"The Perils of Orphanhood" (continued 5)

“Your fire is bright in yon chamber. My brother, I entreat you to allow me to assist you thither, before I leave. I cannot divest myself of a feeling of responsibility with regard to that foolish young girl lingering in the street at this unseemly hour. I must see that she is safe at home. And I must hasten.”

“Thanks,” said Mr St. Cyr, rising meekly. “You are most kind, but pray do not stay. Babette can do all that is necessary for me. I fancy myself better to-night.”

“Better,” repeated his brother, as he went down the stairs. “I do not see it. For the present it is not necessary that you should be better. I can do your work for you, better than you can do it yourself. I have succeeded beyond hope—unless indeed, by some unimaginable chance, there should exist such an instrument as Cyprien asserts. Even then something might be done to put matters right, should I, and not Cyprien, guide them. We shall see.”

Chapter Eighteen.

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.

Chapter Nineteen.

The brothers followed their father to the grave, and the sisters sat at home waiting, as they had done when their mother was carried away. But this time Cecilia was with them, and that made a wonderful difference. She read with them the beautiful burial service of their Church, and comforted them sweetly with words which were not her own, showing them how they, being fatherless and motherless, could claim in a new way the love and care of their Father in Heaven, because of His promise to the orphan. There was no room for fear, or even for doubt, in their future, she told them, because of this; and it was the easier for them to believe it, and rejoice in it; coming from her loving lips.

Before they saw the graves of their father and mother, they were beautiful with soft green turf and the fairest of spring flowers.

They all went there together, on one of the loveliest and last of the April days; and though their tears fell fast for a little while, there was no bitterness in them; and the elder brother and sisters, sitting a little apart, saw smiles on their faces before their tears were dry.

“It is all past for them,” said Frederica; “the troubles of their life, I mean. And now mama is as strong and well as the other happy people up there, and not anxious or afraid any more.”

“And papa is satisfied, and does not mind things now, I suppose,” said Tessie. “For my part, I cannot think what heaven is like.”

“Jesus is there, we know,” said Selina, “and that is enough.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But still mama must have been glad to see papa coming in through the gate. But, as Tessie says, we cannot tell what heaven is like, or how it seems to them there.”

“Jesus is there,” repeated Selina, “and they are like Him. ‘And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying;’ and they shall go no more out. We know a little, Tessie dear, I think.”

“But I cannot think of mama being quite happy without you, Lena. And has she forgotten us all, do you think?”

“She knows that I shall be coming by-and-by,” said Selina, with a smile, wonderful for its sweet content. “Yes, and all of us—‘to go no more out.’ She will not think the time long, we may be sure of that. And I shall see her face there?”

“If mama could have known about Cecilia and Edgar, and how good they would be to us, before she went away.”

“Papa knew,” said Tessie, “and he will tell her.”

“And, Fred love, mama was not afraid for us at the last,” said Selina. “She did not know that they would care for us and love us, but she knew that Jesus would; and I daresay He has told her about our brother and sister also.”

“And we needn’t fret about Madame Precoe or Father Jerome any more,” said Tessie.

“No; but we will not speak of them here,” said Selina gently; “and we need not be afraid of anything any more.”

By-and-by there was a little movement among them, and then the others heard Selina say,—

“Tell me about it, so that I may know the place where they lie.”

So one told her one thing, and one told her another, about the lonely spot where the two graves were side by side. Tessie told of the green turf and the lovely flowers that covered them, and of the budding trees, and the dark shadows which the evergreens made, and the many, many graves and white monuments that could be seen. And then Frederica told her of the far-away view, of the great level over which they could look to the river and the hills beyond. And they both said how peaceful the place was, and how fair and sweet, till Selina smiled, saying,—“I think I can see it all now.”

“And, please God, she shall see it yet as clearly as it lies before us all,” said Edgar softly.

“Do you mean it, Edgar? Can such a thing be possible?” said Mrs Brandon in amaze.

“Please God, she may yet see,” said the young man gravely.

“Ah I do not disturb the sweet quiet of her heart by a hope that may never be realised,” said Cecilia.

“By no means at present,” said her brother; “there is no need for that.”

“It would be a miracle,” said Mrs Brandon.

“A miracle of science and skill,” said Edgar. “We will not speak of this to her, or to any of them, yet; but I cannot but hope that she may see, even before she enters the city by the gates of pearl.”

After that they had a very quiet summer. Madame Precoe went home to her own house, and they did not see her very often. But Miss Agnace was allowed still to remain with them, and the affairs of the household went well and smoothly in her hands. Mr Jerome they never saw, for he had been sent on a mission to a distant city, and they only heard of him now and then through Mr St. Cyr; but they were none the less happy that he was away.

Mr St. Cyr did not grow strong very fast. It was, indeed, doubtful whether he would ever be very strong again; and so all through the summer he was making arrangements to give up his business for a while into the hands of his partner, and he purposed to take a long holiday, to go to Paris, where he had not been since he was a young man, and perhaps to Rome, where he had never been. But he found time, amid all his preparations, to come often to see the young people; for he still considered himself their guardian, and in a certain sense responsible for their well-being. And besides, he loved them dearly, and they trusted him, and depended on him as they had always done, and loved him better every day.

Edgar and young Mr Bentham, Cecilia’s husband, had much to do, and many places to visit, before the time set for their return to England, and sometimes Cecilia went with them. But it generally pleased her best to stay quietly at home with her young sisters, and it pleased them also.

It was a very quiet summer, but it was a very busy one. For it had been decided that when their elder brother and sister went back to England, they should all go with them; and there was much to be thought of, and much to be done, in preparation. To say that they were glad at the prospect, would be saying little. To go anywhere with the brother and sister who had been so kind to them, and whom they had learned to love so dearly, would have been pleasant; but to go to England, the country of which they had heard so much, where there were so many wonderful and beautiful things to see, was more than pleasant.

“And papa’s home was there, and it was the last place he saw,” said Selina, who had no hope of beholding the beautiful and wonderful things of which her brother and Tessie were never weary of talking. “And the kind people who cared for him are there. Yes, I am glad to go.”

“And we shall come home again. I am glad to go away for a while, because there are some things here I want to forget,” said Frederica, a little tremulously. “But we must come home again by-and-by, and begin all over again.”

“Unless we should like England best,” said Tessie. “I should not be at all surprised.”

But Frederica said that would be quite impossible. When their brothers should be quite grown up, and able to take care of themselves, they would all come back and be happy at home. They made many plans as to what they were to do and enjoy, but Frederica’s plans all had reference to their return home, and the life they were to live afterwards. She was as glad to go as any of them, but it was always with thought of coming home again.

They had not many friends to whom it was sad to say good-bye. Mr St. Cyr was going with them, on his way to Paris. Miss Agnace was going with them too, to be Selina’s special attendant and friend. For though little was said about it, it was more for Selina’s sake than for anything else that they were going to England. Edgar had taken Mr St. Cyr into his confidence as to the hope he entertained of bringing back the light, to her sweet eyes, and so all plans with regard to their going were made easy by him.

They went to school to say good-bye to Miss Robina and her mother, and Cecilia went with them to thank them for all their kindness to her little sisters. But this was not Frederica’s last visit. She went again with Selina, and Mistress Campbell made tea for them in her room, as she used to do when Frederica was a child. It was not so very long ago, but it seemed a great while to her, and she was very quiet and grave all the afternoon. Selina had more to say than she had, and asked many questions about what her sister used to do when she was a pupil in the school.

“A bonny bit wilful creature she was,” said Mistress Campbell, “very wilful whiles. But it was just a pleasure to see her for all that. Many a good advice I had occasion to give her at one time and another, but she did me more good than ever I did to her, I think. She is one of His little lambs, as you are yourself doubtless, and none shall pluck you out of His hand. You are ay safe with Him, but still it is a grand thing to have a brother and sister like those you have found to trust to, and to be obedient to. You’ll ay mind that, Miss Frederica, my dear, when you are far away.”

“I shall never be wilful or disobedient any more, Mistress Campbell,” said Fred gravely, quite believing it.

Mistress Campbell nodded her head a good many times.

“You are in God’s keeping, my bairn. That’s ay a comfort. But walk softly, my lammie, when your light heart comes back again. And mind the rest will ay look to you for an example, and so on.” Mistress Campbell had “many an advice” to give still, and Frederica received them more meekly than she used sometimes to do in the old times.

“And though I never see you more on earth, we’ll meet in a better place, my bonny bairns, and God go with you wherever you go,” said the old woman, kissing them when they were ready to go away. “And there is nothing to grieve about, though it is the last time.”

Nothing to grieve about. It could not be long that the kind old woman would have to stay in her garret, and there were no partings where she was going to dwell.

After that they spent a day with their sister Caroline and her little children, and this was the saddest parting of all. But even this was not so very sad, for they were coming back again by-and-by to their home and their friends, and the graves of their father and mother, and there was no bitterness in the tears they shed when the day of departure came.

The summer was quite over by that time. The sun of a bright still autumn day was near its setting as they stood on the deck of the steamer to take their last look of the city, and of the mountain which makes so grand a background to the view. Grand indeed it was that night, for the frost spirit had breathed on the unfallen leaves, and changed their summer green to colours wonderful for glory and beauty, and few words were spoken for a good while as they gazed.

“Tell me about it,” said Selina softly.

So one told her about the bright clouds in the west, and the mountain growing dim already in the distance, and another told of the gleaming city roofs and spires; and the great cathedral towers looking down upon them all, and little Hubert told her of the long shaft of light that the sun sent over the water, and of the white sails that were passing out of sight.

“Which of us all is so happy as she?” said Cecilia softly, as she watched the smile of sweet content on the blind girl’s listening face.

“But please God, when she comes home again, she shall see it all,” said her brother. And so she did.

Chapter Twenty.

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.

Chapter Twenty One.

After Christmas the boys went to school—to the great public school where their father and their elder brother had been educated, and a great quietness fell on the sisters after they went away. It was their first separation since the day their father had been, laid beside their mother on the hillside far away, and they missed them sadly for awhile. They all missed them, but Frederica especially felt lost without the constant sense of responsibility which had rested on her with regard to them since that day. It was well that they still lingered in beautiful Eastwood. Cecilia did not like to think of how dull the days would have been in London at this time. But every one in the large and happy household of Colonel Bentham strove more than ever to interest and amuse them, so as to beguile them from regretful thoughts; and when there came first one letter and then another from the little lads, showing that they were falling more easily and happily than could have been supposed into their right places, and taking the good of the pleasant things in school, even Frederica became content about them, and confessed that it was a relief to know that they were safe and well, and to let the sense of responsibility slip from her for a time.

But a greater trial was before her than the parting from their brothers. By-and-by they returned to London, and she and Tessie were soon as earnestly engaged with lessons and masters as could be desired. It was partly from a sense of duty, and from a desire to make the most of the exceptional advantages afforded them, that they worked so well, but they also enjoyed their work. It was made pleasant to them, and they were not allowed to do too much. Walks and drives, visits and sight-seeing prevented their work from becoming monotonous, or from injuring them in any way, and the time to them passed quickly.

But Selina drooped. She missed her brothers, and though she shared Frederica’s reading as far as was possible, and enjoyed the sight-seeing at second-hand, still she was not so bright and cheerful as usual; and strange to say, Frederica was not the first to see it Selina’s best time was when they were all together, so that this was not surprising; but Cecilia became anxious about her, and longed for the time when their brother Edgar should be at home again.

He came at Easter, and in a day or two declared himself at liberty to do as he pleased for three months at least. After that he was to settle down to the practice of his profession in another part of London, and then there would be no more leisure days for him.

“And you are going to make the most of these three months,” said Tessie, “and have a great deal of pleasure.”

“I hope so,” said Edgar, but he looked more grave than people usually do who are anticipating three months of pleasure; and when Tessie went on to suggest, that instead of going away by himself, as he had proposed, he should take them all with him, he looked grave still, and said that would be impossible. He could not take them all at this time, but it was his intention to take Selina away for a little while. They all looked grave at that, and there came a look over Frederica’s face which neither he nor Cecilia had ever seen before, but which made Tessie think of the rule of Madame Ascot, and the days when Fred took her own way in spite of her. It would not be right, Edgar went on to say, to interrupt the studies of the others so happily and successfully commenced, for though their company might be agreeable to Selina, it was not necessary to her, as he would care for her, and Miss Agnace was to go with her.

Frederica uttered an impatient exclamation. “Studies! In comparison with Selina’s happiness her studies and masters counted for nothing. Selina must come first always. They had never been separated since—since—” Fred could get no further. It was only by a great effort that she kept back her tears. And her brother said gently,—

“But if it were to be for Selina’s good that she should go away for a little while, and that you should remain at home, surely you would be willing to deny yourself? At this time it is better for our sister to be in my care, and in the care of Miss Agnace.”

“That is because you do not know,” broke in Frederica. “Ask Selina. Let her decide.”

“No, we will not ask Selina this time. Of course it will be a trial for her to leave you both; but still it is best.”

“And, Fred darling, you will not make the trial harder for her by objecting,” said Cecilia. “Believe me, dear, Edgar is right. You must trust him.”

“Edgar does not know,” persisted Frederica. “Selina cannot go alone. It would break her heart. Selina alone! without me or mama—”

Frederica was determined she would not cry, and she stopped suddenly. Edgar was very gentle with her, but he was very firm also, and when he forbade her or Tessie alluding to the subject in Selina’s presence till he should give them leave, Frederica rose and walked out of the room, carrying her head very highland with a look on her face that made Cecilia regard her brother anxiously as the door closed upon her. Edgar smiled reassuringly. He was surprised, but he was amused also, Tessie could see as she rose to follow her sister. He looked grave enough in a moment.

The case stood thus. Selina was not looking well, and the change was necessary for her, but that was not all. It was of the utmost importance that she should be strong and cheerful just now, because the time had come when her brother hoped to get the opinion of a friend of his, a celebrated oculist who resided in a German city, as to the state of her eyes, and the possibility of something being done to restore to her some measure of sight. The prospect of success was not so assured as to make it wise to say anything about his plans and wishes to his sisters. The suspense would not be good for them, and the trial of remaining behind would be all the greater to Frederica, should she be made aware that her sister might have doubt and anxiety, and perhaps pain and disappointment, to undergo alone. Her being with her sister at such a time would not be good for either of them, he thought; and should his brotherly influence fail, her guardian’s authority must be exercised over Frederica.

“But Colonel Bentham’s authority will not be needed. Fred will think better of it; and be reasonable.”

But Cecilia was not so sure. “You give her no reasons,” said she. And then she went on to repeat some instances of Frederica’s wilfulness in the old days, of which their sister Caroline had told her, how she used to rule the household, and set Madame Ascot at defiance. Some of these it was not easy to believe, in view of Frederica’s almost uniform gentleness and sweetness since they had known her, but they were doubtless quite true; and remembering her face and air as she walked out of the room, some trouble with her seemed not impossible.

“But all the same she must yield,” said her brother.

But it was not the wilful little Fred of the old days that had walked out of the room with her head held high and haughtily. She was as angry and indignant as ever the Fred of those days could have been, so angry that she utterly forgot for the moment how dear was the love that had grown up during the last year between her and her brother, or how perfect the confidence she had had in his affection and wisdom until now. She was so angry that she would not let the tears come even when she was alone; and when Tessie ran in upon her, exclaiming indignantly about their brother’s unkindness, Frederica sat with a face that changed from red to white and from white to red every moment, but she did not utter a word. As she listened to her sister, she grew less angry and more unhappy, for there was an echo of triumph mingling with Tessie’s indignation, that smote painfully on Frederica’s heart.

“I have been wondering for a long time when all this was to come to an end—your ‘docility and humility,’ your ‘sweet bright gentleness,’ as your friend Captain Clare calls it. Oh, yes, I have been expecting it. It is all very well within reasonable limits, obedience and submission, and all that; but Edgar has not a particle of authority over us, and you can wind Colonel Bentham round your finger, as you used to do with Mr St. Cyr. It is just as well to make a stand about Selina as anything. It must have come some time, and now we shall have the pleasant old days back again.” And so on. Yes, she grew very unhappy as she listened. Were the old times coming back again?—the times when she did not know where to turn to find a friend when anxiety for her little brothers and Tessie made her heart-sick. Obedience! submission! She had not been conscious of any such thing all this time. She had felt so safe, so comforted, so at home with her brother and sister. They had no authority certainly. But would it be a wise or happy thing to take even the smallest of these affairs out of their hands into her own?

If only Edgar would be reasonable about Selina! No, she could not part from her. She could bear it for herself; but what could Selina do without her?

“I cannot, cannot let her go.”

Tessie’s voice startled her again. She was laughing merrily.

“I declare, Fred, I could quite have fancied myself at home again. I had forgotten how grand you could be;” and she threw back her head with an air, and marched to the door as her sister had done. “You quite frightened Cecilia, I could see. As for Edgar, I think he was laughing a little. He cannot be harder to overcome than Madame Ascot. This ‘turning the other cheek’ is all very well to talk about; but Edgar has no real authority over us, and if you are firm now, Fred, we shall have it all our own way.”

Did she want to have it all her own way? Had Edgar no authority over them? Would her father have said that? And without him what was to be done with the brothers or with Tessie, should she grow wilful, as she used to be? And as to “the other cheek”! Had Edgar smitten her on the one cheek? Was she right in resenting what he had planned and what he had said to her? And now here was Tessie laughing and delighted at her anger and her pride. Poor Fred! The very foundations seemed to be removing. The tears she had kept back with such difficulty flowed freely; but all this time she had never uttered a word.

“I thought it was all over and at an end, my foolish anger and pride and disobedience, and now, at the very first word of opposition, I am as bad as ever. Oh! if it were anything else, I would give up, and not mind! Hush, Tessie,” she said aloud, “you do not understand. No, you are not to speak to Selina. I must think about it first. Edgar never was unkind before. Perhaps to-morrow he may change his plans.”

To-morrow found Frederica not at all well; a restless night had given her a headache; and when she did not appear at breakfast, Edgar went up to see her, only half convinced that real illness was keeping her in her room. She was ill certainly, and very silent, but she was not angry any longer. Selina was with her, and Edgar knew in a moment that nothing had been said between them with regard to the coming separation. He was very gentle and kind, but Fred could not look up and meet his eye, because she had not fought out the battle with herself yet. She had got so far as to acknowledge that it was very ungrateful in her to act and speak as though Edgar had no right to interfere in their affairs, after all his kindness to them. Every hour she had felt more deeply how dearly she loved him, and how entirely she trusted him, and how terrible a thing it would be for them if their brother were to leave them to their own guidance, as she had yesterday wished him to do.

But she had not been able during the wakeful night to persuade herself that he was right with regard to Selina. She had thought of many things that she would like to say to him about her to make him change his mind; but when she saw his face in the morning, so kind and yet so firm in its expression, she doubted whether her words would avail, and so she did not look up, and scarcely uttered a word. Tessie waited eagerly to hear what might be said, but she heard nothing, and their brother took her and Selina away with him, leaving Frederica to Miss Agnace’s care. So she had time to think over her trouble, and the longer she thought the more clearly she saw how foolish had been her anger, and how wrong her example to Tessie.

Still she could not yield the point in question. Edgar could not know as well as she what was best for Selina. It would be like forsaking her sister, were she to consent to his plan. It would be breaking her promise to her mother, that Selina should always be considered before herself. She could not do it.

And yet something made her feel sure that she must do as her brother wished, and feeling confidence in his love and in his wisdom, she thought if it had been anything else she would have yielded to him so gladly. But she lay and turned about restless and feverish, more unhappy than she had ever been since the days of her illness after her father went away. Miss Agnace came in and went out softly, saying little, but very gentle and kind.

“Is it something that you cannot tell to your best friend?” she said at last, as she bathed her hot brow with cool water, and smoothed the hair that lay in confusion on the pillow.

Frederica gave her a quick look. She longed to ask her about her brother’s plans, but it would not be right to do so. And besides, Miss Agnace might not know, and might not tell her if she did.

“After all He has brought you through to these happy days, you are surely not forgetting to bring your trouble to Him, are you?”

It was not just the way Miss Agnace was wont to speak; but even Miss Agnace was beginning to see things differently, in the new light that was shining on them, and for a minute Frederica forgot her own trouble, looking at her wistfully.

“Are you glad to be here, Miss Agnace? Are you happy here?” said she. “Will you never go away from us any more?”

“Oh! as to going away—no, while my young lady needs me,” said Miss Agnace.

“Not even if Father Jerome said you must?”

The name had not been mentioned for a long time between them. An odd look came over Miss Agnace’s face.

“He will not say it,” said she.

“Did he wish you to come? I am very glad you came; but was he not afraid to let you come? Was it for our sakes?” said Frederica, wishing to get away from her own troubled thoughts, and speaking very much at random.

“My dear, Father Jerome loved you, though you doubted it, and he wished you well always, though perhaps he made mistakes,” said Miss Agnace; “but you are to rest, and not think of anything to vex you, and I will leave you for a little while.”

But though Miss Agnace went, Frederica’s troubled thoughts stayed with her, and she said to herself she must find courage to write to Colonel Bentham, and ask him to interfere between her and her brother. Could she ask it? would it do? oh! how helpless and miserable she felt! Suddenly there came into her mind Miss Agnace’s question: “Is it then anything you cannot carry to your best Friend?—to Him who has brought you through all to such happy days?”

Had she brought it to Him? Could she bring it? Not her anger, and her pride, and her determination to rebel—to have her own way; but her trouble—her fear for Selina being far away and unhappy. If Edgar did not know what would be best for her, surely Jesus did, and He would help them. But then it might not be in her way. They might have to be separated all the same. Frederica cried bitterly as she thought about it; but she did bring her trouble to her Friend, and the bitterness had all gone out of her tears, and out of her heart too, before she fell asleep. When she woke, her brother was looking down upon her with a very grave face. Frederica smiled, though her tears came again.

“I am going to be good,” said she, and she took the hand that rested on hers, and Carried it to her lips.

“My darling! my precious little sister!” said her brother, moved by her gentleness as her anger could not move him. “It grieves me sorely to have to grieve you; but trust me, Frederica, this once.”

“Ah! must you grieve us? I do trust you: I could bear it, but Selina! I do not think I am vain, but I cannot think what she will do without me,” she pleaded. “No, I am not going to be naughty, and I do trust you—”

Edgar soothed her with his touch and his voice. He was very gentle with her.

“If I were sure—”

“But, darling, if you were sure, there would be no need to trust me. And our Elder Brother—do you think He will forget Selina and you?”

“Oh, no,” said Fred, but her tears fell fast. He was very tender with her, and firm too, telling her that he depended on her to make the parting easy to her sister, saying it would only be for a little while, and in the meantime she could not be very unhappy, having many and pleasant duties, and a willing mind. And then there was Tessie, who needed her more even then Selina. And Frederica’s conscience told her that Tessie had been none the better for her influence for the last two days at least.

“I will try and be good,” she said, and her brother could not but wonder at her gentleness; and as he went out he said softly to himself, “‘Except ye become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.’”

In one sense Frederica’s trouble was over now. Her anger was over, and her rebellion; and in trying to speak cheerfully of their separation, for Selina’s sake, she did much to strengthen herself for the trial. Selina was startled and grieved at the thought of going away from her sisters, but she was gentle and yielding, as she always had been, and never doubted that their brother was wise and right in the plans he had made for them.

So she said “Good-bye,” cheerfully enough, and so did the others for that matter; but when she was gone, and Frederica found herself standing looking after the departing carriage, it seemed to her that the feeling of loss and loneliness was more than she could bear.

“And now we shall have our drive in the Park,” said Colonel Bentham cheerfully, as though nothing particular had happened, and Selina’s going away was an event of every-day occurrence. But Frederica stood very white and still.

“I am—tired—I think. If Tessie would go without me to-day,” said she with difficulty, but she walked very quietly by Captain Clare’s side till they came to the drawing-room door. “I think I must—rest for a little while. Will you excuse me to Colonel Bentham?”

She spoke quietly; but when she looked up and met the kind eyes that were looking down on her, she gave a little cry, and ran upstairs into her room, not at all sure that she was not rebellious and angry still. Tessie came in soon, all ready for the drive, and found her sister crying on the bed. She was quite inclined to feel aggrieved at the delay. She went at her sister’s entreaty to carry her excuses to Colonel Bentham. Her guardian seemed quite to understand, and they went out without her.

True to her determination to be good, Frederica did not long indulge her tears, and within the hour she came downstairs, and walking sedately into the drawing-room, found Captain Clare waiting for her. Her elaborate cheerfulness was quite as pathetic, he thought, as her grief had been, and so were her fears that her guardian might believe her to be ungrateful for his kindness. Captain Clare laughed at her a little.

“You speak as though you were a child to be punished for being naughty by being put in a corner,” said he. “Shall we go and walk? we may meet the carriage, and you can still have your drive.”

Frederica hesitated, but only a moment.

“You were reading,” said she.

“I was waiting for you, and now we must hasten, for the best of the afternoon is passing.”

They did not meet the carriage, though they went a long way round, hoping to do so. Frederica was not sorry: she never forgot that walk home in the twilight. As it grew dark she put her hand into that of her friend, as simply as a little child might have done, and for a while she had most of the talk to herself. She told him more than she had ever told any one before about their mother, and their old home and their way of life; and sometimes he smiled, and sometimes he was deeply touched, as she dwelt with quite unconscious pathos on some of the incidents of those days. Her face clouded as they drew near the house.

“I am almost afraid to go in,” said she.

“Lest you should be naughty again? No, you will not,” said her friend. “See, I will give you something to prevent it: ‘Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.’”

“Thank you,” said Frederica, without looking up. “A month is a long time, two months perhaps.”

“But it will soon pass, and summer will soon be here, and who knows what summer may bring?”

“And this afternoon has not been so bad,” said Frederica.

No time after that was so very bad. Frederica kept herself conscientiously busy for one thing, and she kept Tessie busy also. Their friends made pleasures for them. They had walks with Captain Clare which were always delightful, and drives with their sister Cecilia, and one day they went with them to visit their brothers, whose school was not so very far away, and this they enjoyed wonderfully. Frederica, who had had few letters in the course of her life, took great delight in those of her brother Edgar. Besides bringing good news of her sister’s health and happiness, they were full of interest for other reasons, and they never failed to contain just a word or two to remind the sisters at home that all were alike safe in the best keeping.

And better than all other helps towards patience and content was the young girl’s trust in Him who had brought them to a safe place. On Him she was learning to rest more lovingly every day. She suffered a good deal at first; but peace came and stayed, not quite the perfect peace promised to them whose trust is entire and full, but even that came later.

Tessie watched her sister narrowly, and expressed her opinion of her way of taking it all by little shrugs and laughing protests, in which Frederica sometimes fancied there was a contemptuous echo. But Tessie was subdued at last by her sister’s never-failing gentleness and sweetness, and showed it by devotion to her duties, and by deference to her sister’s wishes in little things.

The time of Selina’s absence extended beyond what was first planned. But this was not so great a trial as it seemed beforehand Spring passed into summer before a word was said of their going home, and the time came to leave hot and dusty London, and to return to Eastwood Park again, and the sisters went gladly, though they had no thought of the joyful surprise awaiting them there.

Chapter Twenty Two.

If Eastwood had been beautiful to the eyes of the sisters when seen under Christmas skies, what was it now in the prime of summer? The pony carriage awaited them at the station, and in it they drove to the Park the nearest way through the loveliest lanes, in the hedges of which Tessie counted nearly a score of different green growing things besides honeysuckle and foxgloves and bluebells and many a flower that she could not name. How wide and still the Park was, with only green grass and great trees to see at first, and by-and-by shrubbery, and then flowers, and then the house itself came in sight. There were open doors and windows, and people coming and going over the lawn, and Grandmamma Bentham sitting in a garden chair, in full sight of the gate.

Some one was coming to meet them, as the carriage stopped at the east gate, and they came in. Some one! There were many people. Colonel Bentham was there, and Captain Clare, and Everard, and their brothers Charlie and Hubert. But “some one” was Selina, not led by Miss Agnace, as might have seemed natural, not led by any one, though Everard Bentham walked at a little distance from her, regarding her with the strangest wondering smile upon his face. Their brother Edgar was there too, a little in advance of the rest. But Selina walked alone, and came forward to them, holding her hand a little out before her, as she always used to do, walking softly and slowly to the very gate, for Frederica stood still and waited. Tessie waited too a moment, and then sprang forward with a cry.

“Selina! Do you see me? Oh! Fred. Oh! mama! mama?”

And then she clasped and kissed her, clinging to her, and sobbing wildly, moved as no one had ever seen the sharp little Tessie moved before.

“Gently, Tessie love,” said her guardian, putting his arms about her, and drawing her aside from the rest. Frederica stood still and white at the gate, so still and white that her brother Edgar drawing near looked anxiously at her. But she only looked at Selina, who paused at a little distance.

“Frederica,” she said, “I can see you.”

Then Frederica awoke out of her dream; but before she sprang forward to clasp her sister, she turned and kissed the hand her brother had laid on her shoulder. She did not cry out as Tessie had done, nor speak a word, but she held her sister’s hand firmly as they walked towards the house, looking at her with eyes in which the wonder hardly left room for the pleasure to appear.

The meeting had not happened just as their elder brother had desired and planned. He had meant to prepare his sisters for the happy change in Selina, but perhaps it happened just as well. They were left very much to themselves for the rest of the day; and as their way was at such times, they talked in their mother tongue fast and eagerly. That is, Tessie and the little brothers talked, and Selina also, who had much to tell them, though she told it in few words. The beginning and the end of all was her brother Edgar’s kindness to her during the time she had been away.

As to how it all came about—how through the wonderful skill, and unfailing gentle care of her brother’s friend, and of her brother as well, the blessed gift of sight was restored to her, need not be told here. The sweet blue eyes looked just as they had always looked, but there was light in them now. Her face was changed. It was not so peaceful and serener—it could hardly be brighter than it used to be. But it had an expectant look, and its expression varied every moment. Her constant movements towards this and that, in her attempts at a nearer acquaintance with things which she had hitherto only known by touch or by sound, gave her an air of restlessness not at all like Selina, and for a little while Frederica watched her doubtfully. But when Edgar came among them, hushing the eager buzz of talk, and saying gently to Selina that she had seen enough for one day, the old look came back, sweet and serene, and she lay down at his bidding, with closed eyes and a smile on her lips that reassured her sisters. And then Edgar said in response to the brightening of Frederica’s face,—

“Yes, it is a new world to her. But she has had the best things all along—the peace and the joy—and she is not going to lose them because she can see. I think you may let yourself be glad for her.”

“Yes, I am glad! for her,” said Frederica gravely, “very glad, I think; or I shall be glad by-and-by.”

“Are you sure you are glad now?” said Captain Clare to her when a few days had passed, and they had in some measure become accustomed to the knowledge that Selina could see; “because I do not think you always look very glad.”

“I am glad for Selina, I am glad for us all: But then, you see, I do not quite know what I am going to do with myself and my life now,” said she gravely. “I have it all to plan over again, now that Selina will not need me to take care of her.”

“You need not be afraid, I think,” said her friend. “Your work will come to you; and indeed, your sister needs you as much as ever. She does not seem to be able to do without you.”

“She likes to look at me, because I am like mama, she says. She has not forgotten mama all these years since she was a little child. And I am to teach her all I know; and that will not take me long,” added she, laughing. “And besides, she has been learning all the time, though not with her eyes. Oh, yes! I am glad!”

In the midst of their rejoicing Mr St. Cyr came to Eastwood Park; and if Frederica had had her choice of all the pleasant things that might happen to them, she would certainly have chosen this. It was almost like being at home again, and having the old times back. Not but that they were all quite content at Eastwood; but their old friend, who had also been their mother’s friend, was very welcome and dear. They had some things to say to him that it would not have been easy to say to any one else; and his odd ways with them, sometimes merry and sometimes grave, always old-fashioned and friendly, had a wonderful charm for them all, and even for those who were looking on.

Frederica no longer doubted her joy over her sister when she presented her to Mr St. Cyr. Her tears fell, it is true, in a sudden shower, as she said to him, “If mama had only known!” But her tears were soon dry; and in his society, responding to his quaint ways and speeches, she grew more talkative and merry than ever her English friends had seen her before. She was more like the Fred who used to drive “Jack and Jill,” and amuse the children in Miss Robina’s orchard, than like the grave little monitress of her brothers and Tessie, inclined to be careful and troubled about many things.

Mr St. Cyr stayed at Eastwood till the summer days began to grow short, and then he went away, not to Canada, but to some mild climate, for another winter, till his health should be more firmly re-established. It was quite as well, for the peace of mind of the young people, that he should have so decided; for they might have longed to return with him, had he been going home.

If I were to carry my story over the next three years, I should have little more to say than this: they were happy and profitable years for them all. Selina learned all that Frederica could teach her, and some things besides. Sometimes they were in London, and at Christmas times and during the summer they were at beautiful Eastwood. They went through some of the prettiest parts of England with their brothers, to their great delight; and after a time their travels extended beyond England. They saw just what other travellers see, and enjoyed it more than most travellers do, being young and full of life, with no weight of care pressing upon them.

And after their travels were over they began seriously to consider and plan what their life-work was to be, and on which side of the sea it was to be done. Selina still spoke of the blind old people and little children whom she would like to gather into their old home, to care for and to teach. But her plans went farther than these now.

“For surely,” said she, “if we were to tell our people about Jesus and all He has done for them, they would turn to Him rather than to those who bid them look to Mary and the Saints in time of need. It is because they do not know Him that they look to be saved in some other way, and I would like to teach them. It is at home that we ought to be, Miss Agnace, is it not?”

But Miss Agnace had little to say, knowing better than they all that would make it impossible for these young girls to influence directly any one among a people so docile in the hands of their spiritual guides.

“God will prepare your work for you,” said Miss Agnace gravely. “It matters little where it is, so that it is done for Him. We must wait and see.”

Selina’s work came to her in an unexpected way, but by a sure token she knew it to be God-given work when it came. It was no new work. Ever since the happy Christmas-time when the blind girl went softly about the great house at Eastwood, and sat in the sunshine in Grandmamma Bentham’s garden, she had been doing a good work for Everard Bentham. Her influence was exerted quite unconsciously. She did not know how much every gentle word of hers meant to him, how dear she became to him day by day. But when he left his father’s house after that time, it was with a new resolve for the future—to the living of a new life, to a new end. Three years of earnest devotion to the duties of his profession, and to the still higher duties of a Christian gentleman, had placed him on different ground from that which he had occupied in the days when his father had suffered deep anxiety with regard to him. Edgar Vane had always loved him, now he respected and trusted him; and when he found courage to ask Selina to become his wife, neither her guardian nor her brother said him nay. Selina had no doubt then on which side of the sea her work was to lie.

All their friends were surprised when it came to be known that Captain Clare had persuaded Frederica to share a soldier’s fortunes as his wife. Not that it needed much persuasion. For though he was older and graver than she, one who might be thought little likely to take a young girl’s fancy, Frederica knew his worth, and had long loved him, first as her brother’s friend, and then as her own. Her husband took her to Canada for a time, where his regiment was stationed, and Tessie accompanied them. Selina and her husband also went with them for a summer holiday.

And so Selina saw her old home, as Edgar had foretold. It was she who, through the lifting morning mists, first caught sight of the city roofs and the cathedral towers, and the mountain beyond, beautiful with the level light of the sunrise on them. She saw her old home, and the two graves, and the faces of some people who had only been as names to her in the old days. She saw her home, and for a time she wished she had not seen it, but that she had allowed it still to stand in her memory as the sweetest and loveliest spot on earth, made beautiful in her thought by the remembrance of her mother and of all they had been to each other there.

For the old home was changed. The great warehouses pressed closer and closer upon it. The garden had been encroached upon, and the shadows of great chimneys and workshops darkened the lawn. It was very little like the home she had been remembering so lovely all these years. It was little like home to many of them now.

There were few people that they remembered well. They saw Miss Robina again, but her mother was dead, and so was Mistress Campbell. Madame Precoe was very friendly with them, in her unpleasant way. She smiled, and was polite, and spoke softly to them, but she never allowed them to forget that she believed them to have wandered far from the truth, and that days of darkness awaited them.

Father Jerome did not come to see them, but one day Frederica met him in the street. He had grown very old and bowed, and walked wearily, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, so that he did not see her when she passed. For the moment she was glad, but afterwards she could not forget his face, nor the look it wore,—a look not peaceful, but silent—blank—unresponsive.

Mr St. Cyr was home by this time, and they saw him often. But he would not speak much about his brother.

“He is not happy,” said he; “but that is a small matter. I pray God to give him His peace.”

And these young people, who had only just escaped great suffering and sorrow at his hand, remembering all the way by which they had been led and guided since then, could only join heartily in the prayer that God’s peace might indeed come upon him, and God’s light as well.

Selina and her husband had only a summer holiday to give to her native country, and they did not linger long in M—. Selina had been glad to come, but she was not sorry to go. On the spot she did not find it easy to identify herself with the little blind child who had lived so happily with her mother there. She seemed to herself to be a different person now. She might have been quite content to remain, if her lot had been cast in her old home, but she returned gladly to the land of her adoption. Miss Agnace returned with her. Whether she asked and obtained leave from those whom in former days she had vowed to obey, or whether she broke her bonds of her own free will, no one asked her. She is happy in the loving service of one whom she so faithfully cared for when she was in need of care, and happier still in the higher service of a Lord and Master whom she has better learned to know.

Tessie stayed in Canada with her sister Caroline; and when the brothers have thoroughly prepared themselves for the work that awaits them, one or both of them may join her there. They both give fair promise that they mean to do faithfully that which is given them to do.

Frederica’s work lies wherever her husband’s duty calls him. It is among the women and the little children of the regiment, who need her care; and the same gentle brightness that endeared her to her friends in the old days, makes her a messenger of blessing to many a suffering soul. The message that brought peace to the troubled heart of her mother, when the shadows of the valley of death began to darken around her, has—spoken by Frederica’s lips—brought peace to many a troubled heart since then.

This is her work, and her happiness as well, and it does not matter on which side of the sea such work is done.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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