Cecilia's home was in London, and there until Christmas-time her
brothers and sisters remained. It was not the best season of the year
for sight-seeing, but by taking advantage of such gleams of sunshine as
now and then came to brighten the general dulness, a good deal was
enjoyed even in that way. Nothing came amiss in the way of amusement to
any of them. Everything was new and full of interest, and in their eyes
wonderful. A drive through London streets gave matter for discussion
for days afterwards.
It was all new and strange to them, the crowds of people hurrying to and
fro, the great dingy houses, the queer narrow courts into which they
sometimes peeped, the splendour of the shop windows, the monuments and
public buildings afforded never-ending themes for talk, and the bright
quaint remarks which were now and then made, amused their elders
greatly.
But there were many dull days during that autumn, when all things were
seen dimly through rain or fog, and there were some days when nothing at
all could be seen, when the gas burned at noon, and when the carts and
carriages that rumbled through the streets all day long, were quite
invisible to the eager eyes of the little boys. On such days, no wonder
that they grew impatient and even fretful, now and then, or that their
sisters were not always so bright and cheerful themselves, as to be able
to beguile their brothers back to cheerfulness and good-humour again.
They were all a little homesick on such days; and so, when the time came
to accept Col. Bentham's invitation for Christmas, they were glad to
leave the dull dark streets behind them, and to get a glimpse of blue
sky and green fields again.
For in sheltered places the fields were green still, almost with the
greenness of summer. In their own country at Christmas-time the snow
lies thick on the ground, and the smaller streams, and sometimes even
the great rivers, are covered with ice. Not a leaf is to be seen or a
blade of grass, but great snowdrifts on the hill-sides, and icicles
hanging from the bare boughs of the trees.
The skaters are out on the ice, and the snow-shoe clubs are beginning to
think of long tramps over the fields. Hundreds of sleighs are gliding
along the city streets, and over the country roads, and the air is full
of the music of sleigh-bells, and the merry voices of people enjoying
the holidays.
And Jack and Jill used to be out with the rest, with a sleighful of
happy children behind them. The children's faces grew grave as they
told one another of all this. How bright it used to be! How
delightful! Oh, yes! Of course it was cold sometimes, but who would
mind the cold, with furs and wraps, great buffalo robes, and bearskins
to keep them warm!
No, it did not seem like Christmas-time to them here. In some of the
sunny glades of Eastwood Park, the little Canadians could have forgotten
that it was not summer, except when they looked up at the great leafless
oaks and elms and beeches, which made a wide dark network of boughs
between them and the sky. There were no flowers in the open park, but
the grass was green, and there was ivy on the wall, and there were great
holly bushes and laurels, and in Grandmamma Bentham's garden, shut in
from the winds, and having the sunshine full upon it, there were
heartsease and Christmas roses. It was all very different, out of
doors, from Christmas time at home. But within doors it was like the
best of Christmas-times.
There was a large party assembled at Eastwood Park--sons and daughters
of Col. Bentham, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, and friends of the
family. Their brother Edgar was there for a few days, and his friend
Captain Clare. Everard Bentham, the Colonel's youngest son, was Edgar's
dear friend, though they were not at all alike in most respects.
Everard was gay and inclined to be idle, and had caused his father some
anxiety during the last year or two. But of all this nothing was known
to the young Vanes. He was very kind to them, very merry and
light-hearted, and they liked him dearly--almost as well as they liked
Captain Clare, who was a very different sort of man.
He was older than their other friend, though not so much older as they
fancied, because his hair was a little grey, and he was often grave and
silent when there were others besides the children present. He was a
soldier, and had been in battle many times, and had the Victoria cross
and medals to show that he had done his duty on the field. He had other
tokens as well. There was a faintly traced scar extending along his
temple, which his hair only partially concealed, and he always wore a
glove on his left hand to hide the traces of another wound.
He had much to tell the little lads about many things. He had been in
their own country, had spent a winter in their own city. He had known
their father and their mother, and remembered Jack and Jill, and never
tired listening to all they had to tell about them, and this was one
secret of his popularity doubtless.
The sisters liked him also, for similar reasons, and for better reasons.
For he was a true soldier of Christ, as well as of the Queen, and had
fought and won battles for Him in his day, and the very first words that
he spoke to them, as he came upon them one day in old Mrs Bentham's
garden, made Selina and Frederica glad in the hope of having him for
their friend.
All who came to Eastwood Park were interested in these children and very
kind to them. They were kind, and they were a little curious also--that
is, they watched with interest, and sometimes with amusement, the words
and ways of these young Canadians, who were not in all respects just
like English children. I speak of them all as children, for with all
their womanliness and decision of manner, the sisters were in some
respects quite as childlike as were little Hubert and Charlie. Selina
was like no one else in her never-failing sweetness and cheerfulness.
Tessie's frankness and independence of speech might, under the
encouragement of amused listeners, have fallen into undesirable
freeness, had it not been for the gentle check of her eldest sister's
influence. She rebelled sometimes under Fred's rather imperative hints
as to what was desirable and right or otherwise, but Selina's lightest
half-spoken remonstrance never passed unheeded.
It was the same with the little lads. It was Frederica who assumed
authority over them; and her little motherly ways and words, at once
coaxing and determined, generally answered well with them. They were
obedient and teachable usually; but they now and then appealed from her
rather arbitrary rule to the gentler rule of Selina; and the way in
which she used to soften and modify her sister's decisions, while she
gravely and firmly upheld her sister's authority with their brothers,
was a pretty thing to see. Frederica was careful and troubled over them
and their future often; Selina was trustful and cheerful always, and not
afraid.
Everybody was kind to them, and much was done to make their Christmas,
not only a merry one, but a happy one. Everybody was kind to them; but,
after Cecilia and her husband and their brother Edgar, they liked no one
so well as Captain Clare. A good many people went away when the
holidays ended, but Captain Clare stayed on, and so did Everard Bentham.
Everard had been thrown from his horse, and so seriously hurt, that,
much against his will, he was obliged to remain at home several weeks
longer than it had been his intention to stay. He made the best of it,
and amused himself as well as he could, and by-and-by got "great fun,"
as he called it, out of the little Canadians. But he gave them quite as
much as he got from them in the way of amusement; for he was kind as
well as merry. In the way of real and lasting benefit, his intercourse
with these young people did much to change his character, and influence
his future life; but all this came later.
In the meantime Captain Clare was their dearest friend after their
brother Edgar went away; and it was in this way that their friendship
began: They were sitting--Selina and Frederica--one day in old Mrs
Bentham's garden, where the sunshine made it, to Selina at least, just
like a summer day. Frederica had been reading a word or two, as her
sister liked to have her do when they were alone together; and to-day it
had been the first verses of the twelfth of Hebrews that she had chosen.
They had not gone beyond the first two or three verses; there was
enough in them to talk and wonder over.
"Perhaps it means this, Fred," said Selina, after a minute's silence;
"these people, `so great a cloud of witnesses'--the people in the last
chapter, you know--are all looking at us, and so we must `run with
patience the race set before us.' Or is it that all these people looked
to Jesus, and so got strength and patience to `subdue kingdoms,' to
`stop the mouths of lions'? Don't you remember? They were `destitute,
afflicted, tormented,--of whom the world was not worthy.' Oh! Fred
dear, how little we know!"
But it was not Fred that answered her, but Captain Clare. Fred had gone
down the garden path, not caring less than her sister for the reading,
or for the meaning of what they read, but less intent upon it for the
moment, because she could see so much that was beautiful around her.
For even in winter Grandmamma Bentham's garden was beautiful, and not
every visitor at Eastwood Park was admitted to it. But when Captain
Clare took up the book which Frederica had laid down, and reading over
again the words Selina had found so difficult, added afterwards a few
words of his own, she came back again, and leaned on the garden chair on
which her sister sat.
It was nothing very new or very wonderful that he said to them. He only
told them in a few clear words what he thought the apostle meant in
writing thus to the suffering Hebrews, touching incidentally on other
points of interest in other parts of the Bible, over which the sisters
had pondered together with varying interest and profit. Selina listened
eagerly, only saying now and then with smiling lips, "Do you hear,
Frederica?"
"Are you listening, dear Fred?"
Fred was listening, forgetting the holly leaves and the bright berries
with which she had filled her apron to make wreaths for some young
friends in the house. She listened silently. She had less to say on
all subjects than she used to have in the old days, before care had been
laid so heavily upon her. But she listened earnestly, for she knew that
all would have to be gone over again with her sister when they were
alone. They listened till Miss Agnace came to warn them that the sun
had gone behind the clouds, and that they must return to the house.
"But you will tell us more," said Selina, softly passing her fingers
over the hand that had taken hers in saying good-bye. "Another day you
will tell us more."
It was an easy promise to make, and a pleasant promise to keep.
"We know so little," said Frederica, as, with Captain Clare, she
followed her sister and Miss Agnace up the avenue to the other side of
the house. "We had no one to teach us, and at first we did not care to
learn," added she humbly. "It was for mama's sake at first--because--
she was going to die--and--she was afraid--" and the tears rushed to her
eyes.
She hardly ever spoke of her mother to any one but her sisters, and she
wondered a little at herself that she should do so now. She wondered
less when she looked up and met the kind eyes looking down upon her.
"Some day you must tell me more about your mother," said Captain Clare.
This was the beginning. After that, while they were at Eastwood, not a
day passed in which Captain Clare did not pass an hour with them. When
the weather did not allow them to go out of doors, they sat in the
library or in one of the deep windows of the hall. The party was
variable as to numbers; but Selina was always there, and almost always
Miss Agnace. She was never far away from her charge, unless her sisters
were with her; and although she would sit with her face averted,
apparently absorbed with her work, she never lost a word which Captain
Clare said about the truth which she was beginning to love, though she
hardly knew it yet. She was never in the way, and because of Selina's
blindness it did not seem out of place that she should be constantly
with her. Besides, her service was a service of love.
She did not listen now as she had done at first to the reading and the
talk, that she might detect errors, and warn these children against
them. She said little to them now of the "true Church," or its
teachings. She only listened, saying to herself, that however at
variance with these teachings some things which she heard might seem to
be, there could not be any real difference, seeing the same fruits of
the Spirit--love, peace, joy--which flourished and showed in the life of
many a saint of old, showed fair and sweet in the lives of these
children growing so dear to her. So she always listened when she could,
and Selina made it easy for her to be near her at such times.
Cecilia was with them often, and Edgar, but most of their intercourse
with Captain Clare as a near friend and teacher took place after Edgar
went away. Mr Everard Bentham, when he began to limp about the house
again after his hurt, found his time pass more rapidly among these young
people, who asked questions, and discussed subjects as little likely to
interest young people as could well be imagined, he thought. It seemed
to him the oddest fancy in the world that kept these girls intent on
Captain Clare's words, as he made clear to them how the Old Testament
and the New were one, how the truths dimly foretold in the one found
fulfilment in the other, and showed how in all things written in both
Christ appeared. What could it matter to them to be wise about such
things? he questioned laughing. But he never laughed at them. It might
be odd and foolish, but at the same time he liked to see it all; and
though he listened for a while, that he might catch the wonderful
brightness on the blind girl's face, as some new thought was made clear
to her; and though he asked questions in his turn, that he might provoke
Frederica's eager defence of her opinions and beliefs, the Word did not
"return void," as far as he was concerned. Now and then a bow drawn at
a venture sent an arrow home to his conscience, and none of them had
better reason to remember those days than the hitherto careless Everard
Bentham.
Sometimes the little lads heard tales of marches and battles, of
suffering bravely borne, of good work well done for the sake of duty.
But rarely a day passed in which there did not fall to the share of the
sisters some good word about the Lord they loved, and about whom they
longed to know more. These children knew already that Christ was the
only Saviour from sin, and from its consequences,--the Friend of
sinners--the Conqueror of death. They knew and they rejoiced in all
that He had done for them and for all, and in all that He had promised
still to do. They knew what they owed Him, but they knew less of what
He expected from them. They loved Him, and for His sake they loved His
friends and followers. But they had never been taught the duty of
self-denial for His sake, the blessedness of a life given up to Him in
the doing of service to His little ones.
Of all this Captain Clare told them, and they were apt scholars.
Frederica displayed something like her old bright eagerness in
explaining some of the plans of usefulness which her imagination
suggested as wise and possible to be carried out in the future. Some
foolish things might have been done, if they had been left to their own
counsels. But it did not need severity, nor even great firmness, to
check Frederica now. She was not unwilling to acknowledge that they
were yet too young and inexperienced to undertake on their own
responsibility any of the schemes of usefulness so well carried out for
the benefit of the ignorant and the suffering by others who were wiser
and fitter for the work than they.
All this might come later. In the meantime Frederica had her brothers
and sisters to live for and to influence. She had her own education to
complete. She laughed now at the remembrance of the time when she had
boasted of having "gone through all the books" in Miss Robina's class.
There was enough to do for herself, as well as for the others, she
acknowledged; and she listened earnestly when Colonel Bentham, as her
guardian, spoke to her of the serious responsibilities which the
possession of wealth would involve in her case, and that of them all.
In the meantime she and Selina had much to say between themselves of all
they meant to do when they should go home. Selina's wish was to gather
together all the blind people who were poor, and who needed a home--the
old people and little children--and teach them about Jesus, and about
the land where all shall see His face. In this work her sister was to
help her, and Miss Agnace. In all her plans for the future Miss Agnace
had a place.
In her heart Miss Agnace knew that in such a home as these young girls
were planning she would be suffered to have no part, unless, indeed,
Father Jerome, or others who thought as he did, should have the guidance
of it all. But she did faithfully her duty to her blind friend and
mistress, loving her more dearly every day, content with the present,
and willing to accept without question whatever the future might bring.