, too, was watching,
it seemed. Dixen fell back into the shadow again.
"My child, is it you? Where have you been? Not at Mrs Brandon's, for
she has been here. We have been in such terror for you."
"You need not have been," said Frederica. "Where is Selina? No, Miss
Agnace, I am not going in there, for I am very tired."
She paused a moment at the foot of the stairs, looking up. A kind,
half-familiar face looked down on her from above.
"Is it Col. Bentham?" said she, going up slowly. "And papa has come.
Oh! papa! papa?"
Was it her father's face she saw? It was such a face as her father's
might have been in his youth, a nobler and better face than his had ever
been to her knowledge, though no such thought came into Frederica's mind
as she gazed. And who was this beside him, looking at her with Selina's
eyes, smiling on her with Selina's smile, and calling her sister?
Frederica grew pale, and trembled more and more.
"Lena," she faltered. "Lena, is it that I am going to be ill again? or
am I dreaming?"
"Fred love," said Selina, putting her arms around her, "it is our elder
brother Edgar, who has come, and our sister Cecilia, and poor papa--"
But Frederica heard no more, for there was a mist before her eyes, and a
buzzing in her ears, and by-and-by she found that Miss Agnace was
bathing her face, and Selina was holding her hand, with a pale anxious
face. Then she heard a strange voice say,--
"She must drink this, and go to bed at once and no one is to talk to her
to-night." And that was almost the last thing she knew, till she awoke
next morning with the sunshine on her face.
It was well that the rest of the night came before the excitement of the
day that awaited her. For poor Fred had yet to be told that she would
never see her father on earth again. Col. Bentham told her first, and
then her sister Cecilia told her about his last days; and as she
listened, Frederica's thought was--
"Now he is with mama, and nothing will ever happen to make them grieve
one another any more."
This thought softened her grief, and made her tears flow gently, as
Cecilia went on to tell how sorry he had been about some things; and how
he had longed to return to his children and their mother, when it was no
longer possible to do so; and how unwillingly he resigned himself to the
sad necessity at last.
She told them how his restlessness and impatience went away, and a great
change came over him towards the end. He longed to live for his
children's sake, but he ceased to be afraid of death, nay, he welcomed
the messenger of the King as he drew near.
"Papa must have known all along what mama only learned towards the last,
that Jesus died to save His people," said Selina. "Was it that which
made him not afraid?"
"He learned it in a new way as he lay upon his bed," said Cecilia. "It
was that from which he took comfort at the last. Many a time he said to
me, he had nothing else in which to trust."
"And, Fred love, we must not grieve too much. Think how glad mama must
be to see him there," said Selina.
All this, and more, was told on that first Sunday morning, but Frederica
was not told that day that they had brought her father's body home.
Careless as he had in the old days been about all that did not minister
to his own pleasure, in the time of suffering his heart turned with
longing unspeakable to those he had left behind, and strange to say, he
had entreated to be taken back, to be laid by the side of the wife he
had too often neglected and forgotten. And so they had brought him
home.
"And did papa ask you to come and take care of us? It was very good in
you to come."
"Col. Bentham came to take care of you, and Edgar is to help him. My
husband and I came because we wished so much to see you, and because we
hoped we might have you home with us for a little while. But that will
be decided later."
Frederica had not spoken all this time. She was afraid if she said a
word she would break into tears and sobs beyond her power to stay, as
had happened once or twice before. But when their brother Edgar came
in, she gave a cry, and clasped her sister's hand.
"He is so like papa," she uttered faintly.
"Is he?" said Selina. "I have not seen him yet."
She took her brother's hand, pressing her own small fingers softly and
rapidly over it, and then over his face and hair. "Is he like papa?"
asked she doubtingly.
"Like, and yet not like," said Cecilia, and Frederica said the same.
But neither of them said that the likeness was of features only, or of
expression.
"Are you better?" asked he of Frederica. "Do you know that it was I who
prescribed for you last night?"
"Are you a physician?" asked she.
"I hope to be one some day. Indeed, I am one already, in a way. I am
going to take you into my special care, till you are the rosy little
girl we used to hear of long ago."
Frederica shook her head sadly. "I am quite changed. I never used to
know what it was to be tired. Now I can do nothing, and I am so
foolish, that the least thing makes me cry. I am quite ashamed."
"But all that is to be changed now that I am come to take care of you.
You will soon be well and strong again."
And so they talked on, till they were on friendly and familiar terms
with each other; and Frederica, reassured and comparatively cheerful,
was able without undue excitement to make the acquaintance of Cecilia's
husband, when later he and Col. Bentham came in together.
"Fred love," said Selina, "tell them about Charlie and Hubert."
"Ought I, Selina? must I? I am afraid everybody will think I have been
very foolish--perhaps wrong."
"We were alone, and frightened," said Selina. "And there was no one to
tell us what we ought to do."
"Of course, if we had known that you were all coming to take care of us,
it would not have mattered. We could have waited; but we did not know,"
said Fred deprecatingly.
And then the story was told, partly by one, and partly by the other, how
startled they had been when Selina had heard Charlie's voice calling to
her in the street. They told of their visit to the school out of which
the long procession of boys had come, with Madame Precoe and Father
Jerome, and how the people there had been so polite and kind, and how
they had put all thoughts of the boys being there out of their minds,
till Dixen had told them yesterday that he had seen one of them in the
long procession of boys again going up the street.
"Was it yesterday, Lena? It seems a long time ago, since Dixen spoke to
us in the garden."
"And the foolish part of the matter is yet to be told," said her
brother.
"Then Fred ran away to tell Caroline. But she did not go there, and I
only know that she told Dixen it was `all right,'" said Selina.
"It was foolish, I suppose, but then I did not know what else to do."
They listened to the account she gave them of little Hubert's `rescue,'
with mingled astonishment and amusement, at a loss, when all was told,
to decide whether Fred had been very brave or very foolish--inclined
rather to agree with the child himself, that no "rescue" had been
needed, yet admiring the courage which had accomplished it, and the
modesty which deprecated blame rather than claimed admiration for what
she had done.
"I daresay Hubert thinks himself a prisoner now, and that he needs to be
rescued much more than he did before," said she doubtfully.
"But, indeed, if you knew how anxious and unhappy we had sometimes been
about some things, you would not call us altogether foolish," said
Selina.
"And it came so suddenly upon us. First we heard that Tessie had been
to the convent, and then Dixen told us he had seen Charlie, and then I
went away."
"But who has taken the ordering of all these matters?" said Col.
Bentham. "Where is the responsibility? Mr St. Cyr must have known the
wishes of your father and mother with regard to these children."
"It was not Mr St. Cyr," said Frederica eagerly. "At least, I don't
think it was he. That was worst of all when we thought that he had
turned against mama's wishes, because he had always been so kind to us
before. But last night I went to see him."
"What! more adventures!" said Edgar. "You went to beard another lion in
his den?"
"Oh! I have been there before. But he has been very ill this winter,
and they would not let us in. But last night I did not ask leave. I
ran upstairs and into the room where he was sitting."
"And was he glad to see you?" asked Selina eagerly, "and did you tell
him about Tessie and the boys?"
"No, Lena. He looked so changed and weak, I could not ask him. Was I
very foolish? But then I am quite sure he knew nothing about them.
And, Lena, he did not know about mama, though it was so long ago--Mr
Jerome had not told him."
"And was he very kind still?"
"Very kind, and he asked about papa, and said he hoped he would come
home soon. And he asked about mama--and by-and-by I saw that Mr Jerome
had come in, and then I came home."
"And now it does not matter since you have all come to take care of us,"
said Selina.
That their coming would put an end to all cause for apprehension in the
settlement of these children's affairs, did not seem by any means
certain to those who listened. However, nothing was said to lessen
their confidence. Nothing could be certainly known till Col. Bentham
should see Mr St. Cyr, and as the arrangements for Mr Vane's burial
must be made at once, he determined to lose no time in visiting him, and
Edgar Vane went with him.
The interview was necessarily short, but it made Edgar quite sure that
Mr St. Cyr knew nothing of the change of arrangements for the children
after their mother's death. He spoke as though he supposed the boys to
be at a distance, and requested Mr Jerome to take the necessary steps
for bringing them home. Mr Jerome assented at once, but said very
little during their stay.
"I wish I could be as sure of his good faith as I am of Mr St. Cyr's,"
said Edgar, when he spoke to his sisters about it afterward. "However,
it signifies little to us, as now he need have little to do with their
affairs."
"But did he say nothing about the boys being in town when you spoke of
their coming home?" asked Mrs Brandon.
"Nothing--and we said nothing to him. But I cannot help wondering what
he will say, when little Hubert shall not be forthcoming to-morrow."
"I confess I should like to see that man put to confusion, if such a
thing were possible," said Mrs Brandon.
"Which is doubtful," said her husband.
"Still, he will have to account for his non-appearance in some way,
which will be rather difficult, I imagine," said Edgar.
But Mr Jerome was not destined to be put to confusion by the
non-appearance of little Hubert; for, as they were speaking, he walked
in among them.
"You did not come for me, Fred, as you promised. And I thought your old
woman had had enough of me, and so I came away," said he.
Mr Jerome had no account to render to any of them. Whatever he said on
the subject was said to Mr St. Cyr, not that he considered it necessary
to give an account of his actions even to him. He was accountable only
to a tribunal, which would acquit him of all wrong-doing in the matter.
He uttered some angry and bitter words, because of his brother's
weakness and folly, where poor Mrs Vane and her children were
concerned. The children were, in his opinion, in a fair way to be
ruined. The only hope for them, both for this world and the next, lay
in the proper choice of guardians.
"And for you to tell Colonel Bentham, even before he alluded to the
subject, that he was one of the three persons charged with the
responsibility of their future welfare was monstrous. If any instrument
appointing him to this office exists, you should never let it see the
light. I do not believe it exists. It is one of the many dreams of
your illness. Why did you not produce it to-day, if it is here?"
"It will be produced at the right time. I scarcely think you know what
you are counselling, my brother," said Mr St. Cyr, gravely. "I could
not, without committing a villainy, do as you bid me do in this."
"I will take the responsibility. You are not capable of deciding such a
question. Your illness has weakened your mind, as well as your body.
You will be wise to let yourself be guided by me!"
"You forget we did not agree about this thing before my illness. I am
weak, I know, but I am not weak enough for your purpose. And my
yielding would avail nothing. The business is known to others, as well
as to me."
Mr Jerome gave him an evil look. Mr St. Cyr was much weakened by his
illness, and a terrible thought, that he was not safe in his brother's
hands, came into his mind, and showed in his face.
"The business is now in other hands," said he feebly.
"I do not believe you," said Jerome, restraining himself with a great
effort. The look of terror in his brother's face shocked him. The
tacit accusation was an awful one, but that it was not altogether
unjust, he could not but acknowledge. For in his heart at that moment
he was saying, "If Cyprien had died, all might have been made to go
well."
"A further discussion of this subject can do no good now. But I warn
you that whatever can be done to save these children and their wealth to
the Church shall be done. It is not I who say it. A power which it is
impossible to defeat or circumvent, stands pledged for a successful
issue. It will be wise for you to yield before a heavy hand is laid
upon you."
"An idle threat," said Mr St. Cyr.
"No threat, my brother. That power, as you know, never yields. Its
triumph is certain. It may come to-morrow, or ten years hence, or
twenty, but ultimate triumph is certain."
"An idle threat," repeated Mr St. Cyr.
And probably it was only a threat. If anything was done to bring into
the life and destiny of these children the change which Father Jerome so
earnestly desired, it was done in secret, and it failed. If the
"power," with whose heavy hand he had been threatened ever touched him
to his hurt, Mr St. Cyr never complained of it, or revealed it.
Certainly he never yielded to it, in the matter of the trust which Mrs
Vane had given him.
With more promptness and decision than he might have considered
necessary had he been in perfect health, or had the circumstances been
different, he transferred to the guardians whom the mother had appointed
for her children, all the responsibility which their acceptance of the
office involved. The responsibility was not a light one, but it was
assumed cheerfully and faithfully, and successfully borne; and as yet no
harm has come, either from Father Jerome, or from the power he serves,
to Mrs Vane's children.
But all this took time, and of the details they who were most interested
in the matter knew nothing, and thought nothing, except that it was a
happy thing for them that to Colonel Bentham, and not to Father Jerome,
the arrangement of their affairs had been committed.
Tessie came home from the convent none the worse for her fortnight's
seclusion. For a little while his sisters found that the same thing
could not be said of Charlie. Poor Charlie had rebelled, and had been
hardly dealt with, though he said little about it for a time. Into his
eyes came now and then the look, half-deprecating, half-defiant, which
they have who are only learning to yield obedience to the government of
a strong hand and will, which no love softens.
He had gone into the strange uncongenial world of the great school, with
his heart sore with the thought of his mother's death, and angry with
the suspicion that he who had brought them there had done so less for
their good than for his own pleasure; and, child though he was, he
suffered terribly. Grief, and home sickness, and disgust at many things
which now became part of his daily experience, made him irritable and
rebellious, and would have made him difficult to manage anywhere else.
There the "strong hand" touched him, and a few months longer of the
discipline he underwent would doubtless, in all things, have moulded him
to the will of those who taught and governed him. As it was, those at
home believed that he had come back to them none too soon for his good.
As for Tessie, though she indignantly resented having been taken away
without her own consent, she had nothing to complain of with regard to
the treatment she had received. Indeed, she had been flattered and made
much of by all with whom she had come in contact, and doubtless would,
in time, have yielded with passable grace to the necessity of
submission, and contented herself with her circumstances. But she was
glad enough to find herself at home again, and to make the acquaintance
of their elder brother and sister, whose coming was as joyful an event
to her, and as unexpected as it had been to them all.