[Illustration]

WEE WIFIE. 

A NOVEL. 

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, _Author of "Not Like Other Girls, " "Uncle Max, " Etc. _

NEW YORK:THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 

PREFACE. 

The demand for Wee Wifie has led to a reissue in a cheaper form, butas so many years have elapsed since the story first made itsappearance, the author considered that extensive alterations would benecessary before its republication. 

It has therefore been carefully revised, and, though the charactersand the salient points of the plot have been left untouched, severalfresh chapters have been added to assist in the more thoroughdevelopment of the story. 

 THE AUTHOR. 

WEE WIFIE. 

CHAPTER I. 

PROLOGUE--THE WANDERER. 

 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. 

 TENNYSON'S _Princess_. 

Not much of a picture, certainly!

Only a stretch of wide sunny road, with a tamarisk hedge and a clumpof shadowy elms; a stray sheep nibbling in a grass ditch; and a brownbaby asleep on a bench; beyond, low broad fields of grain whitening toharvest, and a distant film and haze--blue cloudiness, and the deepmonotonous sound of the great sea. 

Yellow sunshine, green turf, the buoyancy of salt spray in the air;some one, trailing a white gown unheeded in the sandy dust, pauses amoment under the flickering elms to admire the scene. 

She is a tall, grave woman, with serious eyes and dead-brown hair, theshade of withered leaves in autumn, with a sad beautiful face. 

It is the face of one who has suffered and been patient; who has lovedmuch and will love on to the end; who, from the depths of a noble, selfless nature, looks out upon the world with mild eyes of charity; awoman, yet a girl in years, whom one termed his pearl among women. 

Just now, standing under the elms, with her straight white folds anduncovered hair, for her sun-bonnet lay on the turf beside her, herwistful eyes looking far away seaward, one could have compared her toa Norman or a Druidical priestess under the shadow of the sacred oak;there is at once something so benignant and strong, so full of pathos, in her face and form. 

Low swaying of branches, then the pattering of red and yellow rainround the rough-hewn bench, the brown baby awakes and stretches outits arms with a lusty cry--a suggestive human sound that effectuallybreaks up the stillness; for at the same instant an urchin whittlingwood in the hedge scrambles out in haste, and a buxom-looking womansteps from the porch of an ivy-covered lodge, wringing the soap-sudsfrom her white wrinkled hands. 

Trifles mar tranquillity. 

For a moment silence is invaded, and the dissonant sounds gatherstrength; for once infant tears fail to be dried by mother smiles, and, as if in answer to the shrill cries, flocks of snow-white geesewaddle solemnly across the grass; the boy leaves off whittling woodand chases the yellow-bills; through the leafy avenue comes the loadedcorn-wain, the jocund wagoner with scarlet poppies in his hat, bluecorn-flowers and pink convolvuli trailing from the horses' ears; overthe fields sound the distant pealing of bells. 

The girl wakes up from her musing fit with a deep sigh, and her facebecomes suddenly very pale; then she moves slowly across the roadtoward a path winding through the bare harvest fields, where thegleaners are busily at work. From under the tamarisk hedge comes theshadow of a woman; as the white gown disappears and the lodge-keepercarries off her wailing child, the shadow becomes substance and growserect into the figure of a girl. 

Of a girl in shabby black, foot-sore and weary, who drags herself withhesitating steps to the spot where the other woman's feet have rested, and there she stoops and hurriedly gathers a few blades of grass andpresses them to her lips. 

Silence once more over the landscape: the glitter of sunshine roundthe empty bench; the whirling of insects in the ambient air; under theshadowy elms a girl smiling bitterly over a few poor grasses, gatheredas we pluck them from a loved one's grave. 

 * * * * *

Catharine, the lodge-keeper, sat rocking her baby in the old porchseat; through the open door one could catch glimpses of the brightred-tiled kitchen with its wooden settle and the tortoise-shell catasleep on the great wicker chair; beyond, the sunny little herb-gardenwith its plots of lavender, marjoram, and sweet-smelling thyme, thelast monthly roses blooming among the gooseberry bushes; a childcliqueting up the narrow brick path with a big sun-bonnet andburnished pail; in the corner a toy fountain gurgling over itsoyster-shell border, and a few superannuated ferns. 

Catharine sat contentedly in the shady porch, on her lap lay the brownbaby with his face all puckered up with smiles; his tiny hole of amouth just opened ready for the small moist thumb, and his bare rosyfeet beating noiseless time to the birds; he was listening besides tohis mother's voice as she sat rocking him and talking unconsciouslyaloud. 

"'Heaven bless her!' she muttered, with a cloud on her pleasant face;yes, those were her very words, as she stood like a picture under theold trees yonder. "

"'Heaven bless her and him too, '--but there was not a speck of colorin her face as she said the words, and I could see the tears in herbeautiful eyes. Oh, but you are a saint, Miss Margaret--every oneknows that; but, as I tell Martin, it is a sin and a shame to ring thejoy bells for a feckless chit that folk never set eyes on; while ourdarling, Miss Margaret, is left alone in the old place. "

"What about Margaret, Catharine, for Heaven's sake, what aboutMargaret?" and the shadow that had come from behind the tamarisk hedgenow fell across the porch straight before the startled woman. 

Catharine put down her apron from her eyes with something like a cry, and stood up trembling. 

"Good gracious! is that you, Miss Crystal? why, you come before onelike a flash of lightning on a summer's day, to make one palpitate allover for fear of a storm. "

"And about as welcome, I suppose, " returned the young stranger, bitterly, "my good Catharine, your simile is a wonderfully true one. "

"I don't know naught about 'similies, ' Miss Crystal, but I know youare as welcome as the flowers in May. Come in--come in--my lamb, anddon't stand scorching your poor face in the sun; come in and I'll giveyou Martin's wicker-chair by the open window, where you can smell thesea and the fields together, and I'll fetch you a sup of Daisy's newmilk, for you look quite faint and moithered, like a lost and wearybird, my pretty. Yes, just like a lost and weary bird. "

"You are right, " murmured the girl through her pale lips; then aloud, "have your own way, for you were ever an obstinate woman, Catharine, and fetch me a draught of Daisy's sweet milk and a crust of the oldbrown loaf, and I will thank you and go; but not before you have toldme about Margaret--all that you know, and that you hope and fear, Catharine. "

"Heaven bless you, Miss Crystal, it is the same tender heart as ever, I see. Yes, you shall hear all I know; and that's little enough, I'llbe bound. " And so saying, she hustled up her dress over her linseypetticoat, and, taking a tin dipper from the dresser, was presentlyheard calling cheerfully to her milky favorite in the paddock, on herway to the dairy. 

Left to herself, the girl threw herself down--not in the wicker-chair, where the cat lay like a furry ball simmering in the sun, but on theold brown settle behind the door, where she could rest her headagainst the wall, and see and not be seen. 

She had taken off her broad-brimmed hat, and it lay on the tablebeside her; and the sunlight streamed through the lattice window fullon her face. 

Such a young face, and--Heaven help her--such a sad face; so beautifultoo, in spite of the lines that sorrow had evidently traced on it, andthe hard bitter curves round the mouth. 

The dark dreamy eyes, the pale olive complexion, the glossy hair--incolor the sun-steeped blackness of the south--the full curled lips andgrand profile, might have befitted a Vashti; just so might thespotless queen have carried her uncrowned head when she left the gatesof Shushan, and have trailed her garments in the dust with a mien asproud and as despairing. 

There she sat motionless, looking over the harvest-fields, whileCatharine spread a clean coarse cloth on the small oaken table besideher, and served up a frugal meal of brown bread, honey, and milk, andthen stood watching her while the stranger eat sparingly and as ifonly necessity compelled. 

"There, " she said at last, looking up at Catharine with a softpathetic smile that lent new beauty to her face; "I have done justiceto your delicious fare; now draw your chair closer, for I am starvingfor news of Margaret, and 'like water to a thirsty soul is news from afar country. ' How often I say those words to myself. "

"But not bad news, surely, Miss Crystal; and it is like enough you'llthink mine bad when told. Hark, it only wants the half hour to noon, and they are man and wife now. "

"Man and wife! of whom are you talking, Catharine?"

"Of whom should I be talking, dearie, but of the young master?" butthe girl interrupted her with strange vehemence. 

"Catharine, you will drive me crazy with that slow soft tongue ofyours. How can Hugh Redmond be married while Margaret stands under theelm trees alone?"

"But it is true, Miss Crystal, for all that--as sure as the blue skyis above us--Sir Hugh Redmond weds to-day with a bonny bit child fromforeign parts that no one set eyes on, and whom he is bringing home asmistress to the old Hall. "

"I don't believe you!" exclaimed the girl, stormily; but in spite ofher words the olive complexion grew pale. "You are jesting, Catharine;you are imposing on me some village fable--some credulous report. As Ilove Margaret, I refuse to believe you. "

"The time was when a word from Catharine would have contented you, Miss Crystal, " replied the woman, sorrowfully, and her honest facegrew overcast. "Do you think Miss Margaret's own foster-sister, whowas brought up with her, would deceive you now? But it is like enoughthat sorrow and pride have turned your head, and the mistake of havingmade the first false step beside. "

"Forgive me, " returned the girl, hoarsely; and she took the workhardened hand and pressed it between both her own. "I will try tobelieve you, though I can not realize it that Margaret--myMargaret--has been jilted. "

"No, nor that either, dearie. We must not blame the poor young masterbeyond his deserts. He loved her true, Miss Crystal; he loved her thattrue that his heart was like to break; but for all that he was forcedto give her up. "

"I can not understand it, " in a bewildered voice. "When I left thedear old home that summer's day a year ago they had been engaged ninemonths; yes, it was nine months, I remember, for it was on herbirthday that he asked her to be his wife, and they had loved eachother long before that. Do you think I can ever forget that time?"

"I dare say not. Anyhow, things went on well for a time; the youngmaster was always at the Grange, or Miss Margaret and Mr. Raby at theHall; and when he was away, for he was always a bit roving, he wroteher a heap of letters; and all was as right as it could be till theold master came home. "

"Ah, true! I had forgotten Sir Wilfred. "

"Ay, he had been away for more than two years in the East, working forthat fine book of his that folks talk about so much; but he was in badhealth, and he had a strange hankering to die in the old Hall. Thereis an awful mystery in things, Miss Crystal; for if it had pleasedProvidence to have taken the poor old master before he reached theHall, our dear Miss Margaret might have been happy now. "

"Do you mean that Sir Wilfred objected to the match?"

"Well, I don't rightly know what happened, but Martin and me thinkthere is some mystery at the bottom. Folks say, who know the youngmaster, that he has a way of putting off things to the morrow asshould be done to-day, and either ha did not tell his father of hisengagement to Miss Margaret, or his letters went astray in thoseforeign parts; but when the old master heard that Mr. Hugh hadpromised to marry Miss Margaret, he made an awful scene, and sworethat no Ferrers should be mistress of Redmond Hall. "

"Good Heavens! what reason could Sir Wilfred have for refusing hisconsent? Margaret was beautiful, rich, and well-born. Do you mean tosay that Sir Hugh was so poor a creature as to give her up for awhim?"

"No, no, Miss Crystal, dear, we don't understand the rights of it. When Mr. Hugh left the old master he just rushed up to the Grange tosee Miss Margaret, and to tell her of his father's opposition; but shehad a right brave spirit of her own, and she heartened him up, andbade him wait patiently and she would win over the old man yet. Well, it is a sad story, and, as I told you, neither Martin nor me know whatrightly happened. Sir Wilfred came up to talk to Miss Margaret, andthen she sent for Mr. Hugh, and told him they must part, that shewould never marry him. That was before the old master had that strokethat carried him off, but she held firm to it after his death, andnothing that Mr. Hugh could say would move her. "

"And yet, if ever woman loved man, Margaret loved Hugh Redmond. "

"I know it, dearie, no one could look at her and not see that thelight had gone out of her life, and that her heart was justbreaking--how white you have gone, Miss Crystal!"

"I am so sorry for Margaret. Oh! Catharine, Catharine, if I had anytears left I think I could shed them all for Margaret. "

"Keep them for yourself, my dearie, may be they will cool the fever inyour heart, and make you see clear, and bring you back to us again. "

"Hush, hush! I will not hear you. I will only talk of my poorMargaret. She would not marry him you say. "

"No, she was like a rock, not all the poor young master could saycould change her resolution. I know she told him that his father wasright to forbid their marriage, and though it was a cruel trouble tothem both, they must bear it, for it was God's will, not SirWilfred's, that separated them; but he would never listen to her, andat last he just flung away in a rage and married the other. "

"The other!--whom do you mean, Catharine?"

"Well, you have heard of Colonel Mordaunt, who lived up at WyngatePriory, the big place, up yonder, some of the land adjoins the Halllands, but the house is no better than a ruin. "

"Yes, I know; Colonel Mordaunt died in India. "

"Well, may be you did not know that the colonel had a daughter, a bitbonny lass, who was brought up by an aunt in the country. It seems SirWilfred and the colonel had always hoped to bring about a matchbetween the young people, and after Sir Wilfred's death they found aletter with the will, charging Mr. Hugh by all that was sacred not tomarry Miss Margaret, and begging him to go down to Daintree, and seeColonel Mordaunt's beautiful young daughter. Miss Margaret told mewith tears in her eyes what a loving fatherly letter it was, and howit prayed Mr. Hugh, to forgive him for crossing his will; but told himat the same time that no blessing could ever follow his marriage withMargaret Ferrers. "

"No blessing? There is some mystery here, Catharine. "

"That is what I say, Miss Crystal, but reason or not, the poor youngmaster was half-crazed with the disappointment; he was for settingaside everything, and going on reckless-like, but Miss Margaret shewas like a rock--she could not and would not marry him; and in hisanger against her, and because he did not care what became of him, hewent down to Daintree and settled the matter with Miss Mordaunt, andthat is all I know, Miss Crystal. "

"One--two--three--four, " counted the girl with a bitter smile, "fourbroken hearts, four mutilated lives, and the sun shines, and the birdssing--one hungers, thirsts, sleeps, and wakes again, and a benignantCreator suffers it; but hush! there are footsteps Catharine, hide me, quick. "

"My dearie, don't look so scared like, it is only Mr. Raby--he passedan hour ago with the parson; but there is only wee Johnnie with himnow. "

"Is he coming in? I am sure I heard him lift the latch of the gate;you will keep your faith with me, Catharine?"

"Yes--yes, have I ever failed you; bide quiet a bit, he can not seeyou. He is only standing in the porch, for a sup of milk. I'll fetchit from the dairy, and he'll drink it and go. "

"If only Johnnie were not there, " murmured the girl, anxiously. 

"No, no, he has sent him on most likely to the vicarage. "

"My good Catharine, " observed a quiet voice from the porch, "how longam I to wait for my glass of milk?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed, " answered Catharine's cheery tonesin the distance. 

"Don't be sorry, " returned the same voice; "waiting will do me good. "And then there was silence. 

The stranger stole out and peeped through the half-opened door. 

There was a tall man standing in the porch; a man so tall that theclustering ivy round the trellis-work quite trailed about him andtouched his forehead; a man broad-shouldered and strong, but with astooping gait like a giant worn out with labor; he was in clericaldress, but his soft felt hat was in his hand, and the grand powerfulhead with its heavy dead-brown hair and pale face were distinctlyvisible under the shadow of the ivy. He did not more at the sound ofthe stealthy footstep or at the light shadow that fell across him, though the girl crept so close that he could have touched her with hisright hand; but on Catharine's reappearance she shrunk back with agesture of mingled entreaty and command. 

"There is the milk, Mr. Raby, and it is yellow and rich with cream toreward your patience, sir. "

"Thank you, " he replied, smiling, and putting out a large white hand;the stranger took the glass from Catharine and held it to him; hedrank it with seeming unconsciousness and with lowered eyes. "A mostdelicious draught; but your hand is trembling, Catharine; are youtired or unwell?"

"Neither, sir, thank you, " replied Catharine, huskily, while the girldrew back in evident alarm. "Ah, there is Johnnie come for you, he iswaiting at the gate; here is your stick, Mr. Raby. Don't forget yourhat, for the sun is very powerful. "

"No, no, " returned the clergyman, absently. "Good-morning, Catharine. "Then, as he walked down the little brick-paved path, "How strange;Catharine's hand never felt like that; it always seemed puckered andrough to me, but this felt soft and cold as it touched me, and shookso that it could hardly hold the glass. Johnnie, lad, is there any onestanding in the porch with your mother?"

"No, sir, only mother. "

"Strange, " he muttered, "strange; I suppose it was my fancy, I amalways fancying things;" and then he sighed and put his hand on theboy's shoulder, for Raby Ferrers was blind. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE BLIND VICAR OF SANDYCLIFFE. 

 Over-proud of course, Even so!--but not so stupid, blind, that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate, mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall, Throughout man a natural life-time, --could pretend or wish. 

 BROWNING'S _Aurora Leigh_. 

About five miles from Singleton, where Redmond Hall stands, is thelittle village of Sandycliffe, a small primitive place set incorn-fields, with long sloping fields of grain, alternating withsmooth green uplands and winding lanes, with the tangled hedgerows, sowell known in southern scenery. 

Sandycliffe is not actually on the sea-shore, but a short walk fromthe village up one of those breezy uplands would bring thefoot-passenger within view of the blue sea-line; on one side isSingleton, with its white cliffs and row of modest, unpretendinghouses, and on the other the busy port of Pierrepoint, with its bustleand traffic, its long narrow streets, and ceaseless activity. Sandycliffe lies snugly in its green hollow; a tiny village with onewinding street, a few whitewashed cottages grouped round a smallNorman church, with a rose-covered vicarage inhabited by the curate'slarge family. The vicar lived a mile away, at the Grange, a largered-brick house with curious gables, half covered with ivy, standingon high ground, with a grand view of the sea and the harbor ofPierrepoint. 

It might seem strange to any one not conversant with the facts of thecase, that the small, sparsely populated village should require theservices of a curate, and especially a hardworking man like Mr. Anderson; but a sad affliction had befallen the young vicar ofSandycliffe; the result of some illness or accident, two or threeyears after his ordination, had left him totally blind. 

People who had heard him had prophesied great things of Mr. Ferrers--he had the rare gift of eloquence; he was a born orator, asthey said--a rising light in his profession; it was absurd that suchpowers should be wasted on a village congregation, made up of rusticsand old women; he must preach from some city pulpit; he was a manfitted to sway the masses in the east end of London, to be a leaderamong his fellows; it was seldom that one saw such penetration andpower united with such simple unobtrusive goodness. 

Mr. Ferrers would smile a little sadly when the speeches reached hisear. He was a man who cared little for the praises of his generation;his one aim in life was to devote his talents to his Master'sservice--to work in the corner of the vineyard allotted to him. Hisinner consciousness, indeed, told him that he had capabilities for alarger sphere, a wider range of work; when the call came he would beready to leave his few sheep in the wilderness and go out intopastures now. He was like a knight watching beside his armor until thereveillé sounded; when the time came he was ready to go down to thebattle. 

When the call came! Alas! it never came in this world for RabyFerrers. In the full prime of youth and strength the mysterious doomof blindness came upon the young vicar and left him groping in adarkened world. 

There was bitter trouble at the Grange just then; a young cousin ofMargaret and Raby Ferrers, who had lived with them from childhood, andhad been the spoiled darling of the house, had left her home suddenly, leaving no trace behind her. 

Gossip had been rife in Sandycliffe, but no one except Hugh Redmondknew the rights of the case, or why the girl should have abandoned herhome when Raby Ferrers was lying on a bed of suffering, and Margaretwas watching beside him in trembling anguish for the result. 

There were weeks and months of bodily suffering and fierce internalconflict--bitter hand to hand fights with despair. And then the strongwill and faith of Raby Ferrers triumphed; back from the shadow of thevalley of death he came, mutilated, scarred, and victorious; and likeblind Samson, led by a boy, he one day electrified his people byentering his pulpit again; and at the sight of the changed pale face, and of the deep melodious voice speaking with its old tenderauthority, there was hardly a dry eye in the church. 

From that day Mr. Ferrers never flinched from the purpose he had setbefore him as far as lay in his power to do his duty. Bound by hisordination vows, he still gloried in the dignity of his priesthood. Sunday after Sunday saw him occupying the pulpit of his little church, which, as the fame of his rare eloquence went abroad, was alwayscrowded with strangers. 

He had secured the services of an earnest hard-working man--theill-paid, overworked curate of an East End parish with a large sicklyfamily--and installed them in the sunny pleasant vicarage. 

There was little work for either of them in Sandycliffe, but theycarried their joint energies further afield. Pierrepoint had a largepoor population, and the vicar was old and supine; he accepted gladlythe volunteered services of his zealous coadjutors, and, led by hisfaithful Johnnie, Mr. Ferrers penetrated into the winding alleys, andcarried comfort to many a sick and dying bed. And as Mr. Brabazon grewmore infirm, it became a rule to Mr. Ferrers to occupy his pulpit onSunday evenings, and it was always remarked that on these occasionsthe church was crowded; people would come ten or twelve miles to hearthe blind clergyman from Sandycliffe. It was even mooted by the bishopwhether, after Mr. Brabazon's death, Pierrepoint should not be offeredto Mr. Ferrers. 

After the first few weeks Raby Ferrers never spoke of his blindness toany one; even his half-sister Margaret who lived with him, and was hisdearest and closest friend, never heard a repining word from his lips;neither did he waste his strength by silent brooding--the activity ofhis life left him no time for this; when he was not occupied with hisministrations, or preparing his sermons, Margaret would read to himfor hours. 

Yet, it was evident to any keen observer who studied the quiet face, that some load of care lay on the bowed shoulders of Mr. Ferrers; someheavy weight that at times seemed to crush him. Sometimes whenMargaret was reading to him, he would make a sign for her to stop, and, laying down the book, she would watch him pacing up and down thegreen alleys of the Grange garden with his sightless eyes turned tothe sunshine; but she knew that it was not of his blindness he wasthinking, but of a heavier trouble still. 

Few people about Sandycliffe knew that Margaret Ferrers was onlyRaby's half-sister; there were only a few years between them, and inthe close intimacy that had grown up between the brother and sister, it was seldom remembered by either of them that they had differentmothers. Colonel Ferrers had married within two years of his firstwife's death, and the second Mrs. Ferrers had brought the Grange and awealthy dowry to her husband. 

But the marriage had not been a happy one, and the three last years ofMrs. Ferrers' life had been passed away from her husband. There werehints and tales of bitter scenes in the Grange, but little was knownin the village; only, when Margaret was seven years old, and Raby alad of fourteen, there was a grand funeral, such as Sandycliffe hadnever witnessed, and Mrs. Ferrers was laid in the same marble tombwhere her predecessor was buried, and it was noted with some surpriseand a little incredulity that Colonel Ferrers seemed overcome withgrief. 

It was about fourteen months before Raby had stood in the large porchwaiting for his glass of milk that one summer's morning the littlechurch-yard was full of loitering villagers, waiting for the bells tostop before they hurried into their places. 

The white Lady from the Grange, as some of the children called her, hadjust passed into the porch, after stopping to reprove some noisy urchinseating small sour apples on the tombstones; and old Granny Richardsonhad just hobbled in after her in her red cloak and neat black bonnet, and her prayer-book folded in a blue and white checked handkerchiefwith a little bunch of sweet-william and southern-wood--old man theycalled it in those parts--to keep it company. After granny came oldSamuel Tibbs, the patriarch of the village, in his clean smock andscarlet handkerchief, followed by his youngest grandson in all theglories of corduroys and hob-nailed boots. Young Sam, as they calledhim, was the youngest of fifteen, who had all grown up strong andhealthy under the thatched eaves of the low, whitewashed cottage downby the pond. There the fifteen young Tibbses had elbowed, and jostled, and kicked, and metaphorically pecked at each other like young rooksin a nest, and had grown up strong and hearty on a diet of bread andtreacle alternating with slices of bread and dripping, runningbarefoot over the grass and splashing like young ducks in the pond, until promoted to hob-nailed boots and bird-scaring, with a promise ofriding the plow-horses to water, and an occasional bird-nestingexpedition on their own account. 

The bell had stopped, and the last loiterer had taken his place on theoak bench, when as usual two strangers took their places in a seatthat was usually occupied by any chance worshiper. 

Most of the little congregation were familiar with the features of theyounger man, and every one in the village knew that the tall, broad-shouldered man with the fair beard and handsome, aristocraticface was the young master from Redmond Hall, who was to marry MissMargaret, the vicar's sister. 

But even young Sam Tibbs leaves off admiring his hob-nailed boots tostare at the brown, sickly-looking gentleman with the white mustachethat occupies the other end of the seat; and Margaret, sitting withthe school-children, looks curiously in the same direction, for thisis the first time that she has seen Sir Wilfred Redmond since hisreturn from Persia. 

Both father and son are wonderfully alike, she thinks; they have boththe same heavy-lidded, blue-gray eyes, the same proud carriage of thehead and stately presence; but the bright, sunshiny smile that greetedher from Hugh Redmond is certainly not reproduced on his father'ssomber face. Sir Wilfred looked ill and saddened; and evidently thereport that ill-health had brought his researches to a speedy end wasprobably true. 

Sir Wilfred listened with grave attention to Mr. Ferrers's eloquentsermon. The deep, musical voice, and fine delivery seemed to rivethim; he sat motionless, with his thin hands grasping each other, hiseyes fixed on the pale, powerful face which the morning sunshinetouched with a sort of glory. 

As usual, Hugh Redmond's attention strayed to the corner whereMargaret sat, the light from the painted window reached her, stainingher white gown with patches of prismatic color--a bordering of crimsonand blue and violet--and giving a golden tinge to her dead-brown hair;and as Hugh looks at her he tells himself again that he has never seenany one to compare with her--his pearl among women. 

When the service was over, and the small congregation had streamed outof the church, Sir Wilfred left his seat and walked up the aisle toinspect the chancel. He evidently thought his son was following him, for he turned round once to address him; but Hugh had noticed thatMargaret had quietly slipped through a side door, and he hastilyfollowed her. 

She was standing under the shade of a willow, looking at a newly madegrave, but she turned with a smile when she saw him striding over thegrass, with the sun shining on his golden-brown head. 

"Margaret, " he said, reproachfully, "why have you not waited to speakto my father? Raby has just joined him. "

A quick blush crossed Margaret's face--her lover's question seemed topain her--but she answered with her accustomed gentleness. 

"Surely you must-know dear; how could I meet Sir Wilfred when he isstill in ignorance of our engagement?"

"Ah, true, I forgot, " with a short, uneasy laugh; but it was Hugh'sturn now to look uncomfortable. "What a little puritan you are, darling, as though half a dozen civil words would have mattered. "

"But I could not have said them, Hugh, " with quiet firmness; "I shouldhave felt awkward and constrained in your father's presence; I shouldhave betrayed our secret by my very silence. "

"Ah, well, it will be a secret no longer, " with an impatient sigh. "You look at me very reproachfully this morning, Margaret, but indeedI have not been to blame so much as you think; my father was tiredfrom his journey yesterday. I am afraid he is in very bad health. Iconfess I am anxious about him. We had so much to talk about, and heis so full of that wonderful book of his. Come, cheer up, dear; I willnot have you look so serious; I will promise you that he shall know ofour engagement before I sleep to-night. "

"Really and truly, Hugh?"

"Really and truly, dear; now say something kind to me before I go. "

Ten minutes afterward Margaret walked slowly down the church-yard tojoin Raby, who was waiting for her at the gate. He heard her footstep, and held out his hand to her. 

"I was wondering what had become of you, Margaret. Sir Wilfred hasbeen talking to me for a long time; he asked after you, but of courseI made some excuse; I think I know why you hid yourself. "

"That could only be one reason, Raby. "

"Ah, I was right, then. I said to myself, depend upon it, Madge meansto stand on her dignity, and read Hugh a lesson, and I hope he willprofit by it. I do believe Hugh's favorite motto is 'Never do to-daywhat you can put off until to-morrow. '"

"I think you are a little hard on Hugh; he has promised that he willspeak to his father to-day. "

"I am glad of that, " very gravely. "I confess that thisprocrastination has made me very uneasy; it was not treating youfairly, Margaret, to leave his father all these months in ignorance ofthe engagement. "

"Yes, but you forget, " interposed his sister, eagerly, "he did writetelling Sir Wilfred everything, but the letter never reached him. Youare generally so charitable. Raby, and yet you misjudge poor Hugh soreadily. "

There was an injured tone in Margaret's voice that made Raby smile; heknew that she was blind to Hugh's faults--that she believed in himwith all a loving woman's credulity: and yet as he smiled he sighed. 

He knew his sister well, the simplicity and strength of her nature, the unselfishness and purity of her aims--few women had so high astandard--and he reverenced as well as loved her, for every day showedhim new beauties in her character. But his knowledge of his sistermade him doubt the wisdom of her choice; in his heart he had neverreally approved of her engagement with Hugh Redmond. Hugh was acapital fellow, he told himself; a pleasant companion, lovable in hisway, and not without his special gifts, but he was not worthy ofMargaret. 

Raby had not always been blind, and his intimacy with Hugh Redmond hadgiven him plenty of opportunity to judge truly of his friend'sdefects. He knew Hugh was manly and generous, but he was also weak andimpulsive, hot-tempered and prone to restlessness; and he marveledsadly how Margaret's calm, grand nature should center its affectionsand hopes on such an unstable character as Hugh Redmond. 

"She will never be happy with him, " he said to himself; "one day hemust disappoint her. Oh, I know well there is no harm in him; everyone would call him a good fellow; he is clever, he has plenty ofpluck, he has gentlemanly feelings, and he worships Margaret. But inmy opinion the wife should not be superior to the husband; if theremust be weakness, it should be on the other side. " And here Raby sighedand gave himself up to melancholy and more personal broodings, and hethought how strange and baffling were the perversities of humannature, and how hearts cleaved to each other--in spite of a hundredfaults and blemishes--as Margaret's cleaved to Hugh Redmond. 

No, there was no love without suffering, he thought; even happy lovehad its thrills and tremors of doubt, its hours of anticipatory fears. A little while ago and his own life had stretched before him, bright, hopeful and full of enjoyment, and then a cloud had blotted out allthe goodly land of promise, and he had been left a poor prisoner ofhope on the dim borders, led in paths that he truly had notknown--mysterious paths of suffering and patience. 

Raby had not answered his sister's reproachful speech, but he hadtaken her hand and pressed it, as though asking her pardon. 

"I wish you thought better of Hugh, " she said softly, as she felt hiscaressing gesture; and Raby smiled again. 

"I do think well of him. Who am I that I should judge my fellows? ButI have not seen the man yet who is worthy of my Margaret. Come, is notthat a lover-like speech; Hugh himself might have said it. But here weare at home; I can smell the roses in the porch; they are a sweetwelcome to a blind man, are they not, Madge?"

CHAPTER III. 

UNDER THE OLD WALNUT-TREE. 

 Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart Tempts him to hide his grief and die, Too feeble for confession's smart, Too proud to bear a pitying eye;

 How sweet in that dark hour to fall On bosoms waiting to receive Our sighs, and gently whisper all! They love us--will not God forgive?

 KEBLE'S _Christian Year_. 

Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire thepicturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantasticallytwisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls halfsmothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep, shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool andinviting on a hot summer's day, while the ever-open door gave aglimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass doorleading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in frontof the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old gardenfull of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace, and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers'sfavorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday'ssermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down thestraight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circularseat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the"Master's summer study. " It was here that Margaret read to him in thefresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or inthe evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and thelark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in thecorn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched inthe branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the"early worm. "

People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours oversuch dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and theabstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers's soul delightedmust have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had butknown it, their pity was perfectly wasted. 

Margaret's vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying andassimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr. Ferrers's favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to readover again some grand passage or trenchant argument. 

Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had foundthe brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of theextent of Margaret's erudition; in earlier years she had learned alittle Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby--shewas indeed "his eyes, " as he fondly termed her, and those who listenedto the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knewhow much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research wasowing to Margaret's unselfish devotion; Milton's daughters reading tohim in his blindness were not more devoted than she. 

When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led theway to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble's "Christian Year" inher hand and a volume of Herbert's poems--for wearied by his labors, Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to beread to him between the services, or often he bade her close her bookor read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon. 

The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broadgravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peachesripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there wasanother seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days onecould sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round onewith temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, wheresweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busybrown workers, "the little liverymen of industry, " as Raby calledthem, or "his preachers in brown. "

Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her placebeside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep linesfurrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke ofsome effort to repress heart-weariness. 

"He is thinking of our poor child, " she said to herself, as she turnedto the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: "Fromwhence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in thewilderness"--the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for hisevening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voicelingered involuntarily over the third verse, a sigh burst from Raby'slips. 

 "Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart, Thou need'st not in thy gloom depart, Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home: Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed By the kind Saviour at thy side; For healing and for balm e'en now thy hour is come. "

"Oh, that it were come for both of us, " muttered Raby, in a tone sohusky with pain that Margaret stopped. 

"You are thinking of Crystal, " she said, softly, leaning toward himwith a face full of sympathy. "That verse was beautiful; it remindedme of our child at once"--but as he hid his face in his hands withoutanswering her, she sat motionless in her place, and for a long timethere was silence between them. 

But Margaret's heart was full, and she was saying to herself:

"Why need I have said that, as though he ever forgot her? poorRaby--poor, unhappy brother--forget her! when every night in thetwilight I see him fold his hands as though in prayer, and in thedarkness can hear him whisper, 'God bless my darling and bring herhome to me again. '"

"Margaret!"

"Yes, dear;" but as she turned quickly at the beseeching tone in whichher name was uttered, a smile came to her lips, for Raby's hand wasfeeling in his inner breast-pocket, and she knew well what that actionsignified; in another moment he had drawn out a letter and had placedit in Margaret's outstretched palm. Ever since this letter had reachedthem about two months ago, each Sunday the same silent request hadbeen made to her, and each time, as now, she had taken it withouthesitation or comment, and had read it slowly from beginning to end. 

The envelope bore the Leeds postmark, and the letter itself wasevidently written hurriedly in a flowing, girlish hand. 

 "MY DEAREST MARGARET, " it began, "I feel to-night as though I must write to you; sometimes the homesickness is so bitter--the longing so intense to see your dear face again--that I can hardly endure it; there are times when the restlessness is so unendurable that I can not sit still and bear it--when I feel as though I have but one wish in the world, just to feel your arms round me again, and hear from your lips that I am forgiven, and then lie down and die. 

 "You suffer, too, you say, in the one letter that has reached me: I have ever overshadowed your happiness. You and Raby are troubling your kind hearts about me, but indeed there is no need for any fresh anxiety. 

 "I have met with good Samaritans. The roof that shelters me is humble indeed, but it shelters loving hearts and simple, kindly natures--natures as true as yours, Margaret--gentle, high-souled women, who, like the charitable traveler in the Bible, have sought to pour oil and wine into my wounds. How you would love them for my sake, but still more for their own!

 "These kindly strangers took me in without a word--they asked no questions; I was young, friendless and unhappy, that was all they cared to know. 

 "I must tell you very little about them, for I do not wish to give you any clew to my home at present; they are a mother and two daughters in reduced circumstances, but having unmistakably the stamp of gentlewomen; both mother and daughter, for the second is only a child, have high, cultured natures. The mother--forgive me, Margaret, for I dare not mention her name--teaches in a school close by us, and her daughter is also a daily governess. I am thankful to say that their recommendations have procured me work of the same kind; I give morning lessons to two little boys, and Fern--that is the eldest daughter's name--and I have also obtained some orders for embroidery to fill up our leisure hours and occupy our hands while we teach Fern's youngest sister. 

 "And now I have told you all this, will you not be comforted a little about me; will you not believe that as far as possible things are well with me? Tell him--tell Raby--that when I have wiped out my sin a little by this bitter penance and mortification, till even I can feel I have suffered and repented enough, I will come back and look on your dear face again. And this for you, Margaret; know that in the blameless, hard-working life I lead that I have forgotten none of your counsel, and that I so walk in the hard and lonely path that I have marked out for myself that even you could find no fault. Farewell. 

 "CRYSTAL. "

As Margaret's voice died away, Raby turned his sightless face to her. 

"You may give it back to me, Margaret, but stay, there is the copy ofyour answer; I think I would like to hear that once again; andMargaret obediently opened the thin, folded paper. 

 "MY POOR DARLING, --At last we have heard from you--at last you have yielded to my urgent request for some news of your daily life. God bless you for lifting a little of the weight off us, for telling us something about yourself and your work. I could not help crying bitterly over your letter, to think that a humble roof shelters our child; that you are compelled to work for your living; you, Crystal, who have never known what it is to want anything; upon whom a rough wind was not suffered to blow. My child, come home. What need is there of penance and expiation when all has been forgiven? The evil spirit that tormented our child has been cast out, and you are clothed afresh and in your right mind now; come home, for dear Raby's sake, and be his darling as of old! Do you know how he longs for you? Daily he asks 'Any news of her, Margaret?' and last night, as I was passing his study door, he called me in and bade me give you this message--'Tell my child, Margaret, ' he said, 'that every night I bless her and fall asleep breathing her name; tell her that my forgiveness and blessing are ever with her; that there is no bitterness in my heart; that she can not escape from my love; that it will follow her to the world's end. And tell her, Margaret, that if she do not soon come back to me that I, Raby--blind, helpless, useless as I am--will seek her through God's earth till I find her and bring her back. ' Ah, surely you must weep as you read this, Crystal. I pray that every tear may be God's own dew to melt and break up the hardness of your heart. Your ever loving

 "MARGARET. "

"That was written nearly two months ago, Madge, and she has not comeyet. "

"No, dear, we must have patience. "

Raby sighed impatiently. "So you always say; but it is hard to bepatient under such circumstances--to know that the woman you love hasmade herself an exile from all she holds dear. Margaret, I was wrongnot to tell her what I felt. I sometimes fear that she misjudged mysilence. But she was so young. "

"You meant it for the best, Raby?"

"Yes, I meant it for the best, " he answered, slowly. "I did not wishto take advantage of her youth; it did not seem right or honorable. Let her go into the world a little and see other men, that is what Isaid to myself. Even now, I hardly think I was wrong. "

"No, you were right, quite right; but you need not have dreaded theresult of such an ordeal; Crystal would never have loved any one butyou, Raby. I sometimes think"--but here she hesitated. 

"You think what, Margaret?"

"That she was jealous of Mona--that she misunderstood you there?"

"Good heavens! Mrs. Grey!"

"Crystal was so young, and she did not know that poor Mona's life wasdoomed. I have seen her look at Mona so strangely when you weretalking to her; and once she asked me if you admired fair women, andif you did not think Mrs. Grey very beautiful; and when I said yes, Iremember she turned very pale and did not answer. "

"I never thought of this, " he returned, in a tone of grief. "It musthave been one of her sick fancies, poor unhappy child--as though myheart had ever swerved from her for an instant. What do you think, Margaret, could she care for the blind man still?"

"More than ever, dear. If I know Crystal, her heart has belonged toyou from a child. "

"There speaks my comforter"--with one of his rare smiles; "you arealways good to me, Madge. Now read to me a little, and let me banishthese weary thoughts. One little clew--one faint hint--and I wouldkeep my word and seek for her; but, as you say, we must have patiencea little longer, " and Raby straightened himself and composed himselfto listen, and they sat there until the evening sunshine began tocreep about the sun-dial, and it was time for Raby to walk over toPierrepoint. 

It is well for some of us that coming events do not always cast theirshadow before; that we lie down to rest in happy ignorance of what thenext day may bring forth. As Margaret looked out on the moonlight thatevening, she little thought that that Sunday was the last day of herhappy girlhood--that the morrow held a bitter trial in store for her. 

She was sitting alone in the morning-room, the next afternoon, whenSir Wilfred Redmond was announced, and the next moment the old manentered the room. 

A faint blush came to Margaret's cheeks as she rose to greet him. Thisvisit meant recognition of her as his son's _fiancée_; and yet, whydid he come alone--why was not Hugh with him? Hugh's father was almosta stranger to her. He was a man of reserved habits, who had never beenvery sociable with his neighbors, and Margaret had seen little of himin her girlish days. 

"It is very good of you to come so soon, Sir Wilfred, " she said, blushing still more rosily under his penetrating glance. "I am sosorry that my brother is out; he has gone over to Pierrepoint. "

"I came here to see you and not your brother, " returned Sir Wilfred;but he did not look at her as he spoke, and Margaret noticed that heseemed rather nervous. "My business is with you, Miss Ferrers; I havejust heard strange news--that you and my son are engaged; is thattrue?"

Margaret bowed her head. She thought Sir Wilfred's manner rathersingular--he had met her with coldness; there was certainly no traceof warmth, no cordiality in the loose grasp of her hand. She wonderedwhat made him speak in that dry, measured voice, and why, after hisfirst keen glance at her, he had averted his eyes. He looked olderthan he had done yesterday, and there was a harassed expression in hisface. "It is rather strange, " he went on, "that Hugh should have leftme in ignorance all these months, but that"--as Margaret seemed aboutto speak--"is between me and him, I do not include you in the blame. On the contrary, "--speaking now with some degree of feeling--"I amsorry for you, Miss Ferrers, for I have come to tell you, what Hughrefuses to do, that I can not consent to my son's marrying you. "

Margaret started, and the proud indignant color rose to her face; butshe restrained herself. 

"May I ask your reason, Sir Wilfred?"

"I have a very good, sufficient reason, " returned the old man, sadly;"Hugh is my only son. "

"I do not understand--"

"Perhaps not, and it is my painful task to enlighten you, MissFerrers, " hesitating a little, "I do not wonder at my son's choice, now I see you; I am quite sure that you are all he represents you tobe; that in all respects you are fitted to be the wife of a wealthierman than Hugh. But for my boy's sake I am compelled to appeal to yourgenerosity, your sense of right, and ask you to give him up. "

"I can not give your son up, " returned Margaret, with noble frankness;"I am promised to him, and we love each other dearly. "

"I know that, " and for a moment Sir Wilfred's eyes rested on thebeautiful face before him with mingled admiration and pain, and hisvoice softened insensibly. "My dear, I know how my boy loves you, howhis whole heart is centered on you. I can do nothing with him--he willnot listen to reason; his passion for you is overmastering, and blindshim to his best interest. I have come to you to help me save him inspite of himself. "

At this solemn adjuration Margaret's face grew pale, and for the firsttime her courage forsook her. 

"I can not bear this, " she returned, and her young voice grew thin andsharp. "Why do you not speak plainly and tell me what you mean? Why doyou ask me to save Hugh--my Hugh--when I am ready to give up my wholelife to him? You speak as if his marriage with me would bring him acurse. "

"As it most surely would to him and to his children, Miss Ferrers. Margaret--I may call you Margaret, for I knew you as a child--it is nofault of yours if that be the truth. My dear, has no one told youabout your mother?"

She looked at him with wide-open, startled eyes. "My mother, SirWilfred! no, I was only seven when she died. I think, " knitting herwhite brows as though she were trying to recall that childish past, "that she was very ill--she had to go away for a long time, and mypoor father seemed very sad. I remember he cried dreadfully at herfuneral, and Raby told me I ought to have cried too. "

"I loved your mother, Margaret, " returned the old man, and his mouthtwitched under his white mustache. "You are not like her; she wasdark, but very beautiful. Yes, she was ill, with that deadlyhereditary illness that we call by another name; so ill that for yearsbefore her death her husband could not see her. "

"You mean--" asked Margaret, but her dry white lips refused to finishthe sentence. Sir Wilfred looked at her pityingly, as he answered--

"She was insane. It was in the family--they told me so, and that waswhy I did not ask her to marry me. She was beautiful, and so manyloved her--your father and I among the number. Now you know, Margaret, that while my heart bleeds for you both, I ask you to release my son. "

CHAPTER IV. 

"WHEN WE TWO PARTED. "

 Nay--sometimes seems it I could even bear To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear, Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, And see another queen it at the door-- If only that the king had done no wrong, If this my palace where I dwelt so long Were not defiled by falsehood entering in. There is no loss but change; no death but sin; No parting, save the slow corrupting pain Of murdered faith that never lives again. 

 MISS MULOCK. 

The following evening Margaret walked down the narrow path leading tothe shore. It was a glorious evening, warm with the dying sunset, gorgeous with red and golden light. 

Broad margins of yellow sands, white headlands, mossy cliffs, with thescarlet poppies and pink-eyed convolvuli growing out of the weedycrevices; above, a blue ineffable sky scored deeply with tintedclouds, and a sea dipping on the shore with a long slow ripple ofsound; under a bowlder a child bathing her feet in a little runlet ofa pool, while all round, heaped up with coarse wavy grasses, layseaweed--brown, coralline, and purple--their salty fragrance steepingthe air; everywhere the sound of cool splashes and a murmur of peace. 

The child sat under the bowlder alone, a small brown creature inpicturesque-looking rags, a mere waif and stray of a child, with herfeet trailing in the pool; every now and then small mottled crabsscrambled crookedly along, or dug graves for themselves in the drywaved sand. The girl watched them idly, as she flapped long ribbons ofbrown seaweed, or dribbled the water through her hollowed hands, whilea tired sea-gull that had lowered wing was skimming slowly along themargin of the water. 

Another time Margaret would have paused to speak to the little waif ofhumanity before her, for she was a lover of children, and was neverhappier than when she was surrounded by these little creatures--thevery babies crowed a welcome to her from their mother's arms. But thisevening Margaret's eyes had a strange unseeing look in them; they weresearching the winding shore for some expected object, and she scarcelyseemed to notice the little one at her play. 

Only four-and-twenty hours had passed since Sir Wilfred had paid thatill-omened visit to the Grange, and yet some subtle mysterious changehad passed over Margaret. It was as though some blighting influencehad swept over her; her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen anddim as though with a night's weeping, and the firm beautiful mouth wastremulous with pain. 

"I thought I should have met him by now, " she murmured; "I am nearlyat the boat-house; surely Sir Wilfred must have given him my message. "But the doubt had hardly crossed her mind before a tall figure turnedthe corner by the lonely boat-house, and the next moment Hugh wascoming rapidly toward her. 

"Margaret!" he exclaimed, as he caught hold of her outstretched hands, "what does this mean? why have you kept me away from you all thesehours, and then appointed this solitary place for our meeting?" Then, as she did not answer, and he looked at her more closely, his voicechanged: "Good heavens! what has happened; what has my father done toyou? How ill! how awfully ill you look, my darling!"

"It is nothing; I have not slept, " she returned, trying to speakcalmly. "I am unhappy, Hugh, and trouble has made me weak. "

"You weak, " incredulously; then, as he saw her eyes filling withtears, "sit down on this smooth white bowlder, and I will place myselfat your feet. Now give me your hand, and tell me what makes you sounlike yourself this evening. "

Margaret obeyed him, for her limbs were trembling, and a sudden mistseemed to hide him from her eyes; when it cleared, she saw that he waswatching her with unconcealed anxiety. 

"What is it, Margaret?" he asked, still more tenderly; "what istroubling you, my darling?" But he grew still more uneasy when shesuddenly clung to him in a fit of bitter weeping and asked him overand over again between her sobs to forgive her for making him sounhappy. 

"Margaret, " he said at last, very gently but firmly, "I can not haveyou say such things to me; forgive you who have been the blessing ofmy life; whose only fault is that you love me too well. "

"I can not be your blessing now, Hugh;" and then she drew herself fromhis embrace. "Do you remember this place, dear? It was on this bowlderthat I was sitting that evening when you found me and asked me to beyour wife. We have had some happy days since then, Hugh, have we not?and now to-night I have asked you to meet me here, that you may hearfrom my lips that I shall never be any man's wife, most certainly notyours, Hugh--my Hugh--whom I love ten thousand times more than I haveever loved you before. "

A pained, surprised look passed over Hugh's handsome face. It wasevident that he had not expected this. The next moment he gave a shortderisive laugh. 

"So my father has made mischief between us; he has actually made youbelieve it would be a sin to marry me. My darling, what nonsense; Iknow all about your poor mother--many families have this sort ofthing; do you think that ever keeps people from marrying? If we hadknown before, as I told my father, well, perhaps it might have made adifference, but now it is too late, nothing would ever induce me togive you up, Margaret; in my eyes you are already as bound to me asthough you were my wife. My father has nothing to do with it--this isbetween you and me. "

"Hugh, listen to me; I have promised Sir Wilfred that I will nevermarry you. "

"Then your promise must be null and void; you are mine, and I claimyou, Margaret. "

"No, no!" she returned, shrinking from him; "I will never be any man'swife. I have told Raby so, and he says I am right. "

"Margaret, are you mad to say such things to me? I am not a patientman, and you are trying me too much, " and Hugh's eyes flashed angrily. "Do you want me to doubt your love?"

"Do not make it too hard for me, " she pleaded. "Do you think thiscosts me nothing--that I do not suffer too? You will not be cruel tome, Hugh, because I am obliged to make you unhappy. It is not I, butthe Divine Will that has interposed this barrier to our union. Ah, ifRaby or I had but known, all this would have been spared you. "

"It is too late, " returned Hugh, gloomily; "you have no longer theright to dispose of yourself, you are mine--how often am I to tell youthat? Do you think that I will ever consent to resign you, that Icould live my life without you. What do I care about your mother? Suchthings happen again and again in families, and no one thinks of them. If I am willing to abide by the consequences, no one else has a rightto object. "

Poor Hugh! he was growing more sore and angry every moment. He hadanticipated some trouble from Margaret's interview with his father; heknew her scrupulous conscience, and feared that a long and wearyargument might be before him, but he had never really doubted theresult. Life without Margaret would be simply insupportable; he couldnot grasp the idea for a moment. 

Margaret--his Margaret--refuse to be his wife! His whole impetuousnature rose against such a cruel sentence--neither God nor man haddecreed it; it was unreasonable, untrue, to suppose such a thing. Howcould he think of the consequences to his unborn children, of the goodof future generations of Redmonds, when he could hear nothing but thevoice of his passion that told him no other woman would be to him likeMargaret? The news had indeed been a shock to him, but, as he had toldhis father, nothing should prevent his marrying Margaret. 

But he little knew the woman with whose will he had to cope. Margaret's very love for him gave her strength to resist--besides, shecould not look at things from Hugh's point of view. If she had marriedhim she would never have known a moment's peace. If she had hadchildren and they had died, she would have regarded their death as apunishment. She would have seen retributive justice in every troublethat came upon them, till she must have pined and withered in herremorse. But she would never marry him. In that calm, loving heartthere was a fund of strength and endurance truly marvelous. In herspirit of self-sacrifice she belonged to the noble army of women ofwhose ranks the proto-martyr, Mary of Nazareth, was first and chief;who can endure to suffer and to see their beloved suffer: who canthrust, uncomplainingly, the right hand--if need be--into thepurifying flame, and so go through life halt or maimed, so that theirgarments may be always white and stainless. 

And so looking upon him whom she loved, she gave him up forever; andHugh's anguish and despair failed to shake her resolution. The DivineWill had forbidden their union; she had promised his father that shewould never marry him; she had vowed in last night's bitter conflictnever to be the wife of any man. This was what she told him, over andover again, and each time there was a set look about her beautifulmouth that told Hugh that there was no hope for him. 

He came to believe it at last, and then his heart was very bitteragainst her. He said to himself, and then aloud--for in his angrypassion he did not spare her, and his hard words bruised her gentlesoul, most pitilessly--he said that she did not love him, that shenever had, that that cold, pure soul of hers was incapable of passion;and he wondered with an intolerable anguish of anger whether she wouldsuffer if he took her at her word and married another; and when he hadflung these cruel words at her--for he was half-maddened withmisery--he had turned away from her with a groan, and had hidden hishead in his hands. His wishes had ceased to influence her; she hadgiven him up; she would never be his wife, and all the sunshine andpromise of his youth seemed dimmed. 

But Margaret would not leave him like this; the next moment she waskneeling beside him on the sand. They say there is always something ofthe maternal element in the love of a good woman; and there wassomething of this protecting tenderness in Margaret's heart as shedrew Hugh's head to her shoulder. He did not resist her; the firstfierceness of his anger had now died out, and only the bitterness ofhis despair remained. 

"Hugh, before we part to-night, will you not tell me that you forgiveme?"

"How am I to tell you that, " he answered, in a dull weary voice, "whenyou are robbing my life of its happiness?"

"Oh, Hugh, when I loved you. "

"You are proving your love"--with the utmost bitterness; but sheanswered him with the same gentleness. 

"You are still angry with me. Well, I must bear your anger; it willonly make it all a little harder for me. If you could have said a wordthat would have helped me to bear it--but no--you are too unhappy; byand by you will do me justice. "

"I am not a saint like you, " he answered, harshly; "I have a man'sfeelings. You have often told me I am passionate and willful--well, you were right. "

"Yes, you were always willful, Hugh; but you have never been cruel tome before; it is cruel to doubt my love because my duty compels me togive you up. Ah, " with a sudden passionate inflection in her voice, "do you know of what self-sacrifice a woman can be capable? for yourdear sake, Hugh, I am content to suffer all my life, to stand asideand be nothing to you--yes, even to see another woman your wife, ifonly you will be brave and true to yourself, if you will live yourlife worthily. Will you promise me this, Hugh?"

"I will promise nothing, " was the reckless answer; "I will take no lieupon my lips even to please you, Margaret. "

"Then it must be as God wills, " she returned with white lips; "thispain will not last forever. One day we shall meet where it will be nosin to love each other. Good-bye until then, Hugh--my Hugh. "

"You are not leaving me, Margaret, " and Hugh's arms held her strongly;but the next moment they had dropped to his side--she had stooped andkissed him on the forehead, and the touch of those cold lips seemedhis death-warrant; the next moment he was alone, and Margaret waswalking swiftly along the little path hollowed out of the cliff. Thesunset clouds had long ago faded, and only a gray sky and searemained. 

Half an hour later, as Margaret turned in at the gate of the Grange, adark figure standing bare-headed under the trees came in gropingfashion to meet her. 

"Is that you, Margaret?"

"Yes, it is I, " and Margaret stood still and motionless until Rabytouched her. 

"Have you seen him, dear?"

"Yes, it is all over. " And then she said a little wildly, "I have donemy duty, Raby; I have broken his heart and my own;" but even as shespoke, Raby took her in his arms and low words of blessings seemed tofalter on his lips. "My brave sister, but I never doubted for a momentthat you would do the right thing. And now be comforted; the sameDivine Providence that has exacted this sacrifice will watch overHugh. "

"I know it, " she said, weeping bitterly; "but he will have tosuffer--if I could only suffer for both!"

"He will not suffer one pang too much, " was the quiet answer; "but youare worn out, and I will not talk more to you to-night. Go to your ownroom, Margaret; tomorrow we will speak of this again. " But before sheleft him he blessed her once more. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE LITTLE PRINCESS. 

 Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight. 

 SUCKLING

One lovely spring afternoon Hugh Redmond walked through the narrowwinding lanes that lead to the little village of Daintree. 

The few passers-by whom he encountered glanced curiously at the tallhandsome man in deep mourning, but Hugh did not respond to theirlooks--he had a grave preoccupied air, and seemed to notice little; helooked about him listlessly, and the beautiful country that lay bathedin the spring sunlight did not seem to excite even a passingadmiration in his mind; the budding hedge-rows, the gay chirpings ofthe unseen birds, busy with family cares, were all unheeded in thathard self-absorbed mood of his. Things had gone badly with HughRedmond of late; his broken engagement with Margaret Ferrers had beenfollowed by Sir Wilfred's death. Hugh's heart had been very bitteragainst his father, but before Sir Wilfred died there had been a fewwords of reconciliation. "You must not be angry with me, Hugh, " theold man had said; "I did it for the best. We were both right, both sheand I, --ah, she was a fine creature; but when one remembered her poormother's end--well, we will not speak of that, " and then lookingwistfully at his son's moody face, he continued plaintively, "My boy, you will be brave, and not let this spoil your life. I know it is hardon you, but you must not forget you are a Redmond. It will be yourduty to marry. When I am gone, go down and see Colonel Mordaunt'sdaughter: people tell me she is a pretty little creature; you mighttake a fancy to her, Hugh;" and half to pacify the old man, and halfbecause he was so sick of himself that he did not care what became ofhim, Hugh muttered a sort of promise that he would have a look at thegirl, and then for a time he forgot all about it. 

Some months after, a chance word spoken by a friend brought back thispromise to his memory. 

He had been spending a few days at Henley with some old collegefriends, when one of them mentioned Daintree, and the name broughtback his father's dying words. 

"I may as well do it, " he said to himself that night; "the otherfellows are going back to London; it will not hurt me to stop anotherday"--and so he settled it. 

Hugh scarcely knew why he went, or what he intended to do; in hisheart he was willing to forget his trouble in any new excitement; hisone idea during all these months had been to escape the misery of hisown thoughts. Yes, he would see the young heiress whom his father hadalways wished him to marry; he remembered her as a pretty child someseven or eight years ago, and wondered with a listless sort ofcuriosity what the years had done for her, and whether they hadripened or destroyed what was certainly a fair promise of beauty. 

Poor Hugh! It would have been better for him to have traveled andforgotten his disappointment before such an idea had come into hishead. Many a one in his case would have shaken off the dust of theirnative land, and, after having seen strange countries and undergonenovel experiences, have returned home partially or whollycured--perhaps to love again, this time more happily. But with Hughthe time had not yet come. He was terribly tenacious in hisattachments, but just then anger against Margaret had for a littletime swallowed up love. He said to himself that he would forget heryet--that he would not let any woman spoil his life. If he sinned, circumstances were more to blame than he. Fate was so dead againsthim, his case was so cruelly hard. Alas, Hugh Redmond was not the onlyman who, stung by passion, jealousy, or revenge, has taken the firstdownward step on the green slippery slope that leads to Avernus. 

Hugh almost repented his errand when he came in sight of the littleGothic cottage with its circular porch, where Miss Mordaunt and herniece lived. 

The cottage stood on high ground, and below the sloping garden lay abroad expanse of country--meadows and plowed fields--that in autumnwould be rich with waving corn, closed in by dark woods, beyond whichlay the winding invisible river. As Hugh came up the straight carriagedrive, he caught sight of a little girl in a white frock playing witha large black retriever on the lawn. 

The dog was rather rough in his play, and his frolics brought aremonstrance from his little mistress; "Down, Nero! down, good dog!"exclaimed a fresh young voice; "now we must race fairly, " and the nextmoment there were twinkling feet coming over the crisp short turf, followed by Nero's bounding footsteps and bark. 

But the game ended abruptly as a sudden turn in the shrubberiesbrought the tall, fair-bearded stranger in view. 

"Oh! I beg your pardon, ' exclaimed the same voice, rather shyly; andHugh took off his hat suddenly in some surprise, for it was no child, but an exceedingly pretty girl, who was looking up in his face withlarge wondering blue eyes. 

"I hope I have not startled you, " returned Hugh, courteously, with oneof his pleasant smiles. What a diminutive creature she was; no wonderhe had taken her at first sight for a child; her stature was hardlymore than that a well-grown child of eleven or twelve, and the littlewhite frock and broad-brimmed hat might have belonged to a child too. 

But she was a dainty little lady for all that, with a beautifullyproportioned figure, as graceful as a fairy, and a most lovely, winsome little face. 

"Oh!" she said, with a wonderful attempt at dignity that made himsmile--as though he saw a kitten on its best behavior, "I am not atall startled; but of course Nero and I would hardly have had that raceif we had known any one was in the shrubbery. Have you lost your way?"lifting those wonderful Undine-like eyes to his face, which almoststartled Hugh with their exceeding beauty and depth. 

"Is Nero your dog?" returned Sir Hugh, patting the retriever absently;"he is a fine fellow, only I am afraid he is rather rough sometimes;he nearly knocked you down just now in his play. I see you do notremember me, Miss Mordaunt. I am Sir Hugh Redmond. I have come to callon you and your aunt. "

"Oh!" she said, becoming very shy all at once, "I remember you now;but you looked different somehow, and the sun was in my eyes; poor SirWilfred--yes, we heard he was dead--he came to see Aunt Griselda oncebefore he went away. It must be very lonely for you at the Hall, " andshe glanced at his deep mourning, and then at the handsome face thatwas looking so kindly at her. What a grand-looking man he was, shethought; it must have been his beard that altered him so and preventedher from recognizing him; but then, of course, she had never seen himsince she was a little girl, when her father was alive, and they wereliving at Wyngate Priory. 

Hugh Redmond! ah, yes, she remembered him now. She had made a cowslipball for him once, and he had tossed it right into the middle of thegreat elms, where the rooks had their nest; and once she had harnessedhim with daisy chains and driven him up and down the bowling-green, while her father laughed at them from the terrace--what a merry littlechild she used to be--and Hugh Redmond had been a splendid playfellow;but as she moved beside him down the graveled walk leading to thecottage her shyness increased, and she could not bring herself torecall these old memories; indeed, Hugh could not get her to look athim again. 

"There is Aunt Griselda, " she said, suddenly, as a tall lady-likewoman with a gentle, subdued-looking face appeared in the porch, andseemed much surprised at Hugh's apparition. "Auntie, Sir Hugh Redmondhas come to see us, " and then without waiting to see the effect ofthis introduction on her aunt, Nero's little playfellow slipped away. 

Hugh found himself watching for her reappearance with some anxiety, ashe sat in the porch talking to Aunt Griselda. 

The elder Miss Mordaunt was somewhat of a recluse in her habits; shewas a nervous, diffident woman, who made weak health an excuse forshutting herself out from society. Fay had lived with her ever sinceher father's death; but during the last year Miss Mordaunt had beenmuch troubled by qualms of conscience, as to whether she was doing herduty to her orphaned niece. Fay was almost a woman, she toldherself--a tiny woman certainly, but one must not expect her to growbigger; girls seldom grew after sixteen, and Fay was more thansixteen. Colonel Mordaunt had left very few instructions in his willabout his little daughter. His sister was appointed her personalguardian until she came of age or married; there was a liberalallowance for maintenance and education; but Colonel Mordaunt was aman of simple habits, and Fay had never been accustomed to eitherostentation or luxury; one day she would be a rich woman, and findherself the possessor of a large, rambling, old house; until then herfather had been perfectly willing that she should live quietly withhis sister in her modest cottage at Daintree. Masters and mistressescame over to Fay, and taught her in the low bow-windowed room that wasset apart for her use. A chestnut pony was sent from Wyngate Priory;and Miss Mordaunt's groom accompanied Fay in these long scramblingrides. 

The young heiress was perfectly happy and content with her simplesecluded life; Aunt Griselda would hear the girl warbling like a larkin her little room. Long before the inhabitants of the cottage wouldbe stirring Fay's little feet were accustomed to brush the dew fromthe grass; Nero and she would return from their rambles in the highestspirits; the basket of wild flowers that graced the breakfast-tablehad been all gathered and arranged by Fay's pretty fingers. Afterbreakfast there were all her pets to visit--to feed the doves andchickens and canaries--to give Fairy her corn, and to look after thebrindled cow and the dear little gray-and-black kitten in thehay-loft--all the live things on the premises loved their graciouslittle mistress; even Sulky, Aunt Griselda's old pony--the mostill-conditioned and stubborn of ponies, who never altered his pace forany degree of coaxing--would whinny with pleasure if Fay entered hisstall. 

Fay was very docile with her masters and mistresses, but it is onlyfair to say that her abilities were not above the average. She sippedknowledge carelessly when it came in her way, but she never sought itof her own accord. Neither she nor Aunt Griselda were intellectualwomen. Fay played a little, sung charmingly, filled her sketchbookwith unfinished vigorous sketches, chattered a little French, and thenshut up her books triumphantly, under the notion that at sixteen agirl's education must be finished. 

It must be confessed that Miss Mordaunt was hardly the woman to beintrusted with a girl's education. She was a gentle, shallow creature, with narrow views of life, very prim and puritanical--orthodox, shewould have called it--and she brought up Fay in the old-fashioned wayin which she herself had been brought up. Fay never mixed with youngpeople; she had no companions of her own age; but people werebeginning to talk of her in the neighborhood. Fay's youth, herprospective riches, her secluded nun-like life surrounded her with acertain mystery of attraction. Miss Mordaunt had been much exercisedof late by the fact that one or two families in the environs ofDaintree had tried to force themselves into intimacy with the ladiesof the cottage; sundry young men, too, had made their appearance inthe little church at Daintree, as it seemed with the express intentionof staring at Fay. One of these, Frank Lumsden, had gone further--hehad taken advantage of a service he had rendered the ladies, whenSulky had been more intractable than usual, to join Fay in her walksand rides. He was a handsome boy of about twenty, and he was honestlysmitten with the young heiress's sweet face; but Aunt Griselda, whoknew her brother's wish, had been greatly alarmed, and had thought ofshutting up her cottage and taking Fay to Bath for the winter beforeFrank Lumsden came back to Daintree Hall for the Christmas vacation. 

Aunt Griselda received Sir Hugh graciously, and prosed gently to himof his father's death; but Hugh turned the conversation skillfully toherself and Fay. He managed to extract a good deal of information fromthe simple woman about her lovely little niece. Miss Mordaunt could begarrulous on the subject of Fay's perfections--she looked upon HughRedmond as the suitor whom her brother would have chosen. Before longHugh heard all about Frank Lumsden's enormities. Before he had visitedmany times at the cottage Aunt Griselda had confided her perplexitiesto his ear, and had asked his advice--of course he had commended herwisdom in driving the unlucky Frank from the field. 

"It would never do, you know; he is only a boy, " Aunt Griseldaobserved, plaintively; "and Fay will be so rich one of these days. "

"Oh! it would never do at all, " responded Hugh, hastily. The idea ofFrank Lumsden annoyed him. What business had all these impertinentfellows to be staring at Fay in church? He should like to send themall about their own business, he thought; for though hardly a week hadpassed, Hugh was beginning to feel a strong interest in Fay. 

He had not spoken to her again on that first visit; but after a timeshe had joined them in the porch, and had sat down demurely by AuntGriselda, and had busied herself with some work. Hugh could not makeher speak to him, but he had a good look at her. 

She had laid aside her broad-brimmed hat, and he saw the beautifullittle head was covered with soft curly brown hair, that wavednaturally over the temples. It was coiled gracefully behind, but noamount of care or pains could have smoothed those rippling waves. 

He wished more than once that he could have seen her eyes again, butshe kept them fixed on her embroidery; only when anything amused her acharming dimple showed on one cheek. It was the prettiest dimple hehad ever seen, and he caught himself trying to say something thatwould bring it again. Hugh paid a long visit, and in a few days hecame again. He was staying at Cooksley, he told them carelessly; andif they would allow it, he added courteously, he should like to walkover to Daintree and see them sometimes. 

Miss Mordaunt gave him gracious permission, and Fay looked shylypleased; and so it came that Hugh called daily at the cottage. 

He sent for his horses presently, and drove Miss Mordaunt and herniece to all the beautiful spots in the neighborhood; and he joinedFay in her canters through the lanes, and found fault with Fairy, muchto her little mistress's dismay; but Fay blushed very prettily whenone day a beautiful little chestnut mare, with a lady's side-saddle, was brought to the cottage-door, where Fay was waiting in her habit. 

"I want you to try Bonnie Bell, " he said, carelessly, as he put her onher saddle. "You ride perfectly, and Fairy is not half good enough foryou;" and Fay was obliged to own that she had never had such a ridebefore; and Hugh had noticed that people had turned round to look atthe beautiful little figure on the chestnut mare. 

"I shall bring her every day for you to ride--she is your ownproperty, you know, " Hugh said, as he lifted Fay to the ground; butFay had only tried to hide her blushing face from his meaning look, and had run into the house. 

Hugh was beginning to make his intentions very clear. When he walkedwith Fay in the little lane behind the cottage he did not say much, but he looked very kindly at her. The girl's innocent beauty--hersweet face and fresh ripple of talk--came soothingly to the jaded man. He began to feel an interest in the gentle unsophisticated littlecreature. She was very young, very ignorant, and childish--she hadabsolutely no knowledge of the world or of men--but somehow her veryinnocence attracted him. 

His heart was bitter against his old love--should he take this childto himself and make her his wife? He was very lonely--restless, anddissatisfied, and miserable; perhaps, after all, she might rest andcomfort him. He was already very fond of her; by and by, when he hadlearned to forget Margaret, when he ceased to remember her with thesesickening throbs of pain, he might even grow to love her. 

"She is so young--so little will satisfy her, " he said to himself, when a chill doubt once crossed his mind whether he could ever giveher the love that a woman has a right to demand from the man whooffers himself as her husband; but he put away the thought from him. He was a Redmond, and it was his duty to marry; he had grown very fondof the shy gentle little creature; he could make her happy, for thechild liked him, he thought; and it would be pleasant to have herbright face to welcome him when he went home. 

So one evening, as they walked up and down the shrubbery, while AuntGriselda knitted in the porch, Hugh took Fay's hand, and asked hergently if she thought she could love him well enough to be his wife. Poor simple little child! she hardly knew how to answer him; but Hugh, who had caught a glimpse of the happy blushing face, was very gentleand patient with her shyness, and presently won from her the answer hewanted. She did like him--so much he understood her to say--he was sokind, and had given her so much pleasure. Yes--after much pressing onHugh's part--she was sure that she liked him well enough, but shecould not be induced to say more. 

But Hugh was quite content with his victory; he wanted no words totell him that Fay adored him from the depths of her innocent heart; hecould read the truth in those wonderful eyes--Fay had no idea howeloquent they were. 

"How could she help loving him?" she said to herself that night, asshe knelt down in the moonlight; had she ever seen any one like him. No little imprisoned princess ever watched her knight more proudlythan Fay did when Hugh rode away on his big black mare. He was like aking, she thought, so kind, and handsome, and gracious; and Fay prayedwith tears that she might be worthy of the precious gift that had cometo her. 

And so one lovely August day, when Aunt Griselda's sunny little gardenwas sweet with the breath of roses and camellias, Sir Hugh and Faywere married in the little church at Daintree, and as Hugh looked downon his child-wife, something like compunction seized him, and from thedepths of his sore heart he solemnly promised that he would keep hisvow, and would cherish and love her, God helping, to his life's end. 

CHAPTER VI. 

BEULAH PLACE. 

 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife. 

 BYRON. 

 . . . . A sorrow not, a son. 

 ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 

In one of the dingiest suburbs of London there is a small plot ofground known by the name of the Elysian Fields; but how it had everacquired this singular appellation is likely to remain an unsolvedproblem to the end of time. 

Most probably those great satirists, street denominators, had brandedit with this title in ridicule, for anything further removed from themythological meadows could not possibly be conceived, even by the mostsanguine temperament. True, there was a market garden or two, andodors redolent of decaying vegetables; but, on the whole, it wasrather an unsavory region, and much frequented by the costermonger andfishwoman. 

The Elysian Fields were divided and subdivided into streets, rows, andalleys; some respectable, others semi-genteel, but in most cases to bedefined by the three degrees of comparison--dingy, dingier, mostdingy; and it was under the comparative degree that a certain street, known by the name of Beulah Place, must be classed. 

It was a long narrow street, not differing much from the others thatran parallel with it, except in a general air of retirement andobscurity, owing to a "No Thoroughfare" placarded up on the blank wallof a brewery, which had rather a depressing effect on the end housesthat looked full on it. 

There was little that was noticeable about the street except itsname--for here again the satirists had sharpened their wits, andBeulah Place looked down in conscious superiority on Paradise Row. 

In conscious superiority indeed--for had not Beulah Place thisdistinction, that its houses were garnished with imposing flights ofsteps and a railed-in area, while Paradise Row opened its doorsdirectly on the pavement?

Therefore Beulah Place noted itself eminently respectable, and put onairs; let its front and back parlors to single gentlemen or widows;and looked over its wire blinds in superb disdain at theumbrella-mender, or genteel dressmaker who lived opposite. 

At the extreme corner of Beulah Place, with its one glass eye peeringdown High Street, was Mrs. Watkins, tea merchant and Italianwarehouseman--at least, so ran the gilt-lettered inscription, whichhad been put up over the door in the days of her predecessor, and hadremained there ever since. But it was in reality an all-sorts shop, where nearly everything edible could be procured, and to betrayignorance of Mrs. Watkins was to betray ignorance not only of BeulahPlace, but of the whole of the Elysian Fields. 

To be sure the long window aided the deception, and was fitted upsolely with goods in the grocery line; but enter the dark lowdoor-way, and get an odorous whiff from within, and one's olfactorynerves would soon convince one of the contrary. 

There was a flavor of everything there; a blended fragrance compoundedof strong cheese, herrings, and candles, with a suspicion of matchesand tarred wood, which to the uninitiated was singularly unpalatable, and suggested to them to shake off the dust of Mrs. Watkins as soon aspossible. 

To be sure this was only a trifle. To do her justice, Mrs. Watkinsdrove a very thriving trade; the very carters had a partiality for theshop, and would lurch in about twelve o'clock, with their pipes andhob-nailed boots, for a twist of tobacco or a slice of cheese, andcrack clumsy jokes across the counter. 

But, besides this, Mrs. Watkins had another source of profit that wasat once lucrative and respectable. She let lodgings. 

And very genteel lodgings they were, with a private entrance in BeulahPlace, and a double door that excluded draughts and the heterogeneousodors from the shop. 

These lodgers of Mrs. Watkins were the talk of the neighborhood, andmany a passer-by looked curiously up at the bright windows and cleanwhite curtains, between which in summer time bloomed the loveliestflowers, and the earliest snow-drops and crocuses in spring, in thehope of seeing two fair faces which had rather haunted their memoryever since they had first seen them. 

It was six o'clock on the evening of a dreary November day. Watkins'sshop was empty, for the fog and the rawness and the cold had drivenfolks early to their homes; and Mrs. Watkins herself, fortified withstrong tea and much buttered toast, was entering her profits on asmall greasy slate, and casting furtive glances every now and theninto the warm, snug parlor, where her nephew and factotum Tony wasrefreshing himself in his turn from the small black teapot on the hob. 

A fresh, wholesome-looking woman was Mrs. Watkins, with an honest, reliable face and a twofold chin; but she had two peculiarities--shealways wore the stiffest and cleanest and most crackling of printdresses, and her hair was nearly always pinned up in curl-papers underher black cap. 

Mrs. Watkins was engaged in jotting down small dabs of figures on theslate and rubbing them out again, when the green baize swing-doorleading to the passage was pushed back, and a tall grave-looking womanin black entered the shop and quietly approached the counter. 

She was certainly a striking-looking person; in spite of the gray hairand a worn, sad expression, the face bore the trace of uncommonbeauty, though all youth and freshness, animation and coloring, hadfaded out of it. 

The profile was almost perfect, and the mouth would have been lovelytoo but for a certain proud droop of the lips which gave an impressionof hardness and inflexibility; but the dark eyes were very soft andmelancholy, and seemed to hold a world of sadness in their depths. 

"Mrs. Watkins, " she began hurriedly, in a sweet, cultivated voice, andthen stopped and drew back as another person came into the shop; "no, do not let me interrupt you. I was only going to say that one of theyoung ladies at Miss Martingale's seems very poorly, and Miss Theresais a little troubled about her, so I have promised to go back for anhour or two; but I have my key with me if I should be late. "

"Dear bless my heart, Mrs. Trafford, " exclaimed Mrs. Watkins, fussily, as she looked at her lodger's pale, tired face, "you are never goingout on such an evening, and all the streets swept as clean as if witha new broom; and you with your cough, and the fog, and not to mentionthe rawness which sucks into your chest like a lozenge;" and here Mrs. Watkins shook her head, and weighed out a quarter of a pound of mixedtea, in a disapproving manner. 

Mrs. Trafford smiled. "My good friend, " she said, in rather an amusedvoice, "you ought to know me better by this time; have you everremembered that either frost, or rain, or fog have kept me in-doors asingle day when duty called me out;" and here she folded her cloakround her, and prepared to leave the shop. 

"It's ill tempting Providence, neighbor, " remarked the other woman, who had been standing silently by and now put in her word, for she wasan innocent country body with a garrulous tongue; "it's ill temptingProvidence, for 'the wind and the sea obey Him. ' I had a son myselfsome fourteen years next Michaelmas, " continued the simple creature, "as brave and bonny a lad as ever blessed a mother's eyes, and thatfeared naught; but the snow-drift that swept over the Cumberland Fellsfound him stumbling and wandering, poor Willie, from the right way, and froze his dear heart dead. "

The lady advanced a few steps, and then stopped as though seized by asudden impulse, and looked wistfully in the other woman's face. 

"God help you, " she said, very softly; "and was this boy of yours agood son?"

Perhaps in the whole of her simple, sorrowful life Elsie Deans hadnever seen anything more pathetic than that white face from which thegray hair was so tightly strained, and those anxious questionings. "And was this boy of yours, " she said, "a good son?"

"A better never breathed, " faltered poor Elsie, as she drew her handacross her eyes; "he was my only bairn, was Willie. "

"Why do you weep then?" returned Mrs. Trafford in her sad voice; "doyou not know that there are mothers in the heart of this great citywho would that their sons had never been born, or that they had seenthem die in their infancy. 'He was the only son of his mother, and shewas a widow, '" she continued to herself; then aloud, and with astrange flickering smile that scarcely lighted up the pale face, "Good-night to you--happy mother whose son perished on the CumberlandFells, for you will soon meet him again. Good-night, Mrs. Watkins;"and with this abrupt adieu she went quickly out of the shop and waslost in the surrounding fog. 

"A fine figure of a woman, " ejaculated Elsie, shaking her old headwith a puzzled look on her wrinkled face; "a fine, grand figure of awoman, but surely an 'innocent, ' neighbor?"

"An innocent!" repeated Mrs. Watkins with an indignant snort; "aninnocent! Mrs. Deans; why should such an idea enter your head? Ashrewder and a brighter woman than my lodger, Mrs. Trafford, neverbreathed, though folks do say she has had a deal of trouble in herlife--but there, it is none of my business; I never meddle in theaffairs of my neighbors. I am not of the sort who let their tongue runaway with them, " finished Mrs. Watkins with a virtuous toss of herhead. 

CHAPTER VII. 

NEA. 

 She was gay, tender, petulant and susceptible. All her feelings were quick and ardent; and having never experienced contradiction or restraint, she was little practiced in self-control; nothing but the native goodness of her heart kept her from running continually into error. --WASHINGTON IRVING. 

If Mrs. Trafford had been questioned about her past life, she wouldhave replied in patriarchal language that few and evil had been herdays, and yet no life had ever opened with more promise than hers. 

Many years, nearly a quarter of a century, before the gray-hairedweary woman had stood in Mrs. Watkins's shop, a young girl in a whitedress, with a face as radiant as the spring morning itself, leanedover the balcony of Belgrave House to wave good-bye to her father ashe rode away eastward. 

Those who knew Nea Huntingdon in those early days say that she waswonderfully beautiful. 

There was a picture of her in the Royal Academy, a dark-haired girl ina velvet dress, sitting under a marble column with a blaze of orientalscarves at her feet, and a Scotch deerhound beside her, and both faceand figure were well-nigh faultless. Nea had lost her mother in herchildhood, and she lived alone with her father in the great house thatstood at the corner of the square, with its flower-laden balconies andmany windows facing the setting sun. 

Nea was her father's only child, and all his hopes were centered uponher. 

Mr. Huntingdon was an ambitious man; he was more, he was a profoundegotist. In his character pride, the love of power, the desire forwealth, were evenly balanced and made subservient to a mostindomitable will. Those who knew him well said he was a hardself-sufficient man, one who never forgot an injury or forgave it. 

He had been the creator of his own fortunes; as a lad he had come toLondon with the traditional shilling in his pocket, and had worked hisway to wealth, and was now one of the richest merchant princes in themetropolis. 

He had married a young heiress, and by her help had gained entranceinto society, but she had died a dissatisfied, unhappy woman, who hadnever gained her husband's heart or won his confidence. In Mr. Huntingdon's self-engrossed nature there was no room for tenderness;he had loved his handsome young wife in a cool temperate fashion, butshe had never influenced him, never really comprehended him; his ironwill, hidden under a show of courtesy, had repressed her from thebeginning of their married life. Perhaps her chief sin in his eyes hadbeen that she had not given him a son; he had accepted his littledaughter ungraciously, and for the first few years of her young lifehe had grievously neglected her. 

No mother; left by herself in that great house, with nurses to spoilher and servants to wait on her, the little creature grew up waywardand self-willed; her caprices indulged, her faults and follies laughedat or glossed over by careless governesses. 

Nea very seldom saw her father in those days; society claimed him whenhis business was over, and he was seldom at home. Sometimes Nea, playing in the square garden under the acacias, would look up and seea somber dark face watching her over the railings, but he would seldomcall her to him; but, strange to say, the child worshiped him. 

When he rode away in the morning a beautiful little face would bepeeping at him through the geraniums on the balcony, a little dimpledhand would wave confidingly. "Good-bye, papa, " she would say in hershrill little voice, but he never heard her; he knew nothing, andcared little, about the lonely child-life that was lived out in thespacious nurseries of Belgrave House. 

But, thank Heaven, childhood is seldom unhappy. 

Nea laughed and played with the other children in the square garden;she drove out with her governess in the grand open carriage, where hertiny figure seemed almost lost. Nea remembered driving with her motherin that same carriage--a fair tired face had looked down on hersmiling. 

"Mamma, is not Belgrave House the Palace Beautiful? look how itswindows are shining like gold, " she had said once. 

"It is not the Palace Beautiful to me, Nea, " replied her mother, quietly. Nea always remembered that sad little speech, and the tearsthat had come into her mother's eyes. What did it all mean? shewondered; why were the tears so often in her mother's eyes? why didnot papa drive with them sometimes? It was all a mystery to Nea. 

Nea knew nothing about her mother's heart-loneliness and repressedsympathies; with a child's beautiful faith she thought all fatherswere like that. When Colonel Hambleton played with his littledaughters in the square garden, Nea watched them curiously, butwithout any painful comparison. "My papa is always busy, Nora, " shesaid, loftily, to one of the little girls who asked why Mr. Huntingdonnever came too; "he rides on his beautiful horse down to the city, nurse says. He has his ships to look after, you know, and sometimes heis very tired. "

"Papa is never too tired to play with me and Janie, " returned Nora, with a wise nod of her head; "he says it rests him so nicely. "

Somehow Nea went home not quite so happily that day; a dimconsciousness that things were different, that it never rested papa toplay with her, oppressed her childish brain; and that evening Neamoped in her splendid nursery, and would not be consoled by her toysor even her birds and kitten. Presently it came out with floods oftears that Nea wanted her father--wanted him very badly indeed. 

"You must not be naughty, Miss Nea, " returned nurse, severely, for shewas rather out of patience with the child's pettishness; "Mr. Huntingdon has a lot of grand people to dine with him to-night. Thecarriages will be driving up by and by, and if you are good, you shallgo into one of the best bedrooms and look at them. " But Nea was not tobe pacified by this; the tears ended in a fit of perverse sulking thatlasted until bedtime. Nea would neither look at the carriages nor thepeople; the ice and fruit that had been provided as a treat werepushed angrily away; Nea would not look at the dainties--she turnedher flushed face aside and buried it in her pillow. "I want papa, " shesobbed, as nurse pulled down the blind and left her. 

That night, as Mr. Huntingdon crossed the corridor that led to hisbedroom, he was startled by seeing what looked like a mass of blue andwhite draperies flung across his door, but as he lowered hiscandlestick he saw it was Nea lying fast asleep, with her headpillowed on her arms, and her dark hair half hiding her face. 

"Good heavens! what can nurse be about!" he exclaimed in a shockedvoice, as he lifted the child, and carried her back to her bed. Neastirred drowsily as he moved her, and said, "Dear papa, " and one warmarm crept about his neck, but she was soon fast asleep again. Somehowthat childish caress haunted Mr. Huntingdon, and he thought once ortwice how pretty she had looked. Nurse had assured him that the childmust have crept out of bed in her sleep, but Mr. Huntingdon did notfeel satisfied, and the next morning, as he was eating his breakfast, he sent for Nea. 

She came to him willingly enough, and stood beside him. 

"What were you doing, my dear, last night?" he asked, kindly, as hekissed her. "Did nurse tell you that I found you lying by my bedroomdoor, and that I carried you back to bed?"

"Yes, papa; but why did you not wake me? I tried not to go to sleepuntil you came, but I suppose I could not help it. "

"But what were you doing?" he asked, in a puzzled tone; "don't youknow, Nea, that it was very wrong for a little girl to be out of herbed at that time of night?" But as Mr. Huntingdon spoke he rememberedagain how sweet the childish face had looked, pillowed on the rounddimpled arm. 

"I was waiting to see you, papa, " replied Nea with perfect frankness;"you are always too busy or too tired to come and see me, you know, and nurse is so cross, and so is Miss Sanderson; they will never letme come and find you; so when nurse came to take away the lamp Ipretended to be asleep, and then I crept out of the bed, and went toyour door and tried to keep awake. "

"Why did you want to see me, Nea?" asked her father, more and morepuzzled; it never entered his head that his only child wanted him, andlonged for him. 

"Oh, " she said, looking up at him with innocent eyes that reminded himof her mother, "I always want you, papa, though not so badly as I didyesterday; Colonel Hambleton was playing with Nora and Janie, and Norasaid her papa was never too busy to play with them, and that made mecry a little, for you never play with me, do you, papa? and you neverlook up when I am waving to you from the balcony, and nurse says youdon't want to be worried with me, but that is not true, is it, papa?"

"No, no!" but his conscience pricked him as he patted her head andpicked out a crimson peach for her. "There, run away, Nea, for I amreally in a hurry; if you are a good girl you shall come down and sitwith me while I have dinner, for I shall be alone to-night;" and Neatripped away happily. 

From that day people noticed a change in Mr. Huntingdon; he began totake interest in his child, without being demonstrative, for to hiscold nature demonstration was impossible; he soon evinced a decidedpartiality for his daughter's society; and no wonder, as people said, for she was a most engaging little creature. 

By and by she grew absolutely necessary to him, and they were neverlong apart. Strangers would pause to admire the pretty child on hercream-colored pony cantering beside the dark, handsome man. Nea alwayspresided now at the breakfast-table; the dimpled hands would carry thecup of coffee round to her father's chair, and lay flowers beside hisplate. When he was alone she sat beside him as he ate his dinner, andheard about the ships that were coming across the ocean laden withgoodly freights. Nea grew into a beautiful girl presently, and then anew ambition awoke in Mr. Huntingdon's breast. Nea was his onlychild--with such beauty, talents, and wealth, she would be a match foran earl's son; his heart swelled with pride as he looked at her; hebegun to cherish dreams of her future that would have amazed Nea. Acertain young nobleman had lately made their acquaintance, a handsomesimple young fellow, with a very moderate allowance of brains; indeed, in his heart Mr. Huntingdon knew that Lord Bertie Gower was merely afeather-brained boy with a weak vacillating will that had alreadybrought him into trouble. 

Mr. Huntingdon was thinking about Lord Bertie Gower as he rode awaythat spring morning, while Nea waved to him from the balcony; he hadlooked up at her and smiled, but as he turned away his thoughts werevery busy. Yes, Lord Bertie was a fool, he knew that--perhaps he wouldnot own as much to any one else, certainly not if Lord Bertie becamehis son-in-law--but he was well-bred and had plenty of good nature, and--Well, young men were all alike, they would have their fling, andhe was hardly the man to cast a stone at them. Then he was agood-looking fellow, and girls liked him; and if Nea laughed at him, and said that he was stupid, he could soon convince her that there wasno need for her husband to be clever--she was clever enough for both;he would like to see the man, with the exception of himself, who couldbend Nea's will. The girl took after him in that; she had notinherited her mother's soft yielding nature--poor Susan, who had lovedhim so well. 

Lord Bertie needed a strong hand; as his son-in-law, Mr. Huntingdonthought that he could keep him in order. The boy was certainly in lovewith Nea. He must come to an understanding with him. True, he was onlya second son; but his brother, Lord Leveson, was still a bachelor, andrather shaky in his health. The family were not as a rule long-lived;they were constitutionally and morally weak; and the old earl hadalready had a touch of paralysis. Yes, Mr. Huntingdon thought it woulddo; and there was Groombridge Hall for sale, he thought he would buythat; it should be his wedding-gift--part of the rich dowry that shewould bring to her husband. 

Mr. Huntingdon planned it all as he rode down to the city thatmorning, and it never entered his mind what Nea would say to hischoice. His child belonged to him. She was part of himself. Hithertohis will had been hers. True, he had denied her nothing; he had neverdemanded even a trifling sacrifice from her; there was no fear thatshe would cross his will if he told her seriously that he had set hisheart on this marriage; and he felt no pity for the motherless youngcreature, who in her beauty and innocence appealed so strongly to hisprotection. In his strange nature love was only another form of pride;his egotism made him incapable of unselfish tenderness. 

Nea little knew of the thoughts that filled her father's mind as shewatched him fondly until both horse and rider had disappeared. 

It was one of those days in the early year when the spring seems torush upon the world as though suddenly new born, when there is all atonce a delicious whisper and rustle of leaves, and the sunshinepermeates everything; when the earth wakes up fresh, green, and ladenwith dews; and soft breezes, fragrant with the promise of summer, comestealing into the open windows. Nea looked like the embodiment ofspring as she stood there in her white gown. Below her was the coolgreen garden of the square where she had played as a child, with thelong morning shadows lying on the grass; around her were thetwitterings of the house-martins and the cheeping of sparrows underthe eaves; from the distance came the perfumy breath of violets. 

Such days make the blood course tumultuously through the veins ofyouth, when with the birds and all the live young things that sport inthe sunshine, they feel that mere existence is a joy and a source ofendless gratitude. 

"Who so happy as I?" thought Nea, as she tripped through the greatempty rooms of Belgrave House, with her hands full of goldenprimroses; "how delicious it is only to be alive on such a morning. "

Alas for that happy spring-tide, for the joyousness and glory of heryouth. Little did Nea guess as she flitted, like a white butterfly, from one flower vase to another, that her spring-tide was alreadyover, and that the cloud that was to obscure her life was dawningslowly in the east. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

MAURICE TRAFFORD. 

 I have no reason than a woman's reason; I think him so, because I think him so. 

 SHAKESPEARE. 

Before noon there was terror and confusion in Belgrave House. Nea, flitting like a humming-bird from flower to flower, was suddenlystartled by the sound of heavy jolting footsteps on the stairs, and, coming out on the corridor, she saw strange men carrying theinsensible figure of her father to his room. She uttered a shrill cryand sprung toward them, but a gentleman who was following them put hergently aside, and telling her that he was a doctor, and that he wouldcome to her presently, quietly closed the door. 

Nea, sitting on the stairs and weeping passionately, heard from asympathizing bystander the little there was to tell. 

Mr. Huntingdon had met with an accident in one of the crowded citylanes. His horse had shied at some passing object and had thrownhim--here Nea uttered a low cry--but that was not all. 

His horse had flung him at the feet of a very Juggernaut, a mightywagon piled with wool bales nearly as high as a house. One of theleaders had backed on his haunches at the unexpected obstacle; but theother, a foolish young horse, reared, and in another moment wouldcertainly have trodden out the brains of the insensible man, had not ayouth--a mere boy--suddenly rushed from the crowded footpath andthrown himself full against the terrified animal, so for one briefinstant retarding the movement of the huge wagon while Mr. Huntingdonwas dragged aside. 

It had all happened in a moment; the next moment the horses wereplunging and rearing, with the driver swearing at them, and the youngman had sunk on a truck white as death, and faint from the pain of hissprained arm and shoulder. 

"Who is he?" cried Nea, impetuously, "what have they done with him?"

He was in the library, the butler informed her. The doctor hadpromised to dress his shoulder after he had attended to Mr. Huntingdon. No, his mistress need not go down, Wilson went on; it wasonly Mr. Trafford, one of the junior clerks. Only a junior clerk! Neaflashed an indignant look as Wilson spoke. What if he were the citymessenger; her father should make his fortune, and she would go andthank him. But there was no time for this, for the same grave-lookingdoctor who had closed her father's door against her was now standingon the threshold; and Nea forgot everything in her gratitude and joyas he told her that, though severely injured, Mr. Huntingdon was in nodanger, and with quiet and rest, and good nursing, he would soon behimself again. It would all depend on her, he added, looking at theagitated girl in a fatherly manner; and he bade her dry her eyes andlook as cheerful as she could that she might not disturb Mr. Huntingdon. Nea obeyed him; she choked down her sobs resolutely, andwith a strange paleness on her young face, stole into the darkenedroom and stood beside him. 

"Well, Nea, " observed her father, huskily, as she took his hand andkissed it; "I have had a narrow escape; another instant and it wouldhave been all over with me. Is Wilson there?"

"Yes, papa, " answered Nea, still holding his hand to her cheek, as sheknelt beside him; and the gray-haired butler stepped up to the bed. 

"Wilson, let Stephenson know that he is to get rid of Gypsy at once. She has been a bad bargain to me, and this trick of hers might havecost me my life. "

"You are not going to sell Gypsy, papa, " exclaimed the girl, forgetting the doctor's injunctions in her dismay; "not your ownbeautiful Gypsy?"

"I never allow people or animals to offend me twice, Nea. It is notthe first time Gypsy has played this trick on me. Let Stephenson seeto it at once. I will not keep her. Tell him to let Uxbridge see her, he admired her last week; he likes spirit and will not mind a highfigure, and he knows her pedigree. "

"Yes, sir, " replied Wilson. 

"By the bye, " continued Mr. Huntingdon, feebly, "some one told me justnow about a youth who had done me a good turn in the matter. Did youhear his name, Wilson?"

"Yes, papa, " interrupted Nea, eagerly; "it was Mr. Trafford, one ofthe junior clerks, and he is down-stairs in the library, waiting forthe doctor to dress his shoulder. "

Nea would have said more, for her heart was full of gratitude to theheroic young stranger; but her father held up his hand deprecatingly, and she noticed that his face was very pale. 

"That will do, my dear. You speak too fast, and my poor head is stillpainful and confused;" and as Nea looked distressed at herthoughtlessness, he continued, kindly, "Never mind, Doctor Ainsliesays I shall be all right soon--he is going to send me a nurse. Trafford, you say; that must be Maurice Trafford, a mere junior. Letme see, what did Dobson say about him?" and Mr. Huntingdon lay andpondered with that hard set face of his, until he had mastered thefacts that had escaped his memory. 

"Ah, yes, the youngest clerk but one in the office; a curate's sonfrom Birmingham, an orphan--no mother--and drawing a salary of seventypounds a year. Dobson told me about him; a nice, gentlemanly lad;works well--he seems to have taken a fancy to him. He is an old fool, is Dobson, and full of vagaries, but a thoroughly good man ofbusiness. He said Trafford was a fellow to be trusted, and would makea good clerk by and by. Humph, a rise will not hurt him. One can notgive a diamond ring to a boy like that. I will tell Dobson to-morrowto raise Trafford's salary to a hundred a year. "

"Papa!" burst from Nea's lips as she overheard this muttered soliloquy, but, as she remembered the doctor's advice, she prudently remainedquiet; but if any one could have read her thoughts at that moment, could have known the oppression of gratitude in the heart of theagitated girl toward the stranger who had just saved her father from ahorrible death, and whose presence of mind and self-forgetfulness wereto be repaid by the paltry sum of thirty pounds a year! "Papa!" sheexclaimed, and then in her forbearance kept quiet. 

"Ah, Nea, are you there still?" observed her father in some surprise;"I do not want to keep you a prisoner, my child. Wilson can sit by mewhile I sleep, for I must not be disturbed after I have taken thecomposing draught Dr. Ainslie ordered. Go out for a drive and amuseyourself; and, wait a moment, Nea, perhaps you had better say a civilword or two to young Trafford, and see if Mrs. Thorpe has attended tohim. He shall hear from me officially tomorrow; yes, " muttered Mr. Huntingdon, as his daughter left the room, "a hundred a year is anample allowance for a junior, more than that would be ill-advised andlead to presumption. "

Maurice Trafford was in the library trying to forget the pain of hisinjured arm, which was beginning to revenge itself for that moment'sterrible strain. 

The afternoon's shadows lay on the garden of the square, the childrenwere playing under the acacia trees, the house-martins still circledand wavered in the sunlight. 

Through the open window came the soft spring breezes and the distanthum of young voices; within was warmth, silence, and the perfume ofviolets. 

Maurice closed his drowsy eyes with a delicious sense of luxuriousforgetfulness, and then opened them with a start; for some one hadgently called him by his name, and for a moment he thought it wasstill his dream, for standing at the foot of the couch was a girl asbeautiful as any vision, who held out her hand to him, and said in thesweetest voice he had ever heard:

"Mr. Trafford, you have saved my father's life. I shall be grateful toyou all my life. "

Maurice was almost dizzy as he stood up and looked at the girl'searnest face and eyes brimming over with tears, and the sunlight andthe violets and the children's voices seemed all confused; and as hetook her offered hand a strange shyness kept him silent. 

"I have heard all about it, " she went on. "I know, while others stoodby too terrified to move, you risked your own life to protect myfather--that you stood between him and death while they dragged himout from the horses' feet. It was noble--heroic;" and here Nea claspedher hands, and the tears ran down her cheeks. 

Poor impetuous child; these were hardly the cold words of civilitythat her pompous father had dictated, and were to supplement thethirty pounds per annum, "officially delivered. " Surely, as she lookedat the young man in his shabby coat, she must have remembered that itwas only Maurice Trafford the junior clerk--the drudge of a mercantilehouse. 

Nea owned afterward that she had forgotten everything; in after yearsshe confessed that Maurice's grave young face came upon her like arevelation. 

She had admirers by the score--the handsome, weak-minded Lord Bertieamong them--but never had she seen such a face as Maurice Trafford's, the poor curate's son. 

Maurice's pale face flushed up under the girl's enthusiastic praise, but he answered, very quietly:

"I did very little, Miss Huntingdon; any one could have done as much. How could I stand by and see your father's danger, and not go to hishelp?" and then, as the intolerable pain in his arm brought back thefaintness, he asked her permission to reseat himself. "He would gohome, " he said, wearily, "and then he need trouble no one. "

Nea's heart was full of pity for him. She could not bear the thoughtof his going back to his lonely lodgings, with no one to take care ofhim, but there was no help for it. So Mrs. Thorpe was summoned withher remedies, and the carriage was ordered. When it came round Mauricelooked up in his young hostess's face with his honest gray eyes andfrank smile and said good-bye. And the smile and the gray eyes, andthe touch of the thin, boyish hand, were never to pass out of Nea'smemory from that day. 

 * * * * *

The shadows grew longer and longer in the gardens of the square, thehouse-martins twitted merrily about their nests, the flower-girls saton the area steps with their baskets of roses and jonquils, when Mr. Huntingdon laid aside his invalid habits and took up his old lifeagain, far too soon, as the doctors said who attended him. His systemhad received a severer shock than they had first imagined, and theyrecommended Baden-Baden and perfect rest for some months. 

But as well might they have spoken to the summer leaves that wereswirling down the garden paths, as move Mr. Huntingdon from his usualroutine. He only smiled incredulously, said that he felt perfectlywell, and rode off every morning eastward on the new gray mare thathad replaced Gypsy. 

And Nea flitted about the room among her birds and flowers, andwondered sometimes if she should ever see Maurice Trafford again. While Maurice, on his side, drudged patiently on, very happy andsatisfied with his sudden rise, and dreaming foolish, youthful dreams, and both of them were ignorant, poor children, that the wheel ofdestiny was revolving a second time to bring them nearer together. 

For when November came with its short days, its yellow fogs, itsheavy, damp atmosphere, a terrible thing happened in Mr. Huntingdon'soffice. 

A young clerk, the one above Maurice--a weak, dissipated fellow, whohad lately given great dissatisfaction by his unpunctuality andcarelessness--absconded one day with five thousand pounds belonging tohis employer. Mr. Huntingdon had just given authority to the managerto dismiss him when the facts of his disappearance and the missing sumwere brought to their ears. The deed was a cool one, and so cleverlyexecuted that more than one believed that an older hand was concernedin it; but in the midst of the consternation and confusion, while themanager stood rubbing his hands nervously together, and Mr. Huntingdon, in his cold, hard voice, was giving instructions to thedetective, Maurice Trafford quietly asked to speak to him a moment, and offered to accompany the detective officer. 

He knew George Anderson's haunts, he said, and from a chance wordaccidentally overheard, he thought he had a clew, and might succeed infinding him. 

There was something so modest and self-reliant in the young man'smanner as he spoke that, after a searching glance at him, Mr. Huntingdon agreed to leave the matter in his hands, only bidding himnot to let the young villain escape, as he certainly meant to punishhim. 

Many were the incidents that befell Maurice and his companion in thishis first and last detective case; but at last, thanks to his sagacityand the unerring instinct of the officer, they were soon on the righttrack, and before night had very far advanced were hanging about a lowpublic-house in Liverpool, lurking round corners and talking to straysailors. 

And the next morning they boarded the "Washington, " bound for NewYork, that was to loose anchor at the turn of the tide; and whileStaunton, the detective, was making inquiries of the captain about thesteerage passengers, Maurice's sharp eyes had caught sight of a youngsailor with a patch over his eye, apparently busy with a coil ofropes, and he walked up to him carelessly; but as he loitered at hisside a moment his manner changed. 

"Don't look round, George, " he whispered; "for Heaven's sake keep tothe ropes or you are lost. Slip the pocket-book in my hand, and I willtry and get the detective out of the boat. "

"Would it be penal servitude, Maurice?" muttered the lad, and his faceturned a ghastly hue at the thought of the human blood-hound behindhim. 

"Five or ten years at least, " returned Maurice. "Were you mad, George?Give it to me--quick--quick! and I will put him on the wrong scent. That's right, " as the shaking hands pushed a heavy brown pocket-booktoward him. "Good-by, George; say your prayers to-night, and thank Godthat you are saved. "

"Staunton, " he said, aloud, as the detective approached him, "we arewrong; he is in the bow of the 'Brown Bess, ' and he sails in the'Prairie Flower;'" and as he uttered the first lie that he had evertold in his guileless young life Maurice looked full in thedetective's face and led him quietly away. 

But a couple of hours later--when Staunton was losing his temper overtheir want of success, and the "Washington" was steaming out of thedock--Maurice suddenly produced the pocket-book, and proposed thatthey should take the next train back for London. "For I am verytired, " finished Maurice, with provoking good-humor; "and Mr. Huntingdon will sleep better to-night if we give him back his fivethousand pounds. "

"You let the rogue go!" exclaimed Staunton, and he swore savagely. "You have cheated justice and connived at his escape. "

"Yes, " answered Maurice, calmly. "Don't put yourself out, my goodfellow. I will take all the blame. He sailed in the 'Washington, ' andthere she goes like a bird. You are out of temper because I was toosharp for you. Evil communications corrupt good manners, Staunton. Ihave taken a leaf out of your book--don't you think I should make asplendid detective?" continued Maurice, rattling on in pure boyishfun. "I got up the little fiction about the 'Brown Bess' and the'Prairie Flower' when I saw him dressed like a sailor, with a patchover his eye, hauling in the ropes. "

Then, as Staunton uttered another oath:

"Why, did you expect me to bring back my old chum, when I knew theywould give him five or ten years of penal servitude? Do you think I amflesh and blood and could do it? No! I have kept my promise, andbrought back the five thousand pounds, and not a farthing of it wouldhe or you have seen but for me. "

Perhaps Staunton was not as hard-hearted as he seemed, for he ceasedblustering and shook Maurice's hand very heartily; nay, more, whenthey told their story, and Mr. Huntingdon frowned angrily on hearingMaurice had connived at the criminal's escape, he spoke up forMaurice. "You did not expect the young gentleman, sir, to put thehandcuffs on his old pal; it is against human nature, you see. "

"Perhaps so, " returned Mr. Huntingdon, coldly; "but I should havethought better of you, Trafford, if you had sacrificed feeling in thematter. Well, it may rest now. I have struck off George Anderson'sname as defaulter out of my book and memory, and I will tell Dobson toadd his salary to yours. No thanks, " he continued in rather a chillingmanner, as Maurice's eyes sparkled, and he attempted to speak; "it isa fair recompense for your sagacity. Go on as well as you have begun, and your future will be assured. To-morrow I shall expect you to dinewith me at Belgrave House. Dobson is coming, too, " and with a slightnod Mr. Huntingdon dismissed him. 

That night Maurice laid his head upon his pillow and dreamed happydreams of a golden future. To-morrow he should see the dark-eyed girlwho had spoken so sweetly to him; and as he remembered her words andglances of gratitude, and the touch of her soft, white hands, Maurice's heart gave quick throbs that were almost pain. 

He should see that lovely face again, was his first waking thought;but when the evening was over Maurice Trafford went back to hislodgings a sadder and a wiser man. 

He was dazzled and bewildered when he saw her again--the young girl inthe white gown was changed into a radiant princess. Nea was dressedfor a ball; she came across the great lighted room to greet Maurice ina cloud of gauzy draperies. Diamonds gleamed on her neck and arms; hereyes were shining; she looked so bewilderingly beautiful that Mauricegrew embarrassed, all the more that Mr. Huntingdon's cold eyes wereupon them. 

Maurice never recalled that evening without pain. A great gulf seemedto open between him and his master's daughter; what was there incommon between them? Nea talked gayly to him as well as to her otherguests, but he could hardly bring himself to answer her. 

His reserve disappointed Nea. She had been longing to see him again, but the handsome young clerk seemed to have so little to say to her. He was perfectly gentlemanly and well bred, but he appeared somewhatdepressed. 

Nea's vanity was piqued at last, and when Lord Bertie joined them inthe evening she gave him all her attention. Things had not progressedaccording to Mr. Huntingdon's wishes. Nea could not be induced to lookfavorably on Lord Bertie's suit; she pouted and behaved like a spoiledchild when her father spoke seriously to her on the subject. The deathof one of Lord Bertie's sisters had put a stop to the wooing for thepresent; but it was understood that he would speak to Nea veryshortly, and after a long and angry argument with her father she wasinduced to promise that she would listen to him. 

Nea was beginning to feel the weight of her father's inflexible will. In spite of her gayety and merry speeches, she was hardly happy thatevening. Lord Bertie's heavy speeches and meaningless jokes oppressedher--how terribly weary she would get of him if he were her husband, she thought. She was tired of him already--of his commonplace, handsome face--of his confidential whispers and delicately impliedcompliments--and then she looked up and met Maurice's thoughtful grayeyes fixed on her. Nea never knew why she blushed, or a strange, restless feeling came over her that moment; but she answered LordBertie pettishly. It was almost a relief when the carriage wasannounced, and she was to leave her guests. Maurice, who was going, stood at the door while Lord Bertie put her in the carriage--a littlegloved hand waved to him out of the darkness--and then the evening wasover. 

Mr. Huntingdon had not seemed like himself that night; he hadcomplained of headache and feverishness, and had confided to Dobsonthat perhaps after all Dr. Ainslie was right, and he ought to havetaken more rest. 

Somehow he was not the man he had been before his accident;nevertheless he ridiculed the idea that much was amiss, and talkedvaguely of running down to the sea for a few days. 

But not even that determined will of his could shake off the illnessthat was creeping over him, and one night when Nea returned from abrilliant _réunion_ she found Belgrave House a second time inconfusion. Mr. Huntingdon had been taken suddenly ill, and Dr. Ainsliewas in attendance. 

By and by a nurse arrived--a certain bright-eyed little SisterTeresa--and took charge of the sick man. After the first few days ofabsolute danger, during which he had been tolerably submissive, Mr. Huntingdon had desired that he should be kept informed of all mattersconnected with an important lawsuit of his at present pending; andduring the tedious weeks of convalescence Maurice Trafford carried thedaily report to Belgrave House. It seemed as though fate wereconspiring against him; every day he saw Nea, and every day herpresence grew more perilously sweet to him. 

She had a thousand innocent pretexts for detaining him, little girlishcoquetries which she did not employ in vain. She would ask him abouther father, or beg him to tell her about the tiresome lawsuit, or showhim her birds and flowers, anything, in fact, that her caprice coulddevise to keep him beside her for a moment; very often they met in herfather's room, or Mr. Huntingdon would give orders that Mr. Traffordshould stay to luncheon. 

Nea, in her blindness, thought she was only amusing herself with anidle fancy, a girl's foolish partiality for a face that seemed almostperfect in her eyes; she little thought that she was playing adangerous game, that the time was fast approaching when she would findher fancy a sorrowful reality. 

Day by day those stolen moments became more perilous in theirsweetness; and one morning Nea woke up to the conviction that MauriceTrafford loved her, that he was everything to her, and that she wouldrather die than live without him. 

It was one afternoon, and they were together in the drawing-room. Maurice had come late that day, and a violent storm had set in, andMr. Huntingdon had sent down word that Mr. Trafford had better waituntil it was over. To do Mr. Huntingdon justice, he had no idea hisdaughter was in the house; she had gone out to luncheon, and he hadnot heard of her return. 

The heavy velvet curtains had been drawn to shut out the dreary scene, and only the fire-light lit up the room; Nea, sitting in her favoritelow chair, with her feet on the white rug, was looking up at Maurice, who stood leaning against the mantel-piece talking to her. 

He was telling her about his father's early death, and of thesweet-faced mother who had not long survived him; of his own strugglesand poverty, of his lonely life, his efforts to follow his parents'example. Nea listened to him in silence; but once he paused, and thewords seemed to die on his lips. He had never seen her look like thatbefore; she was trembling, her face was pale, and her eyes were wetwith tears; and then, how it happened neither of them could tell, butMaurice knew that he loved her--knew that Nea loved him--and washolding her to his heart as though he could never let her go. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE AWAKENING. 

 That thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice, He stretched his arms out toward that thrilling voice, As if to draw it on to his embrace. I take her as God made her, and as men Must fail to unmake her, for my honor'd wife. 

 E. B. BROWNING. 

Paradise itself could hardly hold an hour of purer and more perfectbliss than when those two young creatures stood holding each other'shands and confessing their mutual love. 

To Nea it was happiness, the happiness for which she had secretlylonged. To Maurice it was a dazzling dream, a madness, an unreality, from which he must wake up to doubt his own sanity--to tremble anddisbelieve. 

And that awakening came all too soon. 

Through the long hours of the night he lay and pondered, till with thesilence and darkness a thousand uneasy thoughts arose that cooled thefever in his veins and made him chill with the foreboding of evil. 

What had he done? Was he mad? Had it been all his fault that he hadbetrayed his love? Had he not been sorely tempted? and yet, would nota more honorable man have left her without saying a word?

How could he go to Mr. Huntingdon and acknowledge what he had done?that he, a mere clerk, a poor curate's son, had dared to aspire to hisdaughter, to become the rival of Lord Bertie Gower--for Nea hadconfided to him her father's ambition. Would he not think him mad?groaned Maurice, or would he turn with that hard, dark look on hisface that he knew so well, and give him a curt dismissal?

Maurice remembered George Anderson and trembled, as well he might; andthen as the whole hopelessness of the case rushed upon him, he thoughtthat he would tell his darling that he had been mad--dishonorable, butthat he would give her up; that he loved her better than himself, andthat for her own sweet sake he must give her up. 

And so through the long, dark hours Maurice lay and fought out hisfirst fierce battle of life, and morning found him the victor. 

The victor, but not for long; for at the first hint, the firstwhispered word that he must tell her father, or that he must leave herforever, Nea clung to him in a perfect passion of tears. 

The self-willed, undisciplined child had grown into the wayward, undisciplined girl. No one but her father had ever thwarted Nea, andnow even his will had ceased to govern her; she could not and wouldnot give up the only man whom she loved; nothing on earth shouldinduce her now to marry Lord Bertie--she would rather die first; if heleft her she should break her heart, but he loved her too well toleave her. 

Poor Maurice! An honorable man would have nerved himself to bear herloving reproaches; would have turned sadly and firmly from herconfused, girlish sophistries, and reproved them with a word. He wouldhave told her that he loved her, but that he loved honor more; that hewould neither sin himself nor suffer her to tempt him from his senseof right. But Maurice did none of these things; he was young and weak;the temptation was too powerful; he stayed, listened and was lost. Ah!the angels must have wept that day over Maurice's fall, and Nea'svictory. 

She told him what he knew already, that Mr. Huntingdon would turn himout of his office; that he would oppress her cruelly; that he wouldprobably take her abroad or condemn her to solitude, until she hadpromised to give him up and marry Lord Bertie. 

Could he leave her to her father's tender mercies, or abandon her tothat other lover? and she wept so passionately as she said this that astronger man than Maurice must have felt his strength waver. 

And so Nea had the victory, and the days flew by on golden wings, andthe stolen moments became sweeter and more precious to the younglovers until the end came. 

Mr. Huntingdon was better--he could leave his room and walk up anddown the corridor leaning on Sister Teresa's arm. 

There was less pain and fewer relapses; and when Dr. Ainslie proposedthat his patient should spend the rest of the spring in the south ofFrance, Mr. Huntingdon consented without a demur. 

They were to be away some months, Mr. Huntingdon informed Nea, andextend their tour to Switzerland and the Italian Tyrol. Lord Bertiehad promised to join them at Pau in a month or so, and here her fatherlooked at her with a smile. They could get the trousseau in Paris. Neamust make up her mind to accept him before they started; there must beno more delay or shilly-shallying; the thing had already hung fire toolong. Lord Bertie had been complaining that he was not fairly treated, and more to the same purpose. 

Nea listened in perfect silence, but it was well that her father couldnot see her face. Presently she rose and said that he was tired andmust talk no more, for Mr. Trafford would be here directly; and thenshe made some pretext for leaving the room. 

Maurice found her waiting for him when he came downstairs. As he tookher in his arms and asked her why she looked so pale and strange, sheclung to him almost convulsively and implored him to save her. Mauricewas as pale as she, long before she had finished; the crisis had come, and he must either lose her or tempt his fate. 

Again he tried to reason with her, to be true to himself and her; butNea would not give him up or let him tell her father. She would marryMaurice at once if he wished it; yes, perhaps that would be the wisestplan. Her father would never give his consent, but when it was toolate to prevent it he might be induced to forgive their marriage. Itwas very wrong, she knew, but it would be the only way to free herfrom Lord Bertie. Her father would be terribly angry, but his angerwould not last; she was his only child, and he had never denied heranything. 

Poor Nea! there was something pathetic in her blindness and perfectfaith in her father; even Maurice felt his misgivings silenced as helistened to her innocent talk; and again the angels wept overMaurice's deeper fall, and Nea's unholy victory. 

They had planned it all; in three weeks' time they were to be married. Mr. Huntingdon could not leave before then. On the day before thatfixed for the journey the bond was to be sealed and signed betweenthem, so that no power of man could part them. Mr. Huntingdon mightstorm ever so loudly, his anger would break against an adamantinefate. "Those whom God has joined together no man can putasunder"--words of sacred terror and responsibility. 

The next three weeks were very troubled ones to Maurice; his briefinterviews with Nea were followed by hours of bitter misgivings. ButNea was childishly excited and happy; every day her love for Mauriceincreased and deepened. The shadow of his moral weakness could nothide his many virtues. She gloried in the thought of being his wife. Oh, yes, her father would be good to them; perhaps, after all, theywould go to Pau, but Maurice and not Lord Bertie would be with them. 

Nea never hesitated, never repented, though Maurice's face grew thinand haggard with anxiety as the days went by. 

They were to be married in one of the old city churches; and afterwardMaurice was to take her to his lodgings in Ampton Street; and theywere to write a letter to Mr. Huntingdon. Maurice must help her writeit, Nea said. Of course her father would be angry--fearfullyangry--but after a few hours he would calm down, and then he wouldsend the carriage for her; and there would be a scene of penitence andreconciliation. Nea painted it all in glowing colors, but Mauriceshook his head with a sad smile, and begged her not to deceiveherself. Mr. Huntingdon might not forgive them for a long time, for heremembered George Anderson, and the inexorable will that would havecondemned the young criminal to penal servitude. 

And so one morning as Mr. Huntingdon was sitting by the open windowwatching the children play in the May sunshine and wondering why hisdaughter had not been to wish him good-morning, Nea had stolen out ofher father's house, and was hurrying through the sunny square andgreen, deserted park until she found Maurice waiting for her, whosilently took her hand, and put her into the carriage. 

Nea said afterward that it was that silent greeting of Maurice's, andhis cold touch, that first brought a doubt to her mind; during thelong drive he spoke little to her--only held her hand tightly; andwhen at last they stood together in the dark old church with itsgloomy altar and white, gleaming monuments, the poor child gave ashiver that was almost fear, and suddenly burst into tears. It hadcome upon her all at once what she was doing, and why she was there;but already it was too late, for while she was clinging to Mauricewith low, frightened sobs, the curate had hurried from the vestry andhad entered within the rails, and the pew-opener was beckoning them totake their places. 

Too late! too late! Ten minutes more and the knot was tied that nohand could loosen, and Nea Huntingdon had become Nea Trafford. 

 * * * * *

But when they had left the gloomy old church in the distance, and weredriving through the crowded streets with their babel of voices, Nea'scourage and spirits revived; and presently she was tripping aboutMaurice's shabby rooms, re-arranging the bowls of jonquils and lilac, with which the landlady had made some show of festivity, unlooping thestiff folds of the muslin curtains, and peeping into the cornercupboards with the gleeful curiosity of a child, until, at her younghusband's gentle remonstrance, her seriousness returned, and she satdown to write the formidable letter. 

And how formidable it was Nea never imagined until she had tried andfailed, and then tried again till she sighed for very weariness; andthen Maurice came to her aid with a few forcible sentences; and so itgot itself written--the saddest, most penitent little letter that adaughter's hand could frame. 

But when she had laid down the burden of her secret, and the specialmessenger had been dispatched to Belgrave House, Nea put off thoughtfor awhile, and she sat by the window and chatted to Maurice about thegay doings they would have at Pau, and Maurice listened to her; butalways there was that sad, incredulous smile on his face. 

And so the day wore on, but when they had finished their simple dinnerand the afternoon had waned into evening, Nea grew strangely quiet andMaurice's face grew graver and graver as they sat with clasped handsin the twilight, with a barrier of silence growing up between them. 

And when the dusk became darkness, and the lamp was brought in Nealooked at Maurice with wide anxious eyes and asked what it meant. 

Were they not going to send the carriage for them after all? shewondered; must she go home on foot and brave her father's anger? hemust be so very, very angry, she thought, to keep them so long insuspense. 

"Hush!" exclaimed Maurice, and then they heard the rumbling of wheelsthat stopped suddenly before the door, and the loud pealing of a bellthrough the house. 

"The carriage! the carriage!" cried Nea, and the flush rose to herface as she started to her feet, but Maurice did not answer; he wasgrasping the table to support himself, and felt as though anothermoment's suspense would be intolerable. 

"A letter for Mrs. Trafford, " observed the landlady in solemnawe-struck tones, "and a man in livery and the cabman are bringing insome boxes. "

"What boxes?" exclaimed Nea; but as she tore open the letter andglanced over the contents a low cry escaped her. 

"Maurice! Maurice!" cried the poor child; and Maurice, taking it fromher, read it once, twice, thrice, growing whiter and whiter with eachperusal, and then sunk on a chair, hiding his face in his hands, witha groan. "Oh! my darling, " he gasped, "I have ruined you; my darling, for whom I would willingly have died, I have ruined and brought you tobeggary. "

They had sinned, and beyond doubt their sin was a heavy one; but whatfather, if he had any humanity, could have looked at those twodesolate creatures, so young, and loving each other so tenderly, andwould not have had pity on them?

The letter was as follows--

 "MADAME, --I am directed by Mr. Huntingdon to inform you that from this day he will hold no communication with you or your husband. 

 "He wishes me to add that he has sent all clothes, jewels, and personal effects belonging to his daughter Nea Huntingdon, now styling herself Nea Trafford, to the inclosed address, and he has directed his manager, Mr. Dobson, to strike Mr. Maurice Trafford's name from the list of clerks. Any attempts to open any further correspondence with Mr. Huntingdon will be useless, as all such letters will be returned or destroyed. 

 "I remain, madame, "Your humble servant, "SISTER TERESA. "

Inclosed was a check for two hundred pounds and a little slip of paperwith a few penciled lines in Sister Teresa's handwriting. 

 "For the love of Heaven do not send or come--it would be worse than useless, he is nearly beside himself with anger; your maid interceded for you with tears, and has been sent away with her wages. No one dares to say a word. "

Oh, fathers! provoke not your children to wrath. It was that hard, cruel letter that changed Nea's repentance to unrelenting bitterness. 

Instinctively she felt the iron of her father's will enter into hersoul. In a moment she understood, as she had never done before, thehardness and coldness of his nature, the inflexibility of his purpose;as well might she dash herself against a rock as expect forgiveness. Well, she was his own child, her will was strong too, and in theanguish of her despair she called upon her pride to support her, sheleaned her fainting woman's heart upon that most rotten of reeds. 

He had disinherited her, his only child; he had flung her away fromhim. Well, she would defy him; and then she remembered his ill-health, their projected trip to Pau, their happy schemes for the future, tillher heart felt almost broken, but for all that she stood like astatue, crushing down the pain in the very stubbornness of her pride. 

Ah, Nea, unhappy Nea! poor motherless, willful girl; well may she lookround her with that scared, hunted look. 

Was this her future home, these poor rooms, this shabby furniture?Belgrave House closed to her forever. But as she looked round withthat fixed miserable glance, why did the tears suddenly dim her eyes?

Her glance had fallen on Maurice, still sitting motionless with hishands before his eyes--Maurice her husband; yes, there he sat, the manwhom her own willfulness had dragged to the brink of ruin, whose faithand honor she had tempted, whose honest purpose she had shaken anddestroyed, who was so crushed with remorse for his own weakness thathe dared not look her in the face; and as she gazed at him, Nea'swhole heart yearned with generous pity over the man who had broughther to poverty, but whom she loved and would love to her life's end. 

And Maurice, sitting crushed with that awful remorse, felt his handsdrawn down from his face, and saw Nea's beautiful face smiling at himthrough her tears, felt the smooth brown head nestle to his breast, and heard the low sobbing words--

"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, till death us do part, have I not promised, Maurice? Take me to your heart and comfort mewith your love, for in all the world I have no one but you--no one butyou!"

CHAPTER X. 

IN DEEP WATERS. 

 Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light, for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. 

 O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steep'd to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient though sorely tried! I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! The battle of our life is brief, The alarm, the struggle, the relief; Then sleep we side by side. 

 LONGFELLOW. 

Nea had to learn by bitter experience that the fruits of disobedienceand deceit are like the apples of Sodom, fair to the sight, but mereashes to the taste, and in her better mood she owned that herpunishment was just. 

Slowly and laboriously, with infinite care and pains, she set herselfto unlearn the lessons of her life. For wealth she had poverty; forease and luxury, privation and toil; but in all her troubles herstrong will and pride sustained her; and though she suffered, andHeaven only knew how she suffered! she never complained or murmureduntil the end came. 

For her pride sustained her; and when that failed, her love came toher aid. 

How she loved him, how she clung to him in those days, no one butMaurice knew; in her bitterest hours his words had power to comforther and take the sting from her pain. When it was possible, she hidher troubles from him, and never added to his by vain repinings andregrets. 

But in spite of Nea's courage and Maurice's patience, they had aterribly hard life of it. 

At first Maurice's efforts to find another clerkship were in vain, andthey were compelled to live on the proceeds of the check; then Neasold her jewels, that they might have something to fall back upon. Butpresently Mr. Dobson came to their aid. 

He had a large family, and could not do much, as he told them, sorrowfully; but he found Maurice, with some trouble, a smallclerkship at eighty pounds a year, advising him at the same time toeke out their scanty income by taking in copying work of an evening. 

Indeed, as Maurice discovered many a time in his need, he did not wanta friend as long as the good manager lived. 

And so those two young creatures took up the heavy burden of theirlife, and carried it with tolerable patience and courage; and as inthe case of our first parents, exiled by a woman's weakness from thefair gardens of Paradise, so, though they reaped thorns and thistles, and earned their bread by the sweat of their brow, yet thebitter-sweet memories of their lost Eden abode with them, and in theirpoverty they tasted many an hour of pure unsullied love. 

For they were young, and youth's courage is high, and the burden ofthose days was not yet too hard to be borne. 

Nea longed to help Maurice, but her pride, always her chief fault, came as a stumbling-block in her way; she could not bear to go intothe world and face strangers. And Maurice on his side could not endurethe thought that his beautiful young wife should be exposed to slightsand humiliations; so Nea's fine talent wasted by misuse. 

Still, even these scruples would have faded under the pressure ofseverer needs, had no children come to weaken Nea's strength and keepher drudging at home. 

Nea had never seen her father nor heard anything from him all thistime. Maurice, it was true, had humbled himself again and again, buthis letters had all been returned unopened. 

But when her boy was born, Nea's heart, softened by the joys ofmaternity, yearned passionately for a reconciliation, and by herhusband's advice, she stifled all feelings of resentment, and wrote asshe had never written before, as she never could write again, but allin vain; the letter was returned, and in her weakened state Nea wouldhave fretted herself to death over that unopened letter if it had notbeen for her husband's tenderness and her baby's innocent face. 

How the young mother doated on her child! To her he was a miracle, arevelation. Nature had opened a fount of consolation in her troubles. She would lie patiently for hours on her couch, watching her baby inhis sleep. Maurice, coming in jaded and weary from his work, wouldpause on the threshold to admire the picture. He thought his wifenever looked so beautiful as when she had their boy in her arms. 

And so the years passed on. Maurice worked, and struggled, andpinched, till his face grew old and careworn, and the hard rackingcough began to make itself heard, and Nea's fine color faded, for thechildren were coming fast now, and the days were growing darker anddarker. 

By and by there was a baby girl, with her father's eyes, and beautifulas a little angel; then twin boys whom Nea kissed and fondled for afew weeks, and then laid in their little coffins; then another boy whoonly lived two years; and lastly, after a long lapse of time, anothergirl. 

But when this one was born the end was fast approaching. Mr. Huntingdon had been abroad for a year or two, and had just returned toBelgrave House--so Mr. Dobson informed Nea when he dropped in oneevening on one of his brief visits--and he had brought with him ayoung widowed niece and her boy. 

Nea remembered her cousin Erle Huntingdon and the dark-eyed girl whomhe had married and taken with him to Naples; but she had never heardof his death. 

Doubtless her father meant to put Beatrice in her place, and make theyounger Erle his heir; and Nea sighed bitterly as she looked at herboy playing about the room. Mr. Dobson interpreted the sight aright. 

"Try again, Mrs. Trafford, " he said, holding out his hand as he rose;"humble yourself in the dust, for the sake of your children. " And Neatook his advice, but she never had any answer to her letter, and soonafter that their kind old friend, Mr. Dobson, died, and theneverything went wrong. 

Maurice's employer gave up business, and his successor, a hardgrasping man, found fault with Maurice's failing health, and dismissedhim as an incompetent clerk; and this time Maurice found himselfwithout friends. 

For a little time longer he struggled on, though broken in heart andhealth. 

They left their comfortable lodgings and took cheaper ones, and soldevery article of furniture that was not absolutely necessary; and theday before her baby was born, Nea, weeping bitterly, took her lastrelic, her mother's portrait, from the locket set with pearls from herneck, and asked Maurice to sell the little ornament. 

All through that long illness, though Heaven only knows how, Mauricestruggled on. 

Ill himself, he nursed his sick wife with patient care and tenderness. 

Nea and her little ones had always plenty of nourishing food, thoughhe himself often went without the comforts he needed; he kept thechildren quiet, he did all and more than all a woman would have done, before, worn out at last in body and mind, he laid himself down, neverto rise again. 

And Nea, going to him with her sickly baby in her arms, saw a look onhis face that terrified her, and knelt down by his side, while he toldher between his paroxysms of coughing what little there was to tell. 

She knew it all now; she knew the poor, brave heart had been slowlybreaking for years, and had given way at last; she knew what he hadsuffered to see the woman he loved dragged down to the level of hispoverty, and made to endure such bitterness of humiliation; she knew, when it was too late, that the man was crushed under the consequencesof his weakness, that his remorse was killing him; and that he wouldseal his repentance with his life. And then came from his pale lips awhispered entreaty that Nea shuddered to hear. 

"Dearest, " he had said, when she had implored him to say what shecould do to comfort him, "there is one thing; go to your father. Yes, my darling, " as she shivered at his words, "go to him yourself; lethim see your dear face that has grown so thin and pale; perhaps hewill see for himself, and have pity. Tell him I am dying, and that Ican not die in peace until he has promised to forgive you, and takecare of you and the children. You will do this for me, Nea, will younot? You know how I have suffered, and will not refuse me. "

Had she ever refused him anything? Nea kissed the drawn pallid facewithout a word, tied on her shabby bonnet, and took her baby in herarms--it was a puny, sickly creature, and wailed incessantly, and shecould not leave it--then with tears blinding her poor eyes, she walkedrapidly through the dark streets, hardly feeling the cutting wind, andquite unconscious of the driving sleet that pelted her face with icyparticles. 

For her heart felt like a stone; Maurice was dying; but no! he shouldnot die: with her own hands she would hold back her beloved from theentrance to the dark valley; she would minister to his fainting soulthe cordial of a tardy forgiveness, though she should be forced togrovel for it at her father's feet. And then all at once she suddenlystopped, and found she was clinging, panting for breath, to some arearailings, that the baby was crying miserably on her bosom, and thatshe was looking through the open door into her father's hall. 

There was a carriage standing there, and a footman was shivering as hewalked up and down the pavement. No one took notice of thebeggar-woman as they thought her, and Nea, moved by a strange impulseand desire for warmth and comfort, crept a few steps nearer and lookedin. 

There was a boy in a velvet tunic sliding up and down the gildedbalustrades; and a tall woman with dark hair, and a diamond cross onher white neck, swept through the hall in her velvet dress and rebukedhim. The boy laughed merrily and went a few steps higher. 

"Beatrice and the young Erle Huntingdon, " said Nea to herself. Andthen a tall thin shadow fell across the door-way, and, uttering ahalf-stifled cry, Nea saw her father, saw his changed face, his grayhair and bowed figure, before she threw herself in his way. 

And so, under the gas-light, with servants watching them curiously, Mr. Huntingdon and his daughter met again. One who stood near him saysan awful pallor, like the pallor of death, came over his face for aninstant when he saw her standing before him with her baby in her arms, but in the next he would have moved on had she not caught him by thearm. 

"Father, " she sobbed; "father, come with me. Maurice is dying. Myhusband is dying; but he says he can not die until he has yourforgiveness. Come home with me; come home with your own Nea, father;"but he shook off her grasp, and began to descend the steps. 

"Here, Stephen, " he said, taking some gold from his pocket; "give thisto the woman and send her away. Come, Beatrice, I am ready. "

Merciful Heaven! had this man a human heart, that he should disown hisown flesh and blood? Would it have been wonderful if she had spokenbitter scathing words to the unnatural parent who was driving her fromhis door? But Nea never spoke, she only turned away with a shudderfrom the sight of the proffered gold, and then drawing her thin cloakstill closer round her child, turned wearily away. 

True, she had sinned; but her punishment was a hundred times greaterthan her sin, she said to herself, and that was all. What a strangestunned quietness was over her; the pain and the fever seemed allburned out. She did not suffer now. If something that felt like aniron claw would leave off gripping her heart, she could almost havefelt comfortable. Maurice must die, she knew that, but something elsehad died before him. She wondered if it were this same heart of hers;and then she noticed her baby's hood was crooked, and stopped at thenext lamp-post to put it straight, and felt a vague sort of pity forit, when she saw its face was pinched and blue with cold, and pressedit closer to her, though she rather hoped to find it dead when shereached home. 

"One less to suffer and to starve, " thought Nea. 

Maurice's wistful eyes greeted her when she opened the door, but sheonly shook her head and said nothing; what had she to say? She gaveher half-frozen infant into a neighbor's care, and then sat down anddrew Maurice's face to her bosom, still speechless in that awfulapathy. 

And there she sat hour after hour, till he died peacefully in herarms, and his last words were, "I believe in the forgiveness of sins. "

 * * * * *

When she had ceased to wish for them, friends came around her in hertrouble, and ministered to her wants. 

Kind faces followed Maurice to his last resting-place, and saved himfrom a pauper's grave. 

The widow and her children were clothed in decent mourning, and placedin comfortable lodgings. 

Nea never roused from her silent apathy, never looked at them orthanked them. 

Their kindness had come too late for her, she said to herself, and itwas not until long afterward that she knew that she owed all thisconsideration to the family of their kind old friend Mr. Dobson, secretly aided by the purse of her cousin Beatrice Huntingdon, whodare not come in person to see her. But by and by they spoke veryfirmly and kindly to her. They pointed to her children--they hadplaced her boy at an excellent school--and told her that for theirsakes she must live and work. If she brooded longer in that sullendespair she would die or go mad; and they brought her baby to her, andwatched its feeble arms trying to clasp her neck; saw the widow'spassionate tears rain on its innocent face--the tears that saved thepoor hot brain--and knew she was saved; and by and by, when theythought she had regained her strength, they asked her gently what shecould do. Alas! she had suffered her fine talents to rust. They hadnothing but impoverished material to use; but at last they found her asituation with two maiden ladies just setting up a school in theneighborhood, and here she gave daily lessons. 

And so, as the years went on, things became a little brighter. 

Nea found her work interesting, her little daughter Fern accompaniedher to the school, and she taught her with her other pupils. 

Presently the day's labor became light to her, and she could lookforward to the evening when her son, fetching her on his way fromschool, would escort her home--a humble home it was true; but when shelooked at her boy's handsome face, and Fern's innocent beauty, andfelt her little one's caresses, as she climbed up into her lap, thewidow owned that her lot had its compensations. 

But the crowning trial was yet to come; the last drop of concentratedbitterness. 

Not long after Maurice's death, Mr. Huntingdon made his first overtureof reconciliation through his lawyer. 

His niece, Beatrice, had died suddenly, and her boy was fretting sadlyfor his mother. 

Some one had pointed out to Mr. Huntingdon one day a dark-eyedhandsome boy in deep mourning, looking at the riders in Rotten Row, and had told him that it was his grandson, Percy Trafford. 

Mr. Huntingdon had said nothing at the time, but the boy's face andnoble bearing haunted him, he was so like his mother, when as a childshe had played about the rooms at Belgrave House. Perhaps, stifle itas he might, the sobbing voice of his daughter rang in his ears, "Comehome with your own Nea, father;" and in spite of his pride hisconscience was beginning to torment him. 

Nea smiled scornfully when she listened to the lawyer's overtures. Mr. Huntingdon was willing to condone the past with regard to her sonPercy. He would take the boy, educate him, and provide for him mostliberally, though she must understand that his nephew, Erle, would behis heir; still on every other point the boys should have equaladvantages. 

"And Belgrave House, the home where my boy is to live, will be closedto his mother?" asked Nea, still with that delicate scorn on her face. 

The lawyer looked uncomfortable. 

"I have no instructions on that point, Mrs. Trafford; I was simply toguarantee that he should be allowed to see you from time to time, asyou and he might wish it. "

"I can not entertain the proposal for a moment, " she returned, decidedly; but at his strong remonstrance she at last consented thatwhen her boy was a little older, the matter should be laid before him;but no doubt as to his choice crossed her mind. Percy had always beenan affectionate child; nothing would induce him to give up his mother. 

But she became less confident as the days went on; Percy grew a littleselfish and headstrong, he wanted a man's will to dominate him; hisnarrow, confined life and the restraints that their poverty enforcedon them made him discontented. One day he encountered the lawyer whohad spoken to his mother--he was going to her again, with a letterthat Mr. Huntingdon had written to his daughter--and as he looked atPercy, who was standing idly on the door-step, he put his hand on hisshoulder, and bade him show him the way. 

Nea turned very pale as she read the letter. It was very curt andbusiness-like; it repeated the offer he had before made with regard toher son Percy, only adding that for the boy's future prospects itwould be well not to refuse his terms. This was the letter that, aftera moment's hesitation, Nea placed in her boy's hands. 

"Well, mother, " he exclaimed, and his eyes sparkled with eagerness andexcitement, "I call that splendid; I shall be a rich man one of thesedays, and then you will see what I shall do for you, and Fern, andFluff. "

"Do you mean that you wish to leave us, Percy, and to live in yourgrandfather's house?" she returned, trying to speak calmly. "You knowwhat I have told you--you were old enough to understand what yourfather suffered? and--and, " with a curious faintness creeping over her"you see for yourself there is no mention of me in that letter. Belgrave House is closed to your mother. "

"Yes, I know, and it is an awful shame, but never mind, mother, Ishall come and see you very often;" and then when the lawyer had leftthem to talk it over, he dilated with boyish eagerness on theadvantage to them all if he accepted his grandfather's offer. Hismother would be saved the expense of his education, she would not haveto work so hard; he would be rich himself, and would be able to helpthem. But at this point she stopped him. 

"Understand once for all, Percy, " she said with a sternness that hehad never seen in her, "that the advantage will be solely foryourself; neither I nor your sisters will ever accept help that comesfrom Belgrave House; your riches will be nothing to me, my son. Thinkagain, before you give up your mother. "

He would never give her up, he said, with a rough boyish caress; heshould see her often--often, and it was wicked, wrong to talk aboutrefusing his help; he would talk to his grandfather and make himashamed of himself--indeed there was no end to the glowing plans hemade. Nea's heart sickened as she heard him, she knew his boyishselfishness and restlessness were leading him astray, and some of thebitterest tears she ever shed were shed that night. 

But from that day she ceased to plead with him, and before many weekswere over Percy had left his mother's humble home, and after a shortstay at Belgrave House, was on his way to Eton with his cousin ErleHuntingdon. 

Percy never owned in his secret heart that he had done a mean thing ingiving up his mother for the splendors of Belgrave House, that thethought that her son was living in the home that was closed to her wasadding gall and bitterness to the widow's life; he thought he wasproving himself a dutiful son when he came to see her so often, thoughthe visits were scarcely all he wished them to be. 

True, his mother never reproached him, and always welcomed him kindly, but her lips were closed on all that related to his home life. Shecould speak of his school-fellows and studies, but of his grandfather, and of his new pony and fine gun she would not speak, or even care tohear about them. When he took her his boyish gifts they were quietlybut firmly returned to him. Even poor little Florence, or Fluff asthey called her, was obliged to give back the blue-eyed doll that hehad bought for her. Fluff had fretted so about the loss of the dollthat her mother had bought her another. 

Percy carried away his gifts, and did not come for a long time. Hismother's white wistful face seemed to put him in the wrong. "Any otherfellow would have done the same under the circumstances, " thoughtPercy, sullenly; "I think my mother is too hard on me;" but even hisconscience misgave him, when he would see her turn away sometimes withthe tears in her eyes, after one of his boasting speeches. He was tooyoung to be hardened. He knew, yes, surely he must have known? that hewas grieving the tenderest heart in the world, and one day he wouldown that not all his grandfather's wealth could compensate him forbeing a traitor to his mother. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE WEE WIFIE. 

 And that same God who made your face so fair, And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, So shield the blessing He implanted there, That it may never turn to your distress, And never cost you trouble or despair, Nor granted leave the granted comfortless, But like a river blest where'er it flows, Be still receiving while it still bestows. 

 JEAN INGELOW. 

 So far, that my doom is, I love thee still, Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 

 TENNYSON'S _Guinevere_. 

"Shall we soon be home, Hugh?"

"Very soon, Wee Wifie. "

"Then please put down that great crackling paper behind which you havebeen asleep the last two hours, and talk to me a little. I want toknow the names of the villages through which we are passing, the bighouses, and the people who live in them, that I may not enter my dearnew home a perfect stranger to its surroundings;" and Lady Redmondshook out her furs, and settled herself anew with fresh dignity. 

Sir Hugh yawned for the twentieth time behind his paper, rubbed hiseyes, stretched himself, and then let down the window and lookedabsently down the long country road winding through stubble land; andthen at the eddying heaps of dry crisp leaves now blown by a strongNovember wind under the horses' feet, and now whirling in crazycircles like witches on Walpurgis's night, until after a shiveringremonstrance from his little wife he put up the window with a jerk, and threw himself back with a discontented air on the cushions. 

"There is nothing to be seen for a mile or two, Fay, and it is growingdusk now; it will soon be too dark to distinguish a single object;"and so saying, he relapsed into silence, and took up the obnoxiouspaper again, though the words were scarcely legible in the twilight;while the young bride tried to restrain her weariness, and satpatiently in her corner. Poor Hugh, he was already secretly repentingof the hasty step he had taken; two months of Alpine scenery, ofquaint old German cities, of rambling through galleries of arttreasures with his child-bride, and Hugh had already wearied of hisnew bonds. All at once he had awakened from his brief delusion with anagony of remembrance, with a terrible heart longing and homesickness, with a sense of satiety and vacuum. Fay's gentleness and beauty palledon him; her artless questioning fatigued him. In his secret soul hecried out that she was a mere child and no mate for him, and that hewanted Margaret. 

If he had only told his young wife, if he had confided to her puresoul the secret that burdened his, child as she was, she would haveunderstood and pitied and forgiven him; the very suffering would havegiven her added womanliness and gained his respect, and through thatbitter knowledge, honestly told and generously received, a new andbetter Fay would have risen to win her husband's love. 

But he did not tell her--such a thought never entered his mind. So dayby day her youth and innocent gayety only alienated him more, until hegrew to look upon her as a mere child, who must be petted and humored, but who could never be his friend. 

Yes, he was bringing home his bride to Redmond Hall, and that bridewas not Margaret. In place of Margaret's grand face, framed in itsdead-brown hair and deep, pathetic eyes, was a childish face, with asmall rosebud mouth that was just now quivering and plaintive. 

"Dear Hugh, I am so very tired, and you will not talk to me, " in a sadbabyish voice. 

"Will talking rest you, Birdie, " asked Hugh, dropping his paper andtaking the listless little hand kindly. 

Fay drooped her head, for she was ashamed of the bright drops thatstole through her lashes from very weariness. Hugh would think herbabyish and fretful. She must not forget she was Lady Redmond; so sheanswered without looking up, "We have been traveling since day-break this morning, you know, Hugh, and it is all so fresh and strange to me, and I want to hear yourvoice to make it seem real somehow; perhaps I feel stupid because I amtired, but I had an odd fancy just now that it was all a dream, andthat I should wake up in my little room at the cottage and find myselfagain Fay Mordaunt. "

"Is not the new name prettier, dear?" observed her husband, gently. 

Fay colored and hesitated, and finally hid her face in shy fashion onHugh's shoulder, while she glanced at the little gold ring that shoneso brightly in the dusk. 

"Fay Redmond, " she whispered. "Oh yes, it is far prettier, " and atender smile came to her face, an expression of wonderful beauty. "Didever name sound half so sweet as that?"

"What is my Wee Wifie thinking about?" asked Hugh at last, rousinghimself with difficulty from another musing fit. 

Fay raised her head with a little dignity. 

"I wish you would not call me that, Hugh. "

"Not call you what?" in genuine astonishment. "Why, are you not my WeeWifie? I think it is the best possible name I could find for you; isit not pretty enough for your ladyship?"

"Yes, but it is so childish and will make people smile, and AuntGriselda would be shocked, and--" but here she broke off, flushed andlooking much distressed. 

"Nay, give me all your reasons, " said Hugh, kindly. "I can not knowall that is in my little wife's heart yet. "

But Hugh, as he said this, sighed involuntarily, as he thought howlittle he cared to trace the workings of that innocent young mind. 

The gentleness of his tone gave Fay courage. 

"I don't know, of course--at least I forget--but I am really surethat--that--'The Polite Match-Maker' would not consider it right. "

"What?" exclaimed Hugh, opening his eyes wide and regarding Fay withamazement. 

"'The Polite Match-Maker, ' dear, " faltered Fay, "the book that AuntGriselda gave me to study when I was engaged, because she said that itcontained all the necessary and fundamental rules for well-bred youngcouples. To be sure she smiled, and said it was a littleold-fashioned; but I was so anxious to learn the rules perfectly thatI read it over three or four times. "

"And 'The Polite Match-Maker' would not approve of Wee Wifie, youthink?" and Sir Hugh tried to repress a smile. 

"Oh, I am sure of it, " she returned, seriously; "the forms of addresswere so different. "

"Give me an example, then, or I can hardly profit by the rule. "

Fay had no need to consider, but she hesitated for all that. She wasnever sure how Hugh would take things when he had that look on hisface. She did not want him to laugh at her. 

"Of course it is old-fashioned, as Aunt Griselda says; but I know the'Match-Maker' considered 'Honored Wife, ' or 'Dearest Madame, ' thecorrect form of address. " And as Hugh burst out laughing, shecontinued, in a slightly injured tone--"Of course I know that peopledo not use those terms now, but all the same, I am sure Aunt Griseldawould not think Wee Wifie sufficiently respectful, "--and here Faylooked ready to cry--"and though the book is old-fashioned she saidmany of the rules were excellent. "

"But, Fay, " remonstrated her husband, "does it not strike you that therules must be obsolete, savoring of the days of Sir Charles Grandisonand Clarissa Harlowe? Pshaw!" with a frown, "I forgot I was gauging achild's intellect. Well, " turning to her, "what is your busy littlemind hatching now?"

"Dear Hugh?" stammered Fay, timidly, "I know I am very ignorant, and Iought to know better, and I will look in the dictionary as soon asI--but I do not know the meaning of the word obsolete. "

"Pshaw!" again muttered Sir Hugh; then aloud, "The term, honoredmadame, signifies disused, out of date, ancient, antiquated, antique, neglected, and so on. "

"Ah, Hugh, now I know you are laughing at me; but, " rather anxiously, "the 'Match-Maker' can not be all wrong, can it? It is only what youcall obsolete. "

"My dear child, " answered Hugh, gravely, "you can trust your husband'sjudgment, I hope, before even this wonderful book--in this matter I amsure you can; and in my opinion the prettiest name I could haveselected is this 'Wee Wifie. ' It pleases me, " continued Hugh, his finefeatures working with secret pain. "It is no name of the past, ittouches on no hoped-for future, and it reminds me of my little wife'sclaim to forbearance and sympathy from her extreme youth and ignoranceof the world. To others you may be Lady Redmond, but to me you mustever be my Wee Wifie. "

Fay clasped his neck with a little sob. 

"Yes, you shall call me that. I know I am only a silly ignorant littlething, and you are so grand and wise; but you love your foolish littlewife, do you not, Hugh?"

"Yes, of course;" but as Hugh hushed the rosy lips with that silencingkiss, his conscience felt an uneasy twinge. Did he really love her?Was such fondness worth the acceptance of any woman, when, with allhis efforts, he could scarcely conceal his weariness of her society, and already the thought of the life-long tie that bound them togetherwas becoming intolerable to him? But he shut his ears to the accusingvoice that was ever whispering to him that his fatal error would bringits punishment. Well, he was responsible, humanly speaking, for thehappiness of this young life; as far as he knew how, he would do hisduty. 

"Well, sweetheart, " he observed, glancing enviously at Fay's brightface, now quite forgetful of fatigue--how could she be tired whileHugh talked to to her!--"what other amusing rules does this marvelousbook contain?"

"I do think it is a marvelous book, though it is somewhat obsolete;"and here Fay stammered over the formidable word. "I know it said inone place that married people ought to have no secrets from eachother, and that was why I told you about Frank Lumsden;" and here Fayblushed very prettily. 

"Frank Lumsden, " observed Hugh, in some perplexity; "I don't think Iremember, Fay. "

"Not remember what I told you that Sunday evening in the lane--theevening after we were engaged! How Mr. Lumsden wanted to tell me howhe admired me, but I cried and would not let him; and he went away sounhappy, poor fellow. As though I could ever have cared for him, "continued, Fay, with innocent scorn, as she looked up into Hugh'shandsome face. He was regarding her attentively just then. 

Yes, she was pretty, he knew that--lovely, no doubt, to her boylovers. But to him, with the memory of Margaret's grand ideal beautyever before him, Fay's pink and pearly bloom, though it was as purelytinted as the inner calyx of a rose, faded into mere color prettiness. And as yet the spell of those wonderful eyes, of which Frank Lumsdendreamed, had exercised no potent fascination over her husband's heart. 

"Hugh, " whispered Fay, softly, "you have not kept any secrets from me, have you? I know I am very young to share all your thoughts, but youwill tell your little wife everything, will you not?"

No secrets from her! Heaven help her, poor child. Would sheknow--would she ever know? And with a great throb of pain his heartanswered, "No. "

"Why are you so silent, Hugh; you have no secrets surely?"

"Hush, dear, we can not talk any more now; we have passed the churchand the vicarage already--we are nearly home;" and as he spoke theycame in sight of the lodge, where Catharine was waiting with her babyin her arms. 

Fay smiled and nodded, and then they turned in at the gate, and thedarkness seemed to swallow them up. 

The avenue leading to Redmond Hall was the glory of the wholeneighborhood. 

Wayfarers, toiling along the hot and dusty road that leads fromSingleton to Sandycliffe, always paused to look through the great gateat the green paradise beyond. 

It was like a glade in some forest, so deep was its shadowy gloom, sounbroken its repose; while the arrowy sun-shafts flickered patterns onthe mossy footpaths, or drew a golden girdle round some time-worntrunk. 

Here stood the grand old oaks, under whose branches many a Redmondplayed as a child in the days before the Restoration--long before thetime when Marmaduke, fifth baronet of that name, joined the forces ofRupert, and fell fighting by the side of his dead sons. 

Here too were the aged beeches; some with contorted boles, andmarvelously twisted limbs, like Titans struggling in theirdeath-throes, and others with the sap of youth still flowing throughtheir woody veins, as they stood clothed in the beauty of their prime. Fay had often played in this wonderful avenue. She remembered, whenshe was a child, rambling with her nurse in the Redmond woods, withtheir copses of nut-trees and wild-rose thickets; and their tinysylvan lawns, starred over with woodland flowers, such as Spenserwould have peopled "with bearded Fauns and Satyrs, who with theirhornèd feet do wear the ground, and all the woody nymphs--the fairHamadryades;" but though she peered eagerly out in the darkness, shecould see nothing but the carriage lamps flashing on some bare trunkor gaunt skeleton branches. 

"Dear Hugh, " she whispered, timidly, "how gloomy and strange itlooks--just like an enchanted forest. "

"They have not thought fit to cut down the trees to give light to yourladyship, " observed her husband, laughing at her awe-struck tone. "Give me your hand, you foolish child; when we have passed the nextturning you will see the old Hall. There will be light enough there;"and scarcely had the words passed his lips before the Hall burst uponthem--a long low range of building, with its many windows brilliantlyilluminated and ruddy with firelight, while through the open door theforms of the assembled servants moved hither and thither in a warmbackground of light. 

"What a lovely old place, " cried Fay, breathless with excitement. "Ihad almost forgotten how beautiful it was, but I shall see it betterby daylight to-morrow. "

"Yes, " he returned, with a sigh, "I shall have plenty to show you, Fay, but now let me help you off with those furs, and lift you out. "

Fay shook herself free of the heavy wraps, and then sprung lightly tothe ground; and with her head erect like a little queen, stepped overthe threshold of her new home with her hand still in her husband's. 

The circle of men and women gathered in the great hall, with thehousekeeper and gray-haired butler at their head, thrilled with avague surprise and wonder at the sight of the childish figure besidetheir master. 

"Good evening to you all, " said Hugh, trying to speak cheerfully, though there was a huskiness in his pleasant voice that was foreign toit. "You see I have brought home your new mistress at last, Ellerton. Mrs. Heron, " shaking hands with her, "you must give Lady Redmond ahearty welcome. "

"Yes, indeed, Sir Hugh, " and the stately housekeeper folded her plumphands and looked complacently at the pretty face before her. "Athousand welcomes both to you and her ladyship, Sir Hugh, and a longlife and a happy one to you both. "

But the housekeeper, as she ended her little speech with an elaboratecourtesy, was marveling in her kindly heart what on earth hadpossessed her master to bring this lovely child to be the mistress ofRedmond Hall. 

"Thank you, very much, " returned Fay, timidly, and her sweet faceflushed as she spoke. "I trust we shall soon become good friends. Iknow how you all love my dear husband, and I hope in time that youwill be able to love me too for his sake. "

"There can be no doubt of that, I should think, Mrs. Heron, " returnedSir Hugh, moved in spite of himself; and at his tone the shy fingersclosed more tightly round his. Those who were standing by never forgotFay's look, when the girl-wife raised her beautiful eyes to herhusband's face. 

"And now, " continued Sir Hugh, "you are very tired, Fay, but our goodMrs. Heron will show you your rooms, that you may rest and refreshyourself after your long journey. This is your maid, I believe, "turning to a fresh, bright-looking girl behind him; then, as Fayobediently left him, "What time will dinner be served, Ellerton?"

"At a quarter to eight, Sir Hugh. "

"Very well; I hope there are lights and a fire in the study. "

"Yes, Sir Hugh, and in the damask drawing-room as well. " But hismaster did not seem to hear him, as he walked slowly across the hallon his way to his dressing-room. 

CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE BLUE NESTIE. 

 . . . . This perhaps was love-- To have its hands too full of gifts to give For putting out a hand to take a gift, To have so much, the perfect mood of love Includes, in strict conclusion, being loved; As Eden dew went up and fell again, Enough for watering Eden, obviously She had not thought about his love at all. The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves, And risen self-crown'd in rainbow; would she ask Who crown'd her?--it sufficed that she was crown'd. 

 E. B. BROWNING. 

Redmond Hall was a curious old house; it had been built originally inGothic style, but an aspiring Redmond, who was ignorant of the laws ofarchitecture and not possessed with the spirit of uniformity, hadthrown out windows and added wings that savored strongly of the Tudorstyle, while here and there a buttress or arch was decidedly Norman inits tendency. 

To a connoisseur this medley of architecture was a great eye-sore, butto the world in general the very irregularity of the gray old pileadded to its picturesque entirety, and somehow the effect was verypleasing. 

The various owners of the Hall, holding all modern innovations inabhorrence, had preserved its antiquity as far as possible byrestoring the old carvings and frescoes that were its chief ornaments. The entrance-hall was of noble dimensions, with a painted ceiling, anda great fire-place surrounded by oaken carvings of fruit and flowers, the work of Gibbon, with the Redmond motto, "Fideles ad urnam, " in thecenter. 

The walls were adorned with stags' antlers, and other trophies of thechase, while implements of warfare, from the bow and arrow to themodern revolver, were arranged in geometrical circles round thebattered suits of armor. 

The dwelling-rooms of the house, with the exception of thedrawing-room and billiard-room, were long and low, with the samepainted ceilings and heavy oak carvings; and some of the windows, especially in the library and morning-room, were furnished with suchdeep embrasures, as to form small withdrawing rooms in themselves, andleave the further end of the apartment in twilight obscurity even onthe brightest summer's day. 

Many people were of opinion that the old Hall needed completerenovation, but Sir Wilfred had cared little for such things. In hisfather's time a few of the rooms had been modernized and refurnished, the damask drawing-room for example, a handsome billiard-room added, and two or three bedrooms fitted up according to nineteenth centurytaste. 

But Sir Wilfred had preferred the old rooms in the quaint embrasures, where many a fair Redmond dame had worked with her daughters at thetapestry that hung in the green bedroom, which represented the deathof Saul and the history of Gideon. 

In these rooms was furniture belonging to many a different age. Carpets and chair-cushions worked in tent stitch and cross stitch andold-fashioned harpsichord; gaudy white and gold furniture of the LouisQuatorze time, mixed with the spindle-legged tables of the Queen Anneepoch. 

At the back of the Hall lay a broad stone terrace reaching from oneend of the house to the other. 

On one side were the stables and kennels, and on the other a walledsunny garden, with fruit trees and a clipped yew-hedge, and asun-dial, on which a stately race of peacocks loved to plumethemselves. 

Beyond, divided by the yew-hedge, was the herb-garden, where in theolden time many a notable house-mother, with her chintz skirts hustledthrough her pocket-holes, gathered simples for her medicines, andsweet-smelling lavender and rosemary for her presses of home-spunlinen. 

These gardens were walled and entered by a curiously wrought irondoor, said to be Flemish work; and below the terrace lay a smooth, gently sloping lawn, that stretched to the edge of a large sheet ofwater, called by courtesy the lake--the whole shut in by thebackground of the Redmond wood. 

Here through the sunny afternoon slept purple shadows, falling aslantthe yellow water-lilies, and here underneath the willows and silverybirches, in what was called "The Lover's Walk, " had Hugh dreamed manya day-dream, whose beginning and whose end was Margaret. 

Poor Hugh! he little thought as he paced that walk that the day shouldcome when his wife should walk there beside him, and look at him witheyes that were not Margaret's. 

When Fay, escorted by Mrs. Heron and followed by Janet, had ascendedthe broad oaken staircase, and passed through the long gallery, thehousekeeper paused in a recess with four red-baized doors. 

"Sir Hugh's dressing-room, my lady, " she explained, blandly, "and thenext door belongs to Sir Hugh's bathroom, and this, " pointing solemnlyto the central door, "is the oriel room. "

"What, " faltered Lady Redmond, rather fearing from Mrs. Heron's mannerthat this room might be the subject of some ghost story. 

"The oriel room, " repeated the housekeeper still more impressively, "where the Redmond ladies have always slept. In this room both SirWilfred and Sir Hugh were born, and Sir Marmaduke and his sons Percyand Herewald were laid in state after the battle. "

It was well that Fay did not understand the latter end of thehousekeeper's speech, but she shuddered notwithstanding with vaguediscomfort when the door was opened, and all the glories of the orielroom were displayed before her. It was so large and grand that a queenmight have slept in it and have been content, but to Fay's eyes it wasonly a great gloomy room, so full of hidden corners and recesses, thatthe blazing fire-light and the wax-candles only seemed to give a faintcircle of light, beyond which lurked weird shadows, hiding in the deepembrasures of the windows, or beaming against the painted ceiling. 

The cabinets and wardrobe, and grotesque tables and chairs, all ofblack oak, and, above all, the great oak bedstead with its curiouslytwisted pillars and heavy silk damask curtains--each projectedseparate shadows and filled Fay's mind with dismay, while from thepaneled walls the childish figure was reflected in dim old mirrors. 

"Oh, dear, " sighed the little bride, "I shall never dare to be bymyself in this room. Janet, you must never leave me; look how thoseshadows move. "

"It is not quite canny, my lady, " replied Janet, glancing behind herat her mistress's word, "but I think I can mend matters a little;" andso saying, she touched the logs so smartly that they spluttered andemitted showers of sparks, till the whole room gleamed warm and ruddywith reflected brightness. 

"That is better, Janet, " cried Fay, delightedly; "but where are yougoing, Mrs. Heron?" for the housekeeper was making mysterious signsthat her lady should follow her to a curtained recess; "indeed, " shecontinued, wearily, "I am very tired, and would rather see nothingmore. "

"Don't be too sure of that, my lady, " returned Mrs. Heron, smiling, and her tone made Fay follow her at once. But the next moment sheuttered a little scream of delight, for there, hidden away behind theruby curtains, was a tiny room--"a wee blue-lined nestie" fitted up asa boudoir or morning-room. The bow-window promised plenty of light, acheerful modern paper covered the wall, with one or two choicelandscapes; the snowy rug; the soft luxurious couch and loweasy-chairs, covered with delicate blue cretonne; the writing-tables, and book-case, were all so suggestive of use and comfort. Twolove-birds nestled like green blossoms in their gilded cage, and awhite Persian kitten was purring before the fire. 

"Oh, the dear room!" exclaimed Fay, in a perfect ecstasy, and thenoblivious of her dignity, her fatigue, and the presence of the statelyhousekeeper, Lady Redmond sat down on the soft white rug, and liftedthe kitten on her lap. 

"I had a Persian kitten once, " she observed, innocently; "but I tookher down to the cowslip meadow and lost her. We called her the WhiteWitch, she was so pretty and so full of mischief. I made myself quiteill crying over her loss, we were so afraid she was killed, " and hereFay buried her face in the little creature's fur, as she rockedherself to and fro in the fire-light. 

Mrs. Heron and Janet exchanged looks. Janet was smiling, but thehousekeeper's face wore a puzzled expression; her new mistressbewildered her. 

The worthy soul could make nothing of these sudden changes; first atiny woman rustling in silks, and holding her head like a littlequeen, with a plaintive voice speaking sweet words of welcome; then apale, tired lady peering into corners and averse to shadows; and now, nothing but a pretty child rocking herself to and fro with a kitten inher arms. No wonder Mrs. Heron shook her head rather gravely as sheleft the room. 

"What on earth will my master do with a child like that?" she thought;"she will not be more of a companion to him than that kitten--butthere, he knows his own business best, and she is a pretty creature. "But all the same, Mrs. Heron still shook her head at intervals, forall the household knew that Margaret Ferrers, the sister of the blindvicar of Sandycliffe, was to have come to the Hall as its mistress;and the housekeeper's faithful eyes had already noticed the cloud onher master's brow. 

"'Marry in haste and repent at leisure, ' that is what many a man hasdone to his cost, " she soliloquized, as she bustled about hercomfortable room. "Well, she is a bonny child, and he's bound to makeher happy; she will be like a bit of sunshine in the old Hall if hedoes not damp her cheerfulness with his gloomy moods. "

A little while afterward, Ellerton met his little mistress wanderingabout the Hall, and ushered her into the damask drawing-room. Fay waslooking for her husband. 

She had escaped from Janet, and had been seeking him some time, opening doors and stumbling into endless passages, but always makingher way back somehow to the focus of light--the big hall; and feelingdrearily as though she were some forlorn princess shut up in anenchanted castle, who could not find her prince. 

She wanted to feel his arms round her, and sob out all herstrangeness; and now an ogre in the shape of the gray-haired butlerhad shut her up in a great, brilliantly lighted room, where the tiny, white woman saw herself reflected in the long mirrors. 

Fay, standing dejected and pale in the center of the room, felt likeBeauty in the Beast's palace, and was dreaming out the story in herodd childish way, when the door was flung suddenly open, and theprince, in the person of Sir Hugh, made his appearance. 

She ran toward him with a little cry; but something in his lookchecked her, and she stood hesitating and coloring as he came up toher and offered his arm. 

"Ellerton has announced dinner, " he said, quietly; "draw your scarfround you, for the Hall is cold. You look very nice, dear, " hecontinued, kindly, looking at the dainty little bit of lovelinessbeside him with critically approving eyes; "you should always wearwhite in the evening, Fay;" and then, as they entered the dining-room, he placed her at the head of the table. 

Poor child, it seemed all very solemn and stately, with Ellerton andtwo other footmen to wait on them; to be divided from her husband bysilver épergnes and choice flowers, to have to peep between the fernsand flowers for a sight of the golden-brown beard. No wonder herlittle talk died away, and she stammered in her replies, and thenblushed and felt discomposed. She thought she was playing her partvery awkwardly, and was ashamed of herself for Hugh's sake, neverdreaming that the very servants who waited on her were wondering atthe radiant young creature. Everything comes to an end in this world, and so did this ordeal; for after what seemed to her endless courses, the door closed on the retiring servants, and she and her husband wereleft alone together; and when Sir Hugh woke up from a brief musing fithe found Fay at his end of the table watching him. 

"Why! what brings you here, Wee Wifie?" he asked, smiling; "have youfinished your grapes--am I keeping you waiting?"

"Oh! I am in no hurry, " she returned, calmly. "I am going to enjoy mygrapes here; it is so dull at the other end of the table;" and shechattered merrily to him, while Hugh drank his coffee, and then coaxedhim up into the "blue nestie. "

Hugh took all her thanks very graciously. He was pleased that herinnocent tastes should be gratified; he never imagined for a momentthat she thought he had chosen all the pretty knickknacks round them. 

He had said everything suitable to a lady's boudoir was to beprovided, and the people had done it very well. He had given them_carte blanche_, and it was certainly a very pretty little room; andthen he watched Fay presiding over her tea-table, and listenedplacidly to her ecstasy over the lovely old china cups, and the dearlittle antiquated silver cream-jug, and the tiny spoons; and for alittle while her brightness infected him. But presently, when she cameand nestled against him and told him how happy she was, and how dearlyshe meant to love her new home, the old look of pain came back on hisface; and telling her that he knew his Wee Wifie was tired and must goto bed, he kissed her twice, and then putting her hurriedly from him, went down-stairs. 

And when he got into his library and saw the lamp lighted, and thefire burning brightly, he gave a sigh of relief at finding himselfalone, and threw himself down in his easy-chair. 

And that night, long after Fay had prayed that she might be worthy ofHugh's love, and make him happy, and had fallen asleep in the old oakbed with a child's utter weariness, did Hugh sit with his aching headburied on his arms, thinking how he should bear it, and what he woulddo with his life!

And so the home life began, which was far more tolerable to Sir Hughthan his Continental wanderings had been; when he rode over his estateand Fay's--the Wyngate lands adjoining, from morning until lateafternoon, planning, building, restoring, or went into Pierrepoint onmagisterial business; happy if at night he was so weary with exercisethat rest was a pleasure and his little wife's manipulations sweet. All the surrounding gentry for miles round came to call at the Hall, and were loud in their praises of the sweet-faced bride; but theFerrers were not among them--all those winter months Sir Hugh neversaw Margaret. No, though the Grange and the Hall were but two milesapart, they never met; though many a time Sir Hugh had to turn hishorse into some miry lane, or across a plowed field, to escape her asshe went to and fro among the wayside cottages. 

Neither did they meet at the various entertainments--dinner-partiesand dances that were given in honor of the bride. That winter Margaretdeclined all invitations; her brother needed her--and she had nevercared much for gayety--this was her only excuse. But Sir Hugh knew whyhe never met her--her high sense of honor kept them apart--neither ofthem had lived down their pain; in the future it might be possible forher to be his friend, and the friend of his wife; but now it couldhardly be; and yet Margaret was longing, craving intensely to see thelovely young creature of whom every one was speaking, and whom alreadyshe loved by report. 

Strange to say, no one spoke about the Ferrers to Fay; people were toowell acquainted with the story of Sir Hugh's engagement to Margaret toventure on a hint. Once Fay asked a lady with whom she was driving, who lived in that quaint old house on the Sandycliffe road? and wastold briefly that the blind vicar, Mr. Ferrers, lived there with hissister. 

Fay would have put some more questions, but Mrs. Sinclair turned thesubject rather quickly; but Fay recurred to it that evening. 

"Why have not the Ferrers called on us, Hugh?" she asked, suddenly, when she was keeping him company in the library. 

Sir Hugh started, and then jumped up to replenish the fire. 

"Who told you about them?" he asked, as he tried to break a refractorycoal. 

"Mrs. Sinclair. I was driving with her this afternoon, and I asked herwho lived in that red brick house with the curious gables, on theSandycliffe road, and she said it was the blind vicar, Mr. Ferrers, and his sister; don't you like them, Hugh? everyone else has called, and it seems rather strange that they should have taken no notice. "

"Well, you see, it is a little awkward, " returned her husband, stillwrestling with the coal, while Fay watched the process with interest;"they used to be friends of mine, but we have had a misunderstanding, and now, of course, there is a coolness. "

"And they are nice people. "

"Very nice people; he is a very clever man, but we do not agree--thatis all;" and then Hugh disposed of the coal and took up his paper, andFay did not like to disturb him with any more questions. It seemed agreat pity, she thought, it was such a lovely house; and if Mr. Ferrers were a nice clever man--and then she wondered what his sisterwas like; and as she sat at Hugh's feet basking in the fire-light shehad no idea that Hugh's forehead was clouded and puckered with pain. Fay's innocent questions had raised a storm in his breast. Would shespeak of them again? was there any danger that people would gossip toher? One day he might be obliged to tell her himself, but not now, sheseemed so happy, so perfectly contented, and she was such a child. 

Yes, Hugh's Wee Wifie was very happy. 

At first, to be sure, her position was a little difficult and irksome. The number of servants bewildered her; she wished Mrs. Heron would notinterlard her conversation with so many "my ladys, " and that, Hughwould ride with her oftener instead of that tiresome groom. 

But by and by she got used to her new dignity, and would drive hergray ponies through the country roads, stopping to speak to any oldvillager she knew; or she would mount Bonnie Bess at the hour shethought Hugh would be returning from Pierrepoint, and gallop throughthe lanes to meet him and rein up at his side, startling him from hisabstraction with that ringing laugh of hers. 

She was seldom idle, and never dull. 

When Sir Hugh had shooting parties, she always carried the luncheon tothe sportsmen, driving through the wood in her pony-carriage; when herhusband began to return his neighbors' hospitality, she surprised himby making a perfect little hostess, and never seemed too shy to chatin her pretty, modest manner to his guests. All Sir Hugh's masculinefriends fell in love with her, and the ladies petted and made much ofher. 

Fay was very grateful to them for their kindness, but she liked bestto be alone in the old Hall. 

She had a hundred sources of amusement; she would follow Mrs. Heronfrom room to room, listening to her stories of many a dead Redmond; orcoax her to show the old treasures of tapestry and lace; or she wouldwander through the gardens and woods with her favorite Nero and SirHugh's noble St. Bernard, Pierre. 

She made acquaintance with every man, woman, and child about theplace, and all the animals besides; when the spring came she knew allthe calves and lambs by name, all the broods of chickens andducklings; she visited the stables and the poultry-yards till everyhelper and boy about the premises knew her bright face well, and wereready to vow that a sweeter-spoken creature never lived than the youngLady Redmond. 

And she would prattle to Hugh all through the long dinner, beguilinghim by her quaint bright stories; and when he went into thelibrary--she never could coax him after that first evening into her"blue nestie"--she would follow him and sit herself at his feet withher work or book, perfectly content if he sometimes stroked her hair, or with a sudden feeling of compunction stooped over her and kissedher brow, for he was always very gentle with her, and Fay adored himfrom the depths of her innocent heart. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THAT ROOM OF MRS. WATKINS'S. 

 Soft hair on which light drops a diadem. 

 GERALD MASSEY. 

 With hands so flower-like, soft and fair, She caught at life with words as sweet As first spring violets. 

 _Ibid. _

No, it was not a bad room, that room of Mrs. Watkins's, seen just nowin the November dusk, with its bright fire and neat hearth, with thekettle gossiping deliciously to itself; there was at once somethingcomfortable and homelike about it; especially as the red curtains weredrawn across the two windows that look down into High Street, and thegreat carts that had been rumbling underneath them since daybreak hadgiven place to the jolting of lighter vehicles which passed andrepassed at intervals. 

The room was large, though a little low, and was plainly butcomfortably furnished; an old-fashioned crimson couch stood in onecorner; some stained book-shelves contained a few well-bound books;and one or two simple engravings in cheap frames adorned the wall. Inspite of the simplicity of the whole there were evidences of refinedtaste--there were growing ferns in tall baskets; some red leaves andautumn berries arranged in old china vases; a beautiful head ofClytie, though it was only in plaster of Paris, on the mantel-piece. The pretty tea service on the round table was only white china, hand-painted; and some more red leaves with dark chrysanthemums weretastefully arranged in a low wicker-basket in the center. 

One glance would have convinced even a stranger that this room wasinhabited by people of cultured taste and small means; and it was sopleasant, so home-like, so warm with ruddy fire-light, that granderrooms would have looked comfortless in comparison. There were only twopeople in it on this November evening--a girl lying back in arocking-chair, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the dancing flames, and a child of ten, though looking two or three years younger, sittingon a stool before the fire, with a black kitten asleep on her lap, andher arms clasped round her knees. 

An odd, weird sort of child, with a head running over with little darkcurls, and large wondering eyes--not an ordinary child, and certainlynot a pretty one, and looking, at the present moment, with herwrinkled eyebrows and huddled-up figure, like a little old witch in afairy tale. 

"I am that tired, " observed the child, apparently apostrophising thekettle, "that not all the monkeys in the Zoölogical Gardens could makeme laugh; no, not if they had the old father baboon as their head. Iwish I were a jaguar!"

"Why, Fluff?" exclaimed a pleasant voice from the rocking-chair. "Why, Fluff?"

"I wish I were a jaguar, " repeated the child, defiantly; "not a bison, because of its hump, nor a camel either. Why, those great spotted catshad their balls to amuse them, and polished ivory bones as well; andthe brown bear climbed his pole, and eat buns; no one's mother left itin the dark before the fire, with no one to tell it tales, and only akettle to talk to a person;" and Fluff curled herself up on her stoolwith an affronted air. 

The elder girl made no answer, but only stooped down and smilinglylifted the child and kitten on her lap--she was very small and lightfor her age--whereupon Fluff left off sighing, and rubbed her curlyhead against her sister's shoulder with a contented air. 

The sisters were certainly very unlike, Fluff being very small anddark, while Fern was tall and fair; without being exactly gifted withher mother's beauty, she had a charming face, soft gray eyes, and hairof that golden-brown that one sees so often in English girls. 

There were few people who did not think Fern Trafford decidedlypretty; her features were not exactly regular, but her coloring waslovely, and there was a joyousness and brightness about her thatattracted old and young; every one loved Fern, and spoke well of her, she was so simple, so unselfish, so altogether charming, as they said. 

Fern never complained of the narrowness of her life, never frettedbecause their poverty excluded her from the pleasures girls of her agegenerally enjoyed. From her childhood she had known no other life. There were times when she remembered that she had gone to bed hungry, times when her mother's face looked pinched and miserable--when herfather was dying, and they thought Baby Florence would die too. Somehow Fern never cared to think of those days. 

Fern was devoted to her mother, she clave to her with innocent loveand loyalty. Percy's defection had been the bitterest trouble of herlife. The girl nearly broke her heart when Percy left them. She grewthin and pale and large-eyed, as girls will when they are fretting andgrowing at the same time. Nea's motherly heart was touched withcompassion for her child. She wished, if possible, to suffer alone; ifit were in her power she would prevent the faintest shadow touchingthat bright young life. 

So she spoke to her in her calm, sensible way, for Nea was alwaysgentle with her children, and Fern was very dear to her--she had herfather's eyes, and Maurice's pure upright nature seemed transmitted tohis young daughter. 

"Fern, " she said, one evening when they were sitting together in thetwilight, "you must not add to my burdens; it makes me still moreunhappy to see you fretting; I miss my little daughter's brightnessthat used to be such a comfort to me. "

"Am I a comfort to you, mother?" asked Fern, wistfully, and somethingin those earnest gray eyes thrilled the widow's heart with fresh pangsof memory. 

"You are my one bit of sunshine, " she answered, fondly, taking thegirl's face between her hands and kissing it almost passionately. "Keep bright for your poor mother's sake, Fern. "

Fern never forgot this little speech. She understood, then, that hermission was to be her mother's comforter; and with the utmostsweetness and unselfishness she put aside her own longings for herbrother, and strove to make up for his loss. So Fern bloomed in herpoor home like some lovely flower in a cottage garden, growing up towomanhood in those rooms over Mrs. Watkins's. 

Fern had long since finished her education, and now gave morninglessons to the vicar's little daughters. In her leisure hours she madeher simple gowns and Fluff's frocks, and taught the child the littleshe could be persuaded to learn, for Fluff was a spoiled child andvery backward for her age; and one or two people, Mrs. Watkins amongthem, had given it as their opinion that little Florence was not allthere, rather odd and uncanny in fact. 

Fern was quite contented with her life. She was fond of teaching andvery fond of her little pupils. Her pleasures were few and simple; awalk with Crystal or Fluff to look at the shops, perhaps an omnibusjourney and an hour or two's ramble in the Park or Kensington Garden, a cozy chat with her mother in the evening, sometimes, on grandoccasions, a shilling seat at the Monday or Saturday Popular. 

Fern loved pretty things, but she seemed quite satisfied to look atthem through plate glass; a new dress, a few flowers, or a new bookwere events in her life. She would sing over her work as she satsewing by the window; the gay young voice made people look up, butthey seldom caught a glimpse of the golden-brown head behind thecurtain. Fern had her dreams, like other girls; something, she hardlyknew what, would happen to her some day. There was always a prince inthe fairy stories that she told Fluff, but she never described him. "What is he like?" Fluff would ask with childish impatience, but Fernwould only blush and smile, and say she did not know. If, sometimes, ahandsome boyish face, not dark like Percy, but with a fair, buddingmustache and laughing eyes, seemed to rise out of the mist and look ather with odd wistfulness, Fern never spoke of it; a sort of goldenhaze pervaded it. Sometimes those eyes were eloquent, and seemedappealing to her; a strange meaning pervaded the silence; in that poorroom blossomed all sorts of sweet fancies and wonderful dreams asFern's needle flew through the stuff. 

As Fluff rubbed her rough head confidingly against her shoulder, Ferngave a musical little laugh that was delicious to hear. "You absurdchild, " she said, in an amused tone, "I really must tell Mr. Erle notto take you again to the Zoölogical Gardens; you talk of nothing butbears and jaguars. So you want a story, you are positively insatiable, Fluff; how am I to think of one with my wits all wool-gathering andgone a-wandering like Bopeep's sheep? It must be an old one. Which isit to be? 'The Chocolate House, ' or 'Princess Dove and the Palace ofthe Hundred Boys. '"

"Humph, " returned Fluff, musingly; "well, I hardly know. 'TheChocolate House' is very nice, with its pathway paved with white andpink sugar plums, and its barley-sugar chairs; and don't you rememberthat, when Hans was hungry, he broke a little brown bit off the roof;but after all, I think I like 'Princess Dove and the Palace of theHundred Boys' best. Let us go on where you left off. "

"Where we left off?" repeated Fern, in her clear voice. "Yes, Irecollect. Well, when Prince Happy-Thought--"

"Merrydew, " corrected the child. 

"Ah--true--well, when it came to Prince Merrydew's turn to throw upthe golden ball, it went right over the moon and came down the otherside, so Princess Dove proclaimed him victor, and gave him thesapphire crown; and the hundred boys--and--where was I, Fluff?"

"In the emerald meadow, where the ruby flowers grew, " returned Fluff. "Go on, Fern. "

"So Princess Dove put on the crown, and it was so heavy that poorPrince Merrydew's head began to ache, and the wicked old fairyDo-nothing, who was looking on, hobbled on her golden crutches to theturquois pavilion, and--hush! I hear footsteps. Jump off my lap, Fluffy, dear, and let me light the candles. " And she had scarcely doneso before there was a quick tap at the door, and the next moment twoyoung men entered the room. 

Fluff ran to them at once with a pleased exclamation. 

"Why, it is Percy and Mr. Erle; oh, dear, how glad I am. "

"How do you do, Toddlekins, " observed her brother, stooping to kissthe child's cheek, and patting her kindly on the head; "how are you, you dark-eyed witch, " but as he spoke, his eyes glanced anxiouslyround the room. 

"We never expected to see you to-night, Percy, dear, " observed Fern, as she greeted him affectionately, and then gave her hand with aslight blush to the young man who was following him. "Mother will beso sorry to miss you; she was obliged to go out again. One of thegirls at Miss Martingale's is ill, and Miss Theresa seems fidgetyabout her, so mother said she would sit with the invalid for an houror two. "

"I suppose Miss Davenport is out too"--walking to the fire-place towarm his hands. 

"Yes, dear; there is a children's party at the Nortons'; it is littleNora's birthday, and nothing would satisfy the child until Crystalpromised to go and play with them. It is only an early affair, and shewill be back soon, so Fluff and I are waiting tea for her. "

"You look very snug here, Miss Trafford, " observed the other youngman, whom Fluff had called Mr. Erle. By tacit consent his other namewas never uttered in that house; it would have been too painful toMrs. Trafford to hear him addressed as Mr. Huntingdon. 

The young men were complete contrasts to each other. Percy Traffordwas tall and slight, he had his mother's fine profile and regularfeatures, and was a singularly handsome young man; his face would havebeen almost perfect, except for the weak, irresolute mouth, hardlyhidden by the dark mustache and a somewhat heavily molded chin thatexpressed sullenness and perhaps ill-governed passions. 

The bright-faced boy, Nea's first-born and darling, had sadlydeteriorated during the years that he had lived under hisgrandfather's roof. His selfishness had taken deeper root; he hadbecome idle and self-indulgent; his one thought was how to amusehimself best. In his heart he had no love for the old man, who hadgiven him the shelter of his roof, and loaded him with kindness; butall the same he was secretly jealous of his cousin Erle, who, as hetold himself, bitterly, had supplanted him. 

Percy's conscience reproached him at times for his desertion of hiswidowed mother. He knew that it was a shabby thing for him to beliving in luxury, while she worked for her daily bread; but after all, he thought it was more her fault than his. She would have none of hisgifts; she would not bend her proud spirit to seek a reconciliationwith her father, though Percy felt sure that the old man had long agorepented of his harshness; and yet, when he had hinted this to hismother, she had absolutely refused to listen to him. 

"It is too late, Percy. I have no father now, " she had returned, inher firm, sad voice, and her face had looked like marble as she spoke. 

Percy was rather in awe of his grandfather. Mr. Huntingdon had grownharder and more tyrannical as the years passed on. Neither of theyoung men ventured to oppose his iron will. He was fond of hisgrandson, proud of his good looks and aristocratic air, and notdisposed to quarrel with him because he was a little wild. "Young menwould be young men, " was a favorite saying of his; he had used itbefore in the case of Lord Ronald Gower. 

But his nephew, Erle, was really dearer to the old man's heart. Butthen every one liked Erle Huntingdon, he was so sweet-tempered andfull of life, so honest and frank, and so thoroughly unselfish. 

He was somewhat short, at least beside Percy, and his pleasant, boyishface had no special claims to good looks. He had the ruddy, youthfulair of a young David, and there was something of the innocence of thesheep-fold about him. 

All women liked Erle Huntingdon. He was so gentle and chivalrous inhis manner to them; he never seemed to think of himself when he wastalking to them; and his bonhomie and gay good-humor made him acharming companion. 

Erle never understood himself how caressing his manners could be attimes. He liked all women, old and young, but only one had reallytouched his heart. It was strange, then, that more than one hoped thatshe had found favor in his eyes. Erle's sunshiny nature made him auniversal favorite, but it may be doubted whether any of his friendsreally read him correctly. Now and then an older man told him hewanted ballast, and warned him not to carry that easy good nature toofar or it might lead him into mischief; but the spoiled child offortune only shook his head with a laugh. 

But in reality Erle Huntingdon's character wanted back-bone; his will, not a strong one, was likely to be dominated by a stronger. With allhis pleasantness and natural good qualities he was vacillating andweak; if any pressure or difficulty should come into his life, itwould be likely for him to be weighed in the balance and foundwanting. 

At present his life had been smooth and uneventful; he had yet to testthe hollowness of human happiness, to learn that the highest sort oflife is not merely to be cradled in luxury and to fare sumptuouslyevery day. The purple and fine linen are good enough in their way, andthe myrrh and the aloes and the cassia, but what does the wise mansay--"Rejoice, oh, young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheerthee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all thesethings God will bring thee into judgment . . . For childhood and youthare vanity. "

Erle knew that a new interest had lately come into his life; that acertain shabby room, that was yet more homelike to him than any roomin Belgrave House, was always before his eyes: that a girl in a browndress, with sweet, wistful eyes, was never absent from his memory. 

Neither Fern nor he owned the truth to themselves; they were ignorantas yet that they were commencing the first chapter of their life-idyl. Fern had a vague sense that the room was brighter when Erle was therelooking at her with those kindly glances. She never owned to herselfthat he was her prince, and that she had found favor in his eyes. Shewas far too humble for that; but she knew the days were somehowglorified and transfigured when she had seen him, and Erle knew thatno face was so lovely to him as this girl's face, no voice half sosweet in his ears, and yet people were beginning to connect his namewith Miss Selby, Lady Maltravers' beautiful niece. 

He was thinking of Miss Selby now as he looked across at Fern. She hadtaken up her work again, and Percy had thrown himself into therocking-chair beside her with a discontented expression on his face. He was telling himself that Miss Selby was handsome, of coursestrikingly handsome; but somehow she lacked this girl's sweetgraciousness. Just then Fern raised her eyes, and a quick, sensitivecolor came into her face as she encountered his fixed glance. 

"Ah, do you know, Miss Trafford, " he said quickly, to put her at herease, "I have promised to spend Christmas with my cousin, Sir HughRedmond. I am rather anxious to see his wife. Report says she is avery pretty girl. "

"I did not know Sir Hugh Redmond was your cousin, " returned Fern, without raising her eyes from her work. 

"Yes, on my mother's side, but I have not been to Redmond Hall for anage. Old Hugh had rather a disappointment last year; he was engaged toanother lady, and she jilted him--at least that is the popular editionof the story; but anyhow the poor old fellow seemed rather badly hit. "

"And he has married so soon!" in an incredulous tone. 

"Of course, caught at the rebound like many other fellows. Don't youknow how the old adage runs, Miss Trafford:

 "'Shall I wasting with despaire Die because a woman's faire? If she be not faire for me, What care I how faire she be?'

that is the right sort of spirit, eh, Percy. "

"How should I know?" returned Percy, morosely--he was evidently out ofhumor about something; and then, as though he feared to bring onhimself one of Erle's jesting; remarks, he roused himself with aneffort. "Well, Toddlekins, how's Flibbertigibbet; come and sit on myknee, and I will tell you the story of Mr. Harlequin Puss-in-boots. "

"My name is not Toddlekins, " returned Fluff indignantly, "and I don'tcare about Flibbertigibbet or Puss-in-boots; your stories are stupid, Percy, they never have any end. " And then, with the capriciousness ofa spoiled child, she sidled up to her chief favorite, Erle, and puther hands confidingly in his. 

"When are you going to take me again to the Zoölogical Gardens, Mr. Erle?" she said, in a coaxing voice; "Fern wants to go, too, don'tyou, dear?" but her sister shook her head at her with a faint smile, and went on with her work. 

"I don't see my way clear yet awhile, Pussy, " replied Erle, as hesmoothed Fluff's curls, and here he and Percy exchanged meaning looks;for during his grandfather's absence from town Erle had paid frequentvisits to Beulah Place, and on one occasion had actually carried offthe child for a day at the Zoölogical Gardens in spite of Fern's demurthat she hardly knew what her mother would say. 

"But surely you can do as you like, Mr. Erle, " persisted the chill, earnestly. "Percy tells us that you are so rich, and ride suchbeautiful horses in the park, and that you have nothing to do but justenjoy yourself; why can't you take Fern and me to the ZoölogicalGardens?"

"Oh, Fluff, Fluff!" remonstrated her sister, in a distressed tone, "what will Mr. Erle think of you?"

Erle looked embarrassed at the child's speech, but Percy laughed, andthe next minute he rose. 

"Do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes, Fern? I have a littlebusiness that will take me about a quarter of an hour--oh, I will beback in time, " as Erle seemed inclined to remonstrate; "you may dependupon it that I will not make you late for dinner, as la Belle Evelynis to be there, " and with a nod at his sister he left the room. 

Fern looked a little troubled. "I hope he has not gone to meet--" andthen she flushed up and did not finish her sentence; but Erleunderstood her in a moment. 

"Miss Davenport would not be pleased, I suppose--oh, yes, of course hehas gone to meet her. What a pity your mother is not here, MissTrafford; she would have kept him in order?"

"Crystal will be so angry, " replied Fern, anxiously, and dropping hervoice so that Fluff should not overhear her; but the child, disappointed that her request had been refused, had betaken herself tothe furthest corner of the room with her kitten, to whom she waswhispering her displeasure. "She never likes Percy to meet her or showher any attention; I have told him so over and over again, but he willnot listen to me. "

"I am afraid he is rather smitten with your friend, MissDavenport--she is wonderfully handsome, certainly. Yes, one can not besurprised at Percy's infatuation--you are the gainer in one way, MissTrafford, for Percy never came half so often until Miss Davenportlived with you. "

"That makes it all the more wrong, " returned Fern, firmly; "it wasPercy's duty to come and see mother, and yet he stayed away for monthsat a time. Crystal has never encouraged him--she never will. I know inher heart she does not like Percy, and yet he will persist inharassing her. "

"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, " returned Erle, lightly; and then, as he saw the tears in Fern's eyes, his manner changed. "You must nottrouble yourself about it, " he said, kindly; "it will be Percy's ownfault if he gets badly bitten: even I, a complete stranger to MissDavenport--for I believe I have not seen her more than threetimes--can quite indorse what you say; her manner is most repelling toPercy. He must be bewitched, I think. "

"I wish he were different, " she replied, with a sigh; "I know he makesmother often very unhappy, though she never says so. He seems to findfault with us for our poverty, and says hard things to mother becauseshe will work for us all. "

"Yes, I know, and yet Percy is not a bad-hearted fellow, " repliedErle, in a sympathizing tone; "he is terribly sore, I know, becauseyour mother refuses his help; he has told me over and over again thatwith his handsome allowance he could keep her in comfort, and that heknows that his grandfather would not object. It makes him bitter--itdoes indeed, Miss Trafford, to have his gifts refused. "

"How can we help it?" returned Fern, in a choking voice. "Percy oughtto know that we can not use any of Mr. Huntingdon's money: neither mymother nor I would ever touch a penny of it. Don't you know, "struggling with her tears, "that my poor father died broken-hearted, and he might have saved him?"

"Yes, I know, " replied Erle, looking kindly at the weeping girl, "andI for one can not say you are wrong. My uncle has dealt very harshlyand I fear cruelly by his own flesh and blood--my poor mother oftencried as she told me so; but she always said that it was not for us toblame him who lived under his roof and profited by his generosity. Hewas a benefactor to us in our trouble--for we were poor, too. " Buthere Erle checked himself abruptly, for he did not care to tell Fernthat his father had been a gambler, and had squandered all his wife'sproperty; but he remembered almost as vividly as though it wereyesterday, when he was playing in their miserable lodgings at Naples, after his father's death--how a grave, stern-faced man came into theroom and sat down beside his mother; and one speech had reached hisears. 

"Never mind all that, Beatrice, you are happier as his widow than hiswife. Forget the past, and come home with me, and your boy shall bemine. "

Erle certainly loved his uncle, and it always pained him to rememberhis wrong-doing. In his boyish generosity he had once ventured tointercede for the disinherited daughter, and had even gone so far asto implore that his uncle would never put him in Percy's place; butthe burst of anger with which his words were received cowed himeffectually. 

"A Trafford shall never inherit my property, " Mr. Huntingdon had said, with a frown so black that the boy positively quailed under it; "Iwould leave it all to a hospital first--never presume to speak to meof this again. Percy does not require any pity; when he leaves Oxfordhe will read for the Bar. We have arranged all that; he will have ahandsome allowance; and with his capacity--for his tutor tells me heis a clever fellow--he will soon carve his way to fortune;" and afterthis, Erle certainly held his peace. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

CRYSTAL. 

 I do remember it. 'Twas such a face As Guido would have loved to look upon. 

 CORNWALL. 

 She was as tender As infancy and grace. 

 SHAKESPEARE. 

Fern looked a little surprised at Erle's speech. "I did not know youhad been poor, too, " she returned, drying her eyes, and taking up herwork again. 

"Yes, but I was very young, and knew little about it; my poor motherwas the one to suffer. Well, she wanted for nothing when my uncle tookus to Belgrave House; he was very good to her until she died; and, "with a slight hesitation in his voice, "he is good to me. "

"Yes, and you are right to be fond of him, " returned Fern, frankly. "Sometimes I think it is not quite kind of me to speak to you of Percyand our troubles, because it seems to cast a reflection on one youlove and"--but Erle interrupted her. 

"I hope you will never withhold your confidence, Miss Trafford; Ishould not feel that you treated me as a friend if you did not allowme to share some of your troubles. Percy and I are like brothers, andPercy's mother and sister--" but here he paused and a flush crossedhis face. How could he tell this girl that she should be as a sisterto him, when he knew that even to be alone with her for a few minutesmade his heart beat with strange thrills of happiness? His sister, never!

Fern felt a little confused at the sudden pause. She wished in a vaguesort of way that he would finish his sentence and tell her what hemeant; the silence was becoming awkward. 

Fern worked on desperately, but her cheeks were burning. Both of themfelt relieved when they heard footsteps approaching--Erle especially, for some dim instinct told him that in another minute he should havebetrayed himself. 

Both of them rose simultaneously as the door opened; and at the samemoment Fluff, hugging herself among the sofa cushions, whispered intothe kitten's ear:

"They don't know that I heard every word. One of these days I shall goand see grandpapa, and ask him why we may not come and live with himas well as Percy. Erle would like it, I know; he is so fond of Fern. "

Erle certainly looked a little amused as his friend entered the roomaccompanied by a tall, dark girl, very plainly dressed. But hisexpression changed as he noticed Percy's moody looks, and the air ofextreme haughtiness observable in the manner of his companion. 

Miss Davenport was evidently very much annoyed; she shook hands withErle, without deigning to look at him, and walked straight to thefire-place. 

Fern followed her. "I am so glad you have come home so early, Crystal;Fluff and I have waited tea for you, but we hardly expected you yet. "

"I am sorry you waited for me, " returned the girl, who called herselfCrystal Davenport, in a constrained voice; "Mrs. Norton gave me sometea, because she said I must be tired playing with the children. "

"Come, we must be going, Erle, " interrupted Percy, sharply, "or weshall be late for dinner. Good-bye, Fern; tell my mother I am sorry tomiss her. Good-evening, Miss Davenport;" but he hesitated, as thoughhe dared not venture to offer his hand. 

"Good-night, Mr. Trafford, " she returned, indifferently; but she didnot turn her long neck as she spoke. And Erle contented himself with abow. 

"What is it, Crystal, dear?" asked Fern, anxiously, as the two youngmen left the room; but Crystal only lifted her eyebrows and glanced atFluff, whose curly head was distinctly visible; so Fern saidcheerfully, "Very well, we have our tea, and then it will be Fluff'sbed-time;" and then without another word busied herself with hersimple preparations. 

But it was not a festive meal. In spite of all her cheery effortsCrystal sat quite silent, with a cloud on her handsome face, and Fluffhad turned sulky at the mention of her bed-time. So Fern fell tothinking of Erle's look as he bade her good-night--how kind he hadbeen to her that evening. Yes, she was glad they were friends, andthat he cared to hear about their troubles. He was so unselfish, sodifferent to other young men--Fern did not know a single young manexcept Erle, so her knowledge was not very reliable; and then, with anodd transition of thought, she wondered who Miss Selby could be, andwhy Percy called her la Belle Evelyn, and looked at Erle somischievously. 

But presently, when Fluff had gone off grumbling with her kitten, andall the pretty tea-things had been washed and put away in the bigcorner cupboard, and the kettle was silent, and only a cricket chirpedon the hearth, Fern sat down beside Crystal, and put her armaffectionately round her. "Now, you can tell me what has beentroubling you, darling, " she said, in a coaxing voice. 

It seemed a pity that there was no one to see the two faces so closetogether; an artist would have sketched them as Night and Morning. Fern's soft English fairness made a splendid foil to Crystal's olivecomplexion and dark southern coloring. The girl was superbly handsome, in spite of the bitter lines round the mouth and the hard, defiantcurve of the lips. As Fern spoke her dark eyes flashed angrily. 

"He has been speaking to me again, " she said, in an agitated voice. "He has dared to follow me and persecute me; and he calls itlove--love!" with immeasurable contempt in her tone; "and when I tellhim that it is ungenerous and wrong, he complains that I have robbedhim of all peace. Fern, I know he is your brother, and that I oughtnot to speak against him; but how am I to help hating him?"

"Oh, no!" with a shudder, for Fern's gentle nature was not capable ofCrystal's passion; "you must not hate poor Percy--he can not helploving you. "

"A poor sort of love, " returned Crystal, scornfully; "a love thatpartakes too much of the owner's selfishness to be to my taste. Fern, how can he be your mother's son? he has not a grain of her noble, frank nature, and from all accounts he does not take after yourfather. "

"But he is very clever, Crystal, and Mr. Erle says he is reallykind-hearted, " returned Fern, in a troubled tone; "people admire andlike him, and there are many and many girls, Mr. Erle says, would beready to listen to him. He is very handsome, even you must allow that, and it is not the poor boy's fault if he has lost his heart to you. "

Crystal smiled at this sisterly defense, but the next moment she said, tenderly:

"You are such a little angel of goodness yourself, Fern, that younever think people are to blame--you would always excuse them if youcould; you have so little knowledge of the world, and have led such arecluse life that you hardly know how rigid society really is; but Ishould have thought that even you would have thought it wrong for yourbrother to come here so often in your mother's absence and bring hisfriend with him; it is taking advantage of two defenseless girls tointrude himself and Mr. Erle on us in this way. "

"But Percy never knows when mother is out, " replied Fern, in a puzzledtone. 

Crystal was silent; she held a different opinion, but after all sheneed not put these ideas into Fern's innocent mind. It was her ownconviction that Percy in some way was always aware of his mother'sabsence. At first he had come alone, and now he always brought Erlewith him, and she wanted to say a word that might put Fern on herguard; but at the present moment she was too full of her owngrievance. 

"You know, Fern, " she continued, in a very grave voice, "if this goeson and your brother refuses to hear reason, I shall be obliged to seekanother home, where I shall be free from his unmanly persecution;yes"--as Fern uttered an incredulous exclamation--"though I love youall so dearly, and have grown to look upon this as a home, I shall beforced to go a second time into the world. "

"But Percy must hear reason, " returned Fern, tearfully. "I will askmother to talk to him, and I know Mr. Erle has given him hints. We cannot part with you, Crystal. I have never had a companion of my own agebefore, and mother is so often out. "

"Well, well, " observed Crystal, soothingly, "I have told him the truthto-night, and perhaps he will believe it; but there! we will not talkabout your brother any more. And so he left you alone with Mr. Erle, Fern?"

"Oh, yes, but we were not long alone, " returned the girl, innocently. 

"You and Mr. Erle seem good friends. "

"Yes, I suppose so, " rather shyly; "he was very kind to me thisevening. "

"Did he tell you anything about the beautiful Miss Selby who is todine with her aunt, Lady Maltravers, at Belgrave House to-night? acousin of Mr. Erle's, Lady Denison, is to act hostess. "

"No, " returned Fern, rather faintly, but she was conscious of a sharppain as Crystal spoke. 

"And yet he meets her very often. Ah, well, young men do not tell alltheir little secrets. Of course Mr. Erle's life is very different fromours; we are working bees, Fern, and he is a butterfly of fashion. When he comes here he makes himself very bright and pleasant, but weknow nothing of his real life. "

"No, of course not. " But a sort of chill passed over Fern as Crystalspoke. Why did she say these sort of things so often to her? did shethink it wrong for her and Mr. Erle to be friends? was she warningher, and against what? Well, it was true she knew nothing of his lifeexcepting what he chose to tell her. He had never mentioned this MissSelby, though, according to Percy's account, he met her very often. Few ladies dined at Belgrave House, but to-night she was to be there. For the first time Fern's gentle nature felt jarred and out of tune. The bright little fire had burned hollow; there was a faint clingingmist from the fog outside; the cricket had ceased to chirp. Fernglanced round her disconsolately; how poor and shabby it must look tohim, she thought, after the rooms at Belgrave House. 

But the next moment she started up in a conscience-stricken way. "There is mother's step, Crystal, and we have neglected the fire; poormother, and she will be so tired and cold. " And Fern drove back herrebellious thoughts, bravely, and seized the bellows and manipulatedthe fire, while Crystal drew up the old easy-chair, and placed afootstool. Mrs. Trafford smiled as she saw these preparations for hercomfort; her pale face relaxed from its gravity as Fern waited uponher, taking off her bonnet, and smoothing the beautiful gray hair witheager loving fingers. 

"Thank you, dearest, " she said, drawing down the girl's face to hers;"and now tell me what you have both been doing. "

"Percy and Mr. Erle have been here, " was Fern's answer, as she tookher place at her mother's feet; "and Percy left his love for you, andwas so sorry to miss you. "

Mrs. Trafford made no comment on this piece of information, but sheglanced quickly at Crystal; perhaps something in the girl's facewarned her, for she at once changed the subject, to her daughter'ssurprise, and, without asking any questions, began telling them aboutthe invalid. 

But after they had chatted for a few minutes, Crystal rose, and, saying that she was very tired, bade them both good-night. 

Mrs. Trafford looked after the girl anxiously, and then her glancefell on her daughter. Fern was looking into the fire, dreamily, andthere was a sort of wistfulness in her eyes; when her mother touchedher gently she started. 

"My little sunbeam does not look quite so bright tonight, " she said, tenderly. "I am afraid you have been tiring yourself, Fern, trying tofinish Florence's frock. "

"Oh, no, " returned the girl, quickly, and then a frank blush came toher face as she met her mother's clear searching look. "Well, I willconfess, as Fluff says"--laughing a little unsteadily; "I am afraid Iwas just a little bit discontented. "

"You discontented, my pet?" in an incredulous voice, for Fern's sweetunselfishness and bright content made the sunshine of their humblehome. There seemed no chord of fretfulness in the girl's nature; herpure health and buoyant spirits found no cause for complaint. Nealived her youth again in her child, and she often thanked Heaven evenin her desolate moments for this one blessing that had neverdisappointed her. 

Fern pressed a little closer to her mother, and wrapped her arms roundher. "But it is true, mother, I had quite a naughty fit. Crystaltalked about Percy and Mr. Erle; it was not so much what she said aswhat she implied that troubled me, but she seemed to think that ourlife was so different to theirs--that we were poor people, and thatthey had nothing in common with us, and that it was better not to befriends. Somehow, it made me feel all at once how shabby andcommonplace one's life really was. "

Mrs. Trafford sighed, but there was no reproach in her voice. "Yes, dear; I understand, it is quite natural, and I should have felt thesame at your age. I wish, for your sake, my darling, that things weredifferent; but Crystal is very wise and right in trying to make youunderstand the barrier between Erle Huntingdon and us. "

"But, mother, " with a burning face, "we are gentlefolk; surely it doesnot matter so much that we are poor. "

"The world would not indorse that, Fern, " replied her mother, gently;"it is apt to turn a cold shoulder to genteel poverty. The hardest lotin life, in my opinion, is the life of a poor gentlewoman. "

"But Mr. Erle does not look down upon us, " persisted Fern, "or hewould not come so often. He always says that no room in Belgrave Houseis so home-like as this room, and that he is happier here than in thehouses of his grand friends. "

A troubled look came to the mother's face, and involuntarily shepressed her child closer to her, as though to defend her from somethreatened danger, and her voice was not quite so clear as usual asshe answered:

"It is Erle's nature to say pleasant things. He is a gentlemanly, kind-hearted fellow, and I am sure that we all like him very much; butI should not care for my little daughter to see too much of him. ErleHuntingdon is not the friend I would choose for you, Fern. "

"But, mother"--opening her eyes widely at this--"if we like him, whyshould we not be friends?"

Mrs. Trafford hesitated; she hardly liked to disturb Fern's mind, andyet she wished to put her on her guard. 

"You see, Fern, " she answered, with assumed lightness, "we are poorpeople--very poor people; we have to work for our bread, and to becontent with simple fare; but my young cousin Erle is rich--he will behis uncle's heir one day, and, no doubt, he will marry some rich, handsome girl. All the world is before him; he has only to look roundhim and choose, like the prince in a fairy story. You may be surethere is some gay young princess waiting for him somewhere. Are youcold, my darling?" for Fern shivered a little. 

"We have let the fire get rather low, " returned Fern, jumping up toreplenish it; but somehow her voice was not quite under her control, and her hand was a little unsteady. "Oh, yes, her mother and Crystalwere right; these foolish dreams of hers could never come true; shewould have to see her prince ride away some day in quest of somedark-haired princess. And yet, in the fairy stories, the real princesswas often poor, and wore a shabby dress, and had golden hair, and--"but here Fern banished these thoughts resolutely, and came back to herfootstool a little pale and drooping. 

Mrs. Trafford's keen eyes noted everything, but she wisely forebore tocontinue the subject. Fern was so docile and humble, she thought solittle of herself, that her mother hoped that her words would takeeffect. She had already given her son a hint that his friend's visitswere rather too frequent; she must speak to him seriously on thesubject, and appeal to his love for his sister. 

She changed the subject now by asking Fern what was the matter withCrystal. 

"Percy has been speaking to her again, mother; he went to meet her, when she was coming back from the Nortons', and Crystal is very, veryangry with him. "

Mrs. Trafford's face darkened--she looked exceedingly displeased. Wasthis how Percy protected his sister? leaving her alone with ErleHuntingdon while he carried out his own selfish purposes. This wasworse than she had imagined; but Fern misunderstood the reason of hermother's vexation. 

"It is very wrong of Percy to worry Crystal in this way, but, poorboy, I do believe he is honestly in love with her. I do wish she wouldcare for him, it would make him so different. "

"Crystal will never care for any one; at least"--checking herself asthough she had stated a fact erroneously--"she will never care forPercy. I have told him so, and begged him not to persecute her withhis attentions, as, if he persisted, she had made up her mind to seekanother home. Percy was dreadfully angry when I told him this, andrefused to believe me; and then he turned round on me, and accused meof want of prudence in taking a stranger under our roof, and asked mehow I knew that she was a fit companion for his sister?"

"As though Crystal were not the dearest and best in the world, "returned Fern, indignantly. "Never mind, mother, he only wanted tomake you uncomfortable. He is too fond of Crystal to doubt her for amoment. I hope you told him that you were acquainted with her wholehistory?"

"Yes; and I informed him at the same time that you were ignorant ofit, though Crystal meant to tell you herself one day. I told him that, to put his mind at rest, I could satisfy him that Crystal came of goodparentage; that she had influential friends and protectors if shechose to appeal to them; that though she was apparently a lonely waif, she had in reality good friends and a most comfortable home. "

"Then, I suppose, she has alienated them by that confounded temper ofhers, " he said, with a sneer; "but I could see he was surprised andnot altogether pleased; but I wished him to know that she was notwithout protectors if he drove her from our roof. "

"Percy is very selfish, " sighed Fern. "Crystal was getting a littlehappier; she was beginning to look less miserable, and to take moreinterest in things, but this evening she has the old restless look. "

"That is because she will not take my advice, " returned her motherquickly. "Crystal is a dear girl, and I am very fond of her, but Ithink most of her troubles come from her own undisciplined nature; sheis the object of the tenderest love, the most divine forgiveness;there are kind hearts waiting for her if she would only generouslyrespond to them. She has told me her story under the seal of secrecy, as you know well, or she would long ago have been in her right place. My heart bleeds for the friends who love her so, and are seeking herso vainly. No"--rising as if to close the subject--"I am very sorryfor Crystal, but I do not pity her as you do. I have known what it isto sin, but I have not been too proud to acknowledge my error. Crystalacknowledges hers with bitter tears and most true penitence, but shewill not be forgiven. 'Let me expiate my sin a little longer, ' that isall she says. "

"Yes, I know, " whispered Fern, "she is always telling me that she doesnot deserve to be happy; is that true, mother?"

"My child, do any of us deserve it? Happiness is a free gift like thesunshine that rises alike 'on the evil and the good. ' Do you rememberyour father's dying words?--'I believe in the forgiveness of sins;'ah, it is all forgiven up there--in heaven one has a Father;" and withtrembling lips Nea turned away. Her punishment had been great, shetold herself: she had deserted her earthly father, and now her son haddeserted her. "One sows the wind to reap the whirlwind, " she thought, as she mused bitterly over her boy's weakness. 

CHAPTER XV. 

ERLE ARRIVES AT REDMOND HALL. 

 She hath a natural wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as nameless as the center. 

 LOWELL. What thou bidd'st Unargued I obey; so God ordains: God is thy law; thou mine, to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 

 MILTON. 

Lady Redmond sat in her "blue nestie;" but this bright winter'smorning she was not alone. A better companion than her white kitten, or her favorite Nero, or even her faithful friend Pierre the St. Bernard, occupied the other velvet rocking-chair. 

Outside the snow lay deep and unbroken on the terrace, the little lakewas a sheet of blue ice, and the sunshine broke on its crisp surfacein sparkles of light. 

The avenue itself looked like the glade of some enchanted forest, withsnow and icicles pendent from every bough; while above stretched thepure blue winter's sky, blue-gray, shadowless, tenderly indicative ofsoftness without warmth and color without radiance. 

Fay in her dark ruby dress looked almost as brilliant as the morningitself as she sat by the fire talking to her husband's cousin ErleHuntingdon, who had come down to while away an idle week or two at theold Hall. 

He had been there for ten days now, and he and Fay had become veryintimate. Erle had been much struck by the singular beauty of Hugh'schild-wife, and he very soon felt almost a brotherly fondness for thegentle little creature, with her soft vivacity and innocent mirth. 

It had been a very pleasant ten days to both of them, to Fayespecially, who led rather a lonely life. 

Erle was such a pleasant companion; he was never too tired or too busyto talk to her. He was so good-natured, so frank and affectionate, soeager to wait on her and do her any little service, that Fay wonderedwhat she would do without him. 

Hugh smiled at them indulgently. It always pleased him to see his WeeWifie happy and amused; but he thought they were like two childrentogether, and secretly marveled at the scraps of conversation thatreached his ears. He thought it was a good thing that Fay should havea companion for her rides and drives when he was too busy to go withher himself, and somehow Hugh was always too busy now. 

So Fay and Erle scoured the country together, and when Frost came theyskated for hours on the little lake. 

Sir Hugh stood and watched them once, and they came skimming acrossthe ice to meet him, hand in hand, Fay looking like a bright-eyed birdin her furs. 

It was delicious, Fay said, and would not Hugh join them? but herhusband shook his head. When other people came to skate too, and Faypoured out tea for her friends in the damask drawing-room, he alwayskept near her, as in duty bound; but he took no active part in thefestivities, and people wondered why Sir Hugh seemed so grave andunlike himself, and then they glanced at Fay's happy face and seemedmystified. 

Erle in his heart was mystified too. He had always liked his cousinand had looked up to him, thinking him a fine fellow; but he noticed agreat change in him when he came down to the old Hall to pay hisrespects to the little bride. He thought Hugh looked moody and ill;that he was often irritable about trifles. He had never noticed thatsharp tone in his voice before. His cheerfulness, too, seemed forced, and he had grown strangely unsociable in his habits. Of course he wasvery busy, with his own estate and his wife's to look after; but hewondered why Fay did not accompany him when he rode to some distantfarm, and why he shut himself up so much in his study. The old Hugh, he remembered, had been the most genial of companions, with a heartylaugh and a fund of humor; but he had never heard him laugh once inall these ten days. 

Erle felt vaguely troubled in his kind-hearted way when he watchedHugh and his little wife together. Hugh's manners did not satisfyErle's chivalrous enthusiasm. He thought he treated Fay too much likea child. He was gentle with her, he humored her, and petted her; buthe never asked her opinion, or seemed to take pleasure in her society. 

"Why on earth has he married her?" he said once to himself as he pacedhis comfortable room rather indignantly. "He is not a bit in love withher--one sees that in a moment, and yet the poor little thing adoreshim. It makes one feel miserable to see her gazing at him as thoughshe were worshiping him; and he hardly looks at her, and yet she isthe prettiest little creature I have seen for a long time. How Percywould rave about her if he saw her; but I forgot, Percy's idol is adark-eyed goddess. "

"All the same, " went on Erle, restlessly; "no man has any right totreat his wife as a child. Hugh never seems to want to know what Faywishes about anything. He settles everything off-hand, and expects herto be satisfied with what he has done; and she is such a dear, gentlething that she never objects. It is 'Yes, dear Hugh, ' or 'certainly, if you wish it, Hugh, ' from morning to night; somehow that sickens afellow. I dare say she is a little childish and crude in her ideas;that aunt of hers must be a duffer to have brought her up like alittle nun; but she is sensible in her way. Hugh had no idea that shewas reading the paper for an hour yesterday, that she might talk tohim about that case in which he is so interested, or he would hardlyhave snubbed her as he did, by telling her she knew nothing about it. She looked so disappointed, poor little thing, there were tears in hereyes; but Hugh never saw them, he never does see if she is a littletired or dull, and I don't call that treating a wife well. "

Erle was working himself up into quite a virtuous fit of indignationon Fay's behalf; but presently he became secretly anxious. Before theend of his visit he grew afraid that more was amiss with Hugh than heat first guessed. He had often stayed with him before, and Hugh hadvisited them at Belgrave House, but he had never noticed any sign ofself-indulgence. 

He thought Hugh was beginning to take more wine than was good for him. He complained of sleeping badly, and had recourse to narcotics. He wasreckless of his health too, and worked often far into the night, andwhen Erle remonstrated with him, he only said he could not sleep, andhe might as well occupy himself. 

But in reality he never guessed, except in a vague way, the realreason for this change in his cousin. He would have been shocked andstartled if he had known the strange morbid fever that was robbingHugh of all rest. 

He was hungering and thirsting for the sight of a face that he said tohimself he had better never look on again; his very nearness toMargaret kept him restless, and made his life intolerable. 

What a fool he had been to marry, he told himself; to let that childbind him down to this sort of life. If he could only break away for atime--if he could travel and try what change would do for him; butthis quiet existence was maddening. 

He was trying his fine constitution terribly, and he knew it. He wouldtire himself out riding over his estate, and then sit up over hisletters and accounts half the night, till his brain seemed stupefied, and yet he had no wish for sleep. 

Erle told him he looked haggard and ill, but Sir Hugh only laughed athim; there was nothing the matter, he said, carelessly; he was tough, like all the Redmonds, and he had never been ill in his life. If heonly slept better he should be all right, but want of sleep plays thevery deuce with a man, and so on. 

"If I were you, I should not touch spirits or narcotics, " observedErle, quietly; "your nerves are a little out of order. You should takethings more easily, and not sit up so late; one can form the habit ofsleep. " But Hugh only scoffed at the notion of nerves, and during hislong visit Erle saw little improvement. 

He was thankful, and yet puzzled, to see that Fay did not notice thesad change in her husband. Now and then she would say to him rathertimidly, as though she feared a rebuff, "You are not quite wellto-day, are you, Hugh? Your hand is so hot and dry; do stay quietlywith me this morning, and I will read you to sleep;" but Hugh onlylaughed at her anxious face. 

"Run away, my pet, for I am busy, " he would answer. "If you want acompanion, here is this idle fellow, Erle, who never did a stroke ofwork in his life, I believe;" and Fay would go away reluctantly. 

Erle had already grown very confidential with Fay. In her gentle wayshe took him to task for his desultory life. Erle owned his faultsvery frankly; it was quite true, he said, that he had notdistinguished himself at the university, and had been chiefly knownthere as a boating man; but he had been extremely popular in hiscollege. "It is all very well, " he grumbled, as he sat in Fay'sboudoir that morning, talking to her in his usual idle fashion. "Whatis a fellow to do with his life; perhaps you can tell me that? Uncleought to have let me make the grand tour, and then I could haveenlarged my mind. Ah, yes! every fellow wants change, " as Fay smiledat this; "what does a little salmon-fishing in Norway signify; or amonth at the Norfolk Broads?--that is all I had last year. Uncle talksof the Engadine and the Austrian Tyrol next summer, but he travels _engrand seigneur_, and that is such a bore. "

Erle was perfectly willing to describe his life at Belgrave House toFay. She was a shrewd little person in her way, and her quaint remarkswere very refreshing. He even thought that he would confide in herafter a fashion, and hint at a certain difficulty and complicationthat had come into his life; he was rather desirous of knowing heropinion; but he began in such a roundabout fashion that Fay was quiteperplexed. She understood at last that he was talking about two girls, who both seemed to influence him, and for whom he had special liking;but for a long time she could not find out which was the chieffavorite. 

She grew impatient at last in her pretty, imperious way, and put astop to his unsatisfactory rambling style of talk, by asking him a fewdownright questions. 

"You are terribly vague, " she said, wrinkling her forehead in a wiseway, and folding her little white hands on her lap; they lookedabsurdly dimpled and babyish in spite of the brilliant diamond andemerald rings that loaded them. "How is a person to understand allthat rigmarole? Perhaps I am stupid, but you talk so fast, you sillyboy, and now tell me exactly what this Miss Selby is like; I think yousaid her name was Evelyn. "

"Oh! I am not good at descriptions, " returned Erle, pulling Nero'slong glossy ears. "She is an awfully jolly girl, plenty of go in her, lights up well of an evening, and knows exactly what to say to afellow--keeps him alive, you know; the sort of girl who will dancelike a bird half the night, and get up early the next morning and havean hour's canter in the park before breakfast. "

"Ah, " in a mystified tone, "she seems a very active young person; butyou have not made me see her; is she tall or short, Erle?"

"Well, she is not the tall, scraggy sort, neither is she a diminutivecreature, like your ladyship. Miss Selby is medium height, and has agood figure. "

"Yes, and her face?" demanded Fay, with a baby frown; "you are verybad at description, Erle, very bad indeed. "

"Well, she is not dark, " returned Erle, desperately, "not a brunette, I mean; and she is not fair, like the other one, she has brownhair--yes, I am sure it is brown--and good features. Well, I supposepeople call her exceedingly handsome, and she dresses well, and holdsherself well, and is altogether a pleasant sort of young woman. "

Fay's lips curled disdainfully. "I do not think I admire yourdescription much, sir. Plenty of go in her; well, who cares for that?and lights up well of an evening, as though she were a ball-roomdecoration; I think she seems a frivolous sort of creature. "

"Oh, no, " replied Erle, eagerly, for this would not do at all. Fay'slittle satire fell very short of the truth. "You have not hit it offexactly; Lady Maltravers is frivolous, if you like--a mild edition ofthe renowned Mrs. Skewton, thinks of nothing but diamonds, andsettlements, and all the vanities for which your worldly woman sellsher soul. It is a great wonder that, with such an example before hereyes, Miss Selby is not as bad herself; but she is a wonderfullysensible girl, and never talks that sort of nonsense; why, she goes toearly service, and looks after some poor people: not that she evermentions these facts, for she is not a goody-goody sort at all. "

"Oh, no, she has too much go in her, " returned Fay, calmly. "I wasquite right when I said that she was an active young person; and nowabout the other one, Erle?"

"Well, " Erle began again, but this time he utterly broke down; for howwas he to describe this girl with her beautiful frank mouth, and hersoft smiling eyes; he had never found out their color at all; wouldFay understand if he told her of the sprightliness and sweetness that, in his opinion, made Fern so peculiarly attractive to him. But, to hisastonishment, Fay grasped the whole situation in a moment. 

"Oh, you need not tell me, you poor boy, " she said, with a knowing nodof her head; "so it is not the young lady with the go in her, thoughshe does dance like a bird; it is this other one with the fair hairand the pretty smile. "

"How do you know, you little witch?" returned Erle, staring at herwith an honest boyish blush on his face; "do you know that MissTrafford is poor; that she makes her own gowns, and teaches thevicar's little girls; and that Miss Selby, of whom you speak sorudely, is niece to a countess?"

"Well, what of that?" responded Fay, scornfully; "if your lady-love bepoor, Erle, you are rich enough for both;" but he interrupted her withan alarmed air. 

"That is the worst of chattering to a woman, " he said, in a lofty way. "If you give them an inch, they take an ell; who said I was in lovewith either of them? Do you know my uncle has spoken to me about MissSelby: he says she is a fine girl and after his own heart; and he hasgiven me a strong hint that an engagement with her will be greatly formy interest. " But Fay turned a deaf ear to all this. 

"And the fair-haired girl with the pretty smile; if you marry her, Erle?"

"In that case, my uncle would refuse to have anything more to do withme. No doubt he would disinherit me as he did his own daughter; andPercy would be his heir. Ah, it is all very well talking, Fay, " andhere Erle looked at her rather gloomily. "I have never learned towork, and I should make a pretty mess of my life; it would be poorMrs. Trafford's experience over again. " And he shook his head when Faysuggested that Hugh should let him have one of his farms. He knewnothing about farming; a little Latin and Greek, a smattering ofFrench and German, were his chief acquirements. "I should have to turnboatman, or starve. No, no, Fay; I must not swamp my own prospects fora mere sentimental idea; and after all, Miss Selby is very nice. "

Fay was very angry with him when he said this, for she had taken acurious fancy to this Fern Trafford, but Erle would not listen to her;he got up and shook himself, and walked to the window, and then verygravely proposed a game of snow-balling in the avenue. 

Fay thought he was serious, and expressed herself much shocked at theidea. Hugh would not like it, she was sure; one of the gardeners mightsee them. As it was, Hugh had told her that he was afraid the servantswere not sufficiently in awe of her ever since they saw her playinghide and seek in the hall with Nero. 

She confessed that she was very fond of it though, and had snow-balledNero last year in the Daintree garden, and Aunt Griselda had not beenshocked at all. 

"Don't you sometimes wish you were back at Daintree?" asked Erle, turning round from the window and contemplating the pretty flushedface rather curiously. 

"Oh, no, " she returned, quickly; "how can you ask me such a question, Erle. I could not imagine life without Hugh. Does it not seemstrange?" she continued, seriously; "I have only been married aboutfive months, and yet I find it impossible to imagine myself back atthe cottage without Hugh. "

"Do you know, " observed Erle, carelessly, as he sauntered back to thefire-place, "that I have been here ten days, and must begin to thinkof my return? If there be one thing I hate, it is to outstay mywelcome. I should be afraid of boring you both if I stayed muchlonger. Well, what now?" breaking off in some surprise. 

"Ah, Erle!" exclaimed Fay, sorrowfully, the smiles and the dimplesdisappearing in a moment, "you are surely not going away yet. Whatshall I do without you?" continued the poor child. "Who will ride anddrive and skate with me when you are gone?"

"Why, your husband, to be sure, " returned Erle, lightly; but he waswatching her as he spoke. "You have not forgotten your husband, younaughty woman. "

Fay never knew why a sudden sharp pang shot through her at Erle'scareless remark. 

It had never occurred to her simple mind to question her husband'sright to keep so entirely aloof from her, and to give her suchfragments of his time. But now, as Erle spoke, a dim unconsciousfeeling came over her that another was usurping his rightful place;that it was her husband who ought to be riding and driving with her, and not his young cousin, but in her wifely loyalty she stifled thefeeling, and spoke firmly, though with crimsoned cheeks, like thebrave little woman she really was. 

"Why, you extremely foolish boy, " she said, "don't you know that Hughhas something better to do with his time than to waste it on me? Yousee, " she continued, with much dignity, "he has my estate to lookafter as well as his own, and it is a large one, and he has noreliable bailiff. "

"Dear, dear, " replied Erle, with much solemnity. 

"And he has to ride over to Pierrepoint on magisterial business everso often, " and here Fay stammered slightly over the long word, butrecovered herself in an instant; "and he visits the infirmary, andlooks after any of his people who are ill there. "

Here Erle again said, "Dear, dear;" but his provoking smile died awayafter a glance at her face. 

"And, " continued Fay, her mouth quivering a little, "you must see howproud I am of being his wife, and must not think that I am sorry thathe is able to spend so little of his time with me, for I would nothave him neglect his duty for the world; no, no, he is far too goodand noble and useful to waste his time on me;" and Fay's face woresuch a sweet tremulous smile as she spoke, that Erle whispered underhis breath, "You are a darling, " and went out silently, and perhapsfor the first time in his life forgot to hum as he put on hisfur-lined coat. 

And Fay, standing alone in her little room, whispered softly, "No, no, my bonny Hugh, your Wee Wifie loves you far too well to keep you allto herself;" but during the remainder of the day she was a littlequieter than usual; and Erle missed the gentle fun that rippled intosuch a stream of girlish talk. He had no idea that every now and thenhis words came back to her with a little throb of pain, "You have yourhusband, Fay. "

Yes, she had her husband; but would the time ever come to thegirl-wife when she should know she had him, but that she could nothold him, when she should learn that he had given her everything buthis heart, and cry out against him in that bitter waking that all wasworthless to her but that?

CHAPTER XVI. 

FAY'S DILEMMA. 

 Blessing she is; God made her so; And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow; Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. 

 LOWELL. 

 And through the windows of her eyes We often saw her saintly soul, Serene, and sad, and sorrowful, Go sorrowing for lost Paradise. 

 GERALD MASSY. 

A few days after that Fay met with a slight accident. 

The snow had been falling very heavily all night, and when Fay went tothe window the next morning, she looked out on a white world, and nota vestige of the blue ice could be seen for the drifts that lay heapedon the little lake. 

She called Hugh to look out with her. "What a pity, " she said, sorrowfully; "for we had asked the Romney girls and the Spooners tocome up and skate this afternoon. Erle is so fond of young ladies, andhe admires Dora Spooner immensely, and now I suppose there will be noskating. "

"Of course the men could sweep the snow away fast enough, " returnedHugh, with a hasty glance at the glorious prospect outside; there weretiny bird tracks on the white surface, some brown sparrows and a robinwere hopping across the snow. Not a breath stirred the laden branches, though they drooped under their snowy festoons. "I dare say the icewould be right enough for a little while, but the air feels milder, and there is danger of a thaw. "

"Never mind, we will see how it is to-morrow, and Erle shall take mefor a walk instead. I suppose, " a little plaintively, "you will be toobusy to come too?"

"Oh, yes, far too busy, " Hugh assured her, as he seated himself at thebreakfast-table and commenced opening his letters. Fay read hers--afew notes--and then sat silent behind her silver urn until Erlesauntered lazily into the room, and then she brightened up and beganto talk. 

"I think I will send off a note to the vicarage, and ask Dora and theothers to come all the same, and we will have a nice walk thismorning--that is, if you do not mind, Hugh, " looking at the handsomeabstracted face bent over the paper; but she had to repeat herquestion before it reached Hugh's ear. 

"Oh, no! it does not matter to me, " he answered, indifferently. "Askwhom you like, Fay. The Spooners and Romneys, did you say? Oh! by allmeans, if you want them;" but it may be doubted whether he ever heardher thanks as he buried himself in his paper again. 

The dogs were delighted at the prospect of a walk, when Fay consultedthem; so a merry party started down the avenue--Fay in her furs andlittle sealskin hat, which made her look more a child than ever, andErle in that wonderful coat of his, lined with sable, and the two bigdogs racing on before them, and plowing with their noses in the deepcold snow. 

They had walked about two miles, and were thoroughly enjoyingthemselves, when all at once Fay slipped. 

How it happened neither of them had any idea. Fay was sure-footed, sheskimmed over the frozen snow as lightly as a bird. Erle never had tooffer her any assistance--he would as soon have thought of helping arobin. It must have been orange-peel, as Fay suggested--only neitherof them saw any--but all the same, just as Erle was walking calmlyalong, striking carelessly at the branches with his dandy cane, andFay chattering and laughing in her usual fashion, all at once sheslipped, and her foot seemed to double up under her, and she sunk downcomfortably on the snow, only with rather a pale face. 

It was very awkward and embarrassing, a most unfortunate circumstance, as they were two miles from Redmond Hall, and there was Fay protestingthat she did not think she could stand, much less walk; and when Erleknelt down to examine the dainty little foot, and touched it lightly, Fay turned still paler, and uttered a little cry, but the next momentshe laughed. 

"I am afraid I have sprained my ankle. It was very silly and awkwardof me, and I can not think how it happened. No, it is not so verypainful, unless I try to move. What are we to do, Erle?"

"That is just what I don't know, " he returned, disconsolately, lookingdown the lane, while the two dogs gazed wistfully into his face, asthough they were quite aware of the dilemma, and felt very sorry fortheir little mistress. "I suppose you could not ride on Pierre's back, you are hardly small enough for that; and with all my good will I amafraid I should not succeed in carrying you two miles--these furs areheavy, Fay--and yet how am I to leave you sitting in the snow while Igo in search of help. I suppose, " with another look, that only landedhim in plowed fields, "there is not a house near, and yet this is oneof the Sandycliffe lanes. "

"I don't think we are far from the Grange--that curious old red-brickhouse we passed the other day. This lane leads to the Sandyclifferoad, and I expect we are not a quarter of a mile from the village. "

"All right, " responded Erie, cheerfully; "I can carry you as far asthat easily. "

"Oh! but we must not go to the Grange, " returned Fay, in rather aregretful voice. She was suffering a good deal of pain with her foot, her boot hurt her so, but she would not make a fuss. "The Ferrers arethe only people who have not called on us, and Hugh would not like meto go there. "

"Nonsense, " replied Erie, impatiently; "what does that matter in acase like this. I suppose you think that good Samaritan ought to haveleft his card first before he helped that poor traveler?"

Fay tried to laugh, but it was rather an effort. "You do notunderstand, " she said, gently; "Hugh used to know the Ferrers, and hesays they are very nice people; he is the blind vicar of Sandycliffe, and his sister lives with him. I do not know whether they are old oryoung; but Hugh said that he had had a misunderstanding with them, andthat it would be very awkward to renew the acquaintance; he does notwish me to visit them. "

"Perhaps not. I dare say the Samaritan and the unfortunate travelerwere not on visiting terms afterward, but under the present agreeablecircumstances we must certainly avail ourselves of the first shelterthat offers itself. Hugh would quite approve of my advice, and in hisabsence must allow me to judge for you;" and there was a slightperemptoriness in Erle's voice, to which Fay yielded, for she offeredno resistance when he lifted her from the ground with his old playfulsmile. 

Fay was very small and light, but her furs were heavy; still, Erle wasstrong and wiry, and he carried her easily enough--he actually hadbreath to joke too--while the two dogs bounded before him barkingjoyously, and actually turning in at the Grange gates of their ownaccord--at least Pierre did, and Nero followed him. 

Erle looked up curiously at the old red-brick house, with itspicturesque gables and mullioned windows, and then, as he depositedFay on the stone seat inside the porch, and was just raising his handto the knocker, the door opened, and a very tall man in clerical dressappeared suddenly on the threshold. Erle's hand fell to his side, andhe and Fay exchanged puzzled glances; it must be Mr. Ferrers, theythought, and of course he did not know any one was there. He stoodwith his face turned to the wintery sunshine, and his grandmassive-looking head bowed a little. The next moment Pierre jumped upand licked his hands, and tried to put his huge paws on his shoulder, whining with delight. Mr. Ferrers started slightly. "Why, Pierre, myfine fellow, I ought to know that rough greeting of yours by thistime; it is a long time since you have called at the Grange; whom haveyou brought with you, Pierre?" stroking the dog's noble head. 

Erle came forward at once. "My cousin, Lady Redmond, has met withrather an awkward accident in one of the lanes--she has sprained herankle, and is in great pain; may I lift her on that comfortableoak-settle by the hall fire while I go in search of help. I am SirHugh's cousin, Erle Huntingdon. "

"Lady Redmond, " ejaculated Mr. Ferrers; and Fay wondered at the suddenshadow that passed over her host's fine face. "Oh, yes, bring her in, Mr. Huntingdon, but we must find a softer couch than the oak-settle. Margaret--where are you, Margaret?" and the next moment a clear, pleasant voice answered, "I am here, Raby;" and a tall, graceful-looking woman, with dead-brown hair and calm beautiful face, crossed the long hall. Fay seemed to see her coming through a sort ofhaze, and she put out her hands involuntarily; Margaret's voicechanged as she took them. "Ah, poor child, she is faint. Will youbring her into my morning-room, Mr. Huntingdon, there is an easy couchthere, and a nice fire;" and Margaret led the way to a pleasant roomwith an old-fashioned bay window overlooking the sunny lawn andyew-tree walk; and then took off the little sealskin hat with handsthat trembled slightly, and laid the pretty head with its softlyruffled hair on the cushions, and then put some wine to Fay's lips. Fay roused herself and drank some obediently, and a little color cameback to her face. "It is my foot, the boot hurts it so, " she said, faintly. 

"Yes, because it is so swelled, " returned Miss Ferrers, in asympathizing voice. "Mr. Huntingdon, if you will ring the bell I willask my maid for some hot water. I think that will relieve LadyRedmond; and if you will kindly join my brother, you will find himoutside. Ruth and I will soon make your cousin more comfortable;" andErle at once took the hint. 

The dainty little boot was sadly mangled before they could get it off, and Miss Ferrers uttered a pitying exclamation at the sight of theinflamed and swelled ankle. The hot fomentation was deliciouslysoothing, and Miss Ferrers's manipulations so soft and skillful thatFay was not sorry that her little protest was made without success. 

"Don't you think your maid could do this? I do not like to trouble youso much, " she said once, in a deprecating voice. 

"It is no trouble, " returned Margaret, fixing her beautiful eyes for amoment on Fay's pale face; "I like to do it for you, Lady Redmond. "Yes, she liked to do it; it gave her a strange pleasure to minister toher innocent rival, Hugh's wife. As Fay's little white foot rested inher hand, all at once a scene arouse before her mind--an upperchamber, where a mild majestic Figure rose from among His wonderingdisciples and "girded Himself with a towel. "

Ineffable condescension, divine humility, uniting for all ages the lawof service and kindly ministration; bidding men to do likewise, and towash the feet of sinners. 

Margaret had stolen many a look at the pale little face resting on thecushions. What a baby face it was, she thought, and yet wonderfullypretty too; and then, as she bent over her work again, a quickthrobbing pain that was almost agony, and that made her look as paleas Fay, seemed to stifle her. Hugh, her Hugh; ah, heavens! what wasshe thinking? another woman's husband could be nothing to her!

"Men are all alike, " she thought, sadly; "even the best of themforget. Well, he is content with her now--with this little piece ofinnocent baby-faced loveliness. Yes, " interrupting herself, sternly, "and I ought to thank God on my knees that he is content--my own Hugh, whom I love better than myself;" and she looked so gently and kindlyat Fay that the little thing was quite pleased and grateful. 

"Oh, how good you are to me, " exclaimed Fay, gratefully; "and nowbeautifully you have bandaged my foot. It feels so much morecomfortable. What a sweet old room this is, Miss Ferrers. I do likethat cushioned window-seat running round the bay; and oh, what lovelywork, " raising herself to look at an ecclesiastical carpet that waslaid on the ground, perfectly strewn with the most beautiful colors, like a delicate piece of mosaic work. Mr. Ferrers, who had entered theroom that moment, smiled at the sound of the enthusiastic young voice. 

"What colors, " cried Fay, delightedly; "what purples, and crimsons, and violets. They look like clusters of jewels, or stars on adeep-blue ground. "

Mr. Ferrers stooped down and touched the carpet with his large whitehand. 

"It is for our little church, and by all accounts it must be gorgeous. The description makes me fancy it like the robe of office that Aaronwore. It has a border of pomegranates, I know. Ah, color is one of mysister's hobbies. She agrees with Ruskin in connecting brilliantcoloring with purity of mind and nobility of thought. I believe if shehad her way she would wear those same crimsons and emeralds herself. "

Margaret smiled indulgently. "You must not believe my brother, LadyRedmond. I am very simple in my tastes, but I love to see them onothers;" and she looked at Fay's ruby dress. She had removed the heavyfurred mantle, and she thought Lady Redmond looked move like a lovelychild than ever in her little closely fitting gown. 

"Where is my cousin, Mr. Ferrers?" she asked, with some surprise, ashe placed himself in a carved arm-chair that stood near the couch. 

"Mr. Huntingdon has started off for Redmond Hall. He was afraid yourhusband might have returned and would be feeling anxious. He will comeback in the carriage to fetch you; but as it is rather a long way bythe road, and the snow is very deep, you must not look for him foranother two hours. Margaret, luncheon is ready; I am going to tellRuth to bring some up for Lady Redmond. "

Fay was not sorry to have a little longer rest. She was verycomfortable lying in this pleasant sunny room, and she had fallen inlove with Miss Ferrers. 

When they had left her to partake of the dainty little luncheonbrought to her, she thought a great deal about the beautiful face thatlooked so pale and sad, and yet so kind. Had she known trouble, shewondered; she was quite young, and yet there was no look of youthabout her. One would never speak of her as a girl, for example--shewas much too grave and staid for that; but what a sweet voice she had, very low and harmonious, and yet so clear. 

Fay had forgotten her husband for the moment. Erle would explaineverything to him, and of course he could not be vexed. What atiresome thing that this misunderstanding had arisen. She must coaxHugh to put it right. She liked Miss Ferrers better than any of herneighbors. It made her feel good only to look at her. 

She wondered if she could venture to hint about the estrangement, orto say how sorry she was that anything should keep them apart. She hadnot quite made up her mind about it when the brother and sisterreturned, and Mr. Ferrers asked her playfully if she meant to take anap, or whether they should stay and talk to her. 

"Oh, I would rather talk, please, " with a wistful look at Margaret, who had taken up her work, and placed herself near the window. Shewished she would not go so far away; but perhaps she wanted morelight. But Mr. Ferrers had taken possession of the arm-chair again andseemed quite at her service, so Fay began chatting to him in her usualfashion. 

"I have always admired this old house so, " she said, brightly; "but Iwas afraid I should never see the inside, because--" but here shehesitated and hurried on. "Redmond Hall is grander and larger ofcourse, but this seems more homelike. I liked the hall so when thedoor opened, and Erle carried me in. It seemed like church, with thatgreat painted window so still and solemn, and full of scenteddarkness. "

Margaret listened silently, but her brother answered rather sadly, "It is always full of scented darkness to me, Lady Redmond, and adarkness that may be felt; but of course I know what you mean, for thewhole house is full of the perfume of Margaret's flowers. Sometimesour friends declare that they can smell them half-way down the road, but that is nonsense. Still flowers are my sister's hobby; she can notlive without having them about her. "

"A very harmless hobby, Raby!"

"Oh, it is a pretty fancy enough, " he answered, smiling. "If you couldwalk, Lady Redmond, Margaret would show you our winter garden; thegallery upstairs is a perfect conservatory, and we walk up and downthere on wet days, and call it our in-door garden. "

"What a nice idea, and you live together in this dear old house; howdelightful!"

Raby's smile grew perceptibly sadder. 

"We were not always alone. What is it Longfellow says?

 "'There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair. '

But, as you say, we live together, the old bachelor and old maidenbrother and sister. "

"Miss Ferrers is not an old maid, " returned Fay, indignantly, on whomMargaret's stately presence had made a deep impression. "You ought notto speak so of your sister. "

"Do you like the name of unappropriated blessing better, as I heard anunmarried lady called once?" he asked, in an amused voice; "but, no, that would not be true in Margaret's case, for her brother hasappropriated her. "

A gentle smile passed over Margaret's face. "I shall be here as longas you want me, Raby, " and then, as though she would turn the subject, she asked Fay if she read much, and which were her favorite books. Butshe soon saw her mistake. 

"I am afraid I am very stupid, " returned Fay, blushing a little, "butI do not care to read very much. Aunt Griselda--she was the aunt withwhom I lived until I was married--did not like me to read novels, andheavy books send me to sleep. "

"I dare say you are too busy to read, " interposed Raby rather hastily;"with such a household as yours to manage, you must be sufficientlyemployed. "

"Oh, but I have not so much to do after all, " replied Fay, frankly. "When I married I was terribly afraid that I should never know how tomanage properly; the thoughts of accounts especially frightened me, because I knew my sums would not ever come right if I added them up adozen times. "

"Ladies generally hate accounts. "

"Oh, but I have none to make up, " returned Fay, with a merry Laugh;"Hugh, I mean my husband, attends to them. If I have bills I just givethem to him. And Mrs. Heron manages everything else; if there are anyorders she goes to Sir Hugh. He says I am so young to be troubledabout things, and that I don't understand how to regulate a largehousehold. We lived in such a tiny cottage, you see, and Aunt Griseldanever taught me anything about housekeeping. "

"Yes, I see, " observed Raby rather absently; he was wondering whatMargaret would say to all this. 

"I never thought things would be quite so easy, " went on Fay, gayly. "Now if Hugh, I mean my husband, says two or three gentlemen arecoming to dinner, I just tell Mrs. Heron so, and she tells Ellerton, and then everything is all right. Even when things go wrong, as theywill sometimes, Sir Hugh does all the scolding; he says I am each alittle thing that they might only laugh at me; but I tell him I shallnever be taller if I live to be an old woman. "

Mr. Ferrers kept his thoughts to himself, but he said kindly, "I daresay you find plenty of little duties for yourself, Lady Redmond. "

"Oh, yes, I am always busy, " returned Fay, seriously; "Mrs. Heron saysthat she is sure that I shall grow thin with so much running about, but unless I am driving or riding, or Erle is talking to me, I dobelieve I am never still for many minutes at a time. Oh, I do worksometimes, only one can not work alone, and I go to the poultry-yardsand the stables. Bonnie Bess always has a feed of corn from my handonce a day, and there are all the animals to visit, and thegreenhouses and the hot-houses, for I do like a chat with old Morison;and there is Catharine's dear little baby at the lodge, and thechildren at the Parkers' cottage; and I like to help Janet feed andclean my birds, because the dear little things know me. Oh, yes, theday is not half long enough for all I have to do, " finished Fay, contentedly. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

"I AM ONLY WEE WIFIE. "

 This would plant sore trouble In that breast now clear, And with meaning shadows Mar that sun-bright face. See that no earth poison To thy soul come near! Watch! for like a serpent Glides that heart disgrace. 

 Ask to be found worthy Of God's choicest gift, Not by wealth made reckless, Nor by want unkind; Since on thee dependeth That no secret rift Mar the deep life-music Of her guileless mind. 

 PHILIP STANHOPE. 

Raby felt as though he were listening to a child's innocent prattle asFay chattered on in her light-hearted way. In spite of his deepknowledge of human nature he found himself unaccountably perplexed. Margaret had spoken to him, as they sat together over their luncheon, of the flower-like loveliness of the little bride, and yet he foundhimself unable to understand Hugh Redmond's choice; his thoughtful, prematurely saddened nature could not conceive how any man of Hugh'sage could choose such a child for his life-companion. With all hersweet looks and ways he must grow weary of her in time. 

Perhaps her freshness and innocence had bewitched him; there wassomething quaint and original about her naïve remarks. Thedisappointed man might have found her brightness refreshing--her verycontrast to Margaret might have been her attraction in his eyes. Well, Raby supposed that it was all right; no doubt she was an idolizedlittle woman. Hugh seemed to keep her in a glass case; nothing wasallowed to trouble her. She will be thoroughly spoiled by this sort ofinjudicious fondness, thought Raby, perfectly unconscious how far hewas from grasping the truth. 

It was Margaret who began to feel doubtful; her womanly intuitionperceived that there was something wanting; she thought Lady Redmondspoke as though she were often alone. 

"I suppose you are never dull?" she asked, gently. 

"Oh, no, " returned Fay, with another gay little laugh. "Of course wehave plenty of callers; just now the snow has kept them away, but thenI have had our cousin Erle. Oh, he is such a pleasant companion, he isso good-natured and full of fun. I shall miss him dreadfully when hegoes back to London next week. "

"You will have to be content with your husband's society, " observedRaby, smiling. It was a pity that neither he nor Margaret saw thelovely look on Fay's face that answered this; it would have spoken tothem of the underlying depths of tenderness that there was in thatyoung heart. 

"Oh, yes, " she returned, simply, "but then, you see, Hugh, I mean myhusband, is so extremely busy, he never comes in until luncheon hasbeen waiting ever so long, and very often he has to go out againafterward. Sometimes, when I know he has gone to Pierrepoint, I rideover there to meet him. He used to ride and drive with me very oftenwhen we first came home, " she continued, sorrowfully, "but now he hasno time. Oh, he does far too much, every one tells him so; he is sotired in the evening that he is hardly fit for anything, and yet hewill sit up so late. "

Raby's sightless eyes seemed to turn involuntarily to the window whereMargaret sat, her pale face bending still lower over her work. Thislast speech of Lady Redmond's perplexed him still more. The Hugh whohad courted Margaret had been a good-natured idler in his eyes; he hadheard him talk about his shooting and fishing with something likeenthusiasm; he had been eager to tell the number of heads of grouse hehad bagged, or to describe the exact weight of the salmon he had takenlast year in Scotland, but Raby had never looked upon him as an activeman of business. If this were true, Hugh's wife must spend many lonelyhours, but there was no discontented chord in her bright voice. 

"I feel dreadfully as though I want to help him, " continued Fay. "Ican not bear to see him so tired. I asked him to let me go and visitsome of the poor people who belong to us--he is building new cottagesfor them, because he says that they are living in tumble-down placesonly fit for pigs--but he will not hear of it; he says I am too young, and that he can not allow me to go into such dirty places, and yet hegoes himself, though he says it makes him feel quite ill. "

Margaret's head drooped still lower, her eyes were full of tears; hehad not forgotten then! he had promised to build those cottages whenshe had begged him to do so. She remembered they had chosen the sitetogether one lovely September evening, and he had told her, laughing, that it should be his marriage-gift to her. They had planned ittogether, and now he was carrying it out alone; for Fay owned themoment afterward that she did not know where the new cottages were;she must ask Hugh to take her one day to see them, but perhaps hewould rather that she waited until they were finished. 

Margaret was beginning to feel strangely troubled; a dim but unerringinstinct told her that Fay was more petted than beloved. It wasevident that Hugh lived his own life separate from her, submerged inhis own interests and pursuits, and her heart grew very pitiful overFay as she realized this. If she could only meet Hugh face to face; ifshe could only speak to him. She felt instinctively that things werenot altogether right with him. Why did he not try to guide and trainthe childish nature that was so dependent on him? why did he repressall her longings to be useful to him, and to take her share of theduties of life? Surely her extreme youth was no excuse, she was nottoo young to be his wife. Margaret told herself sadly that here he wasin error, that he was not acting up to his responsibilities, to leavethis child so much alone. 

Fay's frankness and simplicity were touching Margaret's heart; eventhis one interview proved to her that under the girlish cruditiesthere was something very sweet and true in her nature; the pettyvanities and empty frivolous aims of some women were not to be tracedin Fay's conversation. Her little ripple of talk was as fresh andwholesome as a clear brook that shows nothing but shining-pebblesunder the bright current; the brook might be shallow, but it reflectedthe sunshine. 

Margaret's thoughts had been straying rather sorrowfully, when aspeech of Fay's suddenly roused her. 

"I do wish we could be friends, " she observed, rather piteously. "I amsure my husband must like you both, for he spoke so nicely about you;it is such a pity when people get to misunderstand each other. "

"My dear Lady Redmond, " returned Raby, kindly, "it is a pity, as yousay; and we have no ill feeling to your husband; but, I dare say he iswise if he does not think it possible for us to have much intercourse. Sir Hugh and I do not agree about things, " went on Raby after a slighthesitation; "perhaps he will tell you the reason some day; but you maybe sure that on this point your husband knows best, "--for he felthimself in a difficulty. 

"Of course Hugh is always right, " returned Fay with much dignity. "When I said it was a pity, it was only because I like you both somuch, and that I know I shall want to see you again. "

"You are very good, " replied Raby, but there was embarrassment in histone; it was evident that Hugh's wife knew nothing about his previousengagement to Margaret. It was a grievous error, he told himself, forone day it must come to her ears; why, the whole neighborhood wascognizant of the fact. She would hear it some day from strangers, andthen the knowledge that her husband had not been true to her--that hehad kept this secret from her--would fill her young heart withbitterness; and as these thoughts passed through his mind, Margaretclasped her hands involuntarily: "The first mistake, " she murmured;"the first mistake. "

Just then the sound of carriage wheels was distinctly audible on thegravel sweep before the house, and the next moment Erle entered theroom. 

"I am sorry to have been so long, " he said, apologetically, and Faythought he seemed a little flurried, "but Hugh asked me to go roundand put off those people; they all seemed dreadfully sorry to hear ofyour accident, Fay. "

"And Hugh?" with a touch of anxiety in her voice. 

"Oh, Hugh seemed rather put out about the whole business. I think hewanted to pitch into me for not taking better care of you. How is thefoot, Fay--less painful?"

"Oh, yes, and I have been so comfortable; Mr. And Miss Ferrers havebeen so good to me. I suppose I ought to go now, "--looking regretfullyat Margaret, who had laid aside her work. 

"Well, I don't think we ought to lose any more time, " observed Erle;"the days are so awfully short, you know, and really these roads arevery bad. "

"And your husband will be waiting, " put in Raby. 

"Poor Hugh, of course he will, " returned Fay quickly. "Erle, I amafraid you will have to carry me to the carriage, unless you askGeorge to do so;" but Erle stoutly refused to deliver up his charge, so Fay bade good-bye to her new friends. 

"Thank you so much, Miss Ferrers, " she said, putting up her face to bekissed. "I shall tell Hugh how good you have been to me. I am so sorryit is good-bye, Mr. Ferrers. "

"Then we will not say it at all, " he returned, heartily, as his bighand seemed to swallow up Fay's little soft fingers. "I will wish youGod-speed instead, Lady Redmond. I dare say your cousin, Mr. Huntingdon, will be good enough to let us know how you are if he everpasses the Grange. "

"To be sure I will, " was Erle's reply to this, and then he depositedFay in her corner of the carriage and took his place beside her. Bothof them leaned forward for a parting look at the brother and sister asthey stood together in the porch. 

"What a grand-looking pair they are, " observed Erle, as they turnedinto the road; "don't you think Miss Ferrers is a very handsome woman, Fay? I admire her immensely. "

"Oh, yes, she is perfectly lovely, " replied Fay, enthusiastically;"she looks so sweet and good; it quite rests one to look at her. Butthere is something sad about them both. Mr. Ferrers does not lookquite happy; once or twice he sighed quite heavily when we weretalking. I suppose his being blind troubles him. "

"He is a very uncommon sort of man, " returned Erle, who had been muchstruck by the brother and sister. "He made himself very pleasant to mewhile you were having your foot doctored. By the bye, my FairyQueen, "--his pet name for her--"Miss Dora gave me a message for you:she says she shall come up and see you to-morrow, as you will be aprisoner. "

"That will be nice; but oh, Erle, what a pity we shall have no moredelightful walks together. I hope Hugh was not really vexed about ourgoing to the Grange. "

"He was just a trifle testy, " remarked Erle, quietly suppressing thefact that his cousin had surprised him much by a fit of regular badtemper. "He thinks I am not to be trusted with your ladyship anymore;" and he changed the subject by a lively eulogium on the youngladies at the vicarage, one of whom he declared to be almost ashandsome as Miss Selby; and he kept up such a flow of conversation onthis topic that Fay had no opportunity to put another question. 

Sir Hugh was waiting for them at the Hall door, but Fay thought helooked very grave and pale as he came to the carriage to lift her out. 

"This is a very foolish business, " he said, as he carried her up toher room, his strong arms hardly conscious of her weight; "how did ithappen, Fay?" and she knew at once by his tone that he was muchdispleased. 

"Erle ought to have taken better care of you; I told him so, " hecontinued, as he placed her on the couch. "I can not let you gorunning about the country with him like this; of course the lanes wereslippery, he ought to have known that. "

"You are vexed with me, Hugh, " she said, very gently. "You think thatI ought not to have gone to the Grange, but indeed I could not helpmyself. "

"There were other houses, " he stammered, not caring to meet her clearlook. "I thought that you would have respected my wishes, but I see Iam mistaken. "

"Oh, Hugh, " returned the poor child, quite heart-broken at this sternrebuke; "indeed, indeed, I never meant to disobey you, but my foot wasso painful, and I felt so faint, and Erle was so peremptory with me. "

"Well, well, you need not cry about it, " observed her husbandimpatiently; "you are such a child, Fay, one can never say a word toyou; I have a right to be displeased, if my wife goes against mywishes. "

"I am very sorry, " she answered, meekly, trying to keep back thosetroublesome tears; "please do not be so angry, Hugh, you know I carefor nothing but to please you, and--and I don't feel quite well, andyour voice is so loud. "

"Very well, then, I will take myself off, " in rather a huffy tone, buthe relented at the sight of her pale little face, and some of his badhumor evaporated. "The fact is, you are such a child that you don'tknow how to take care of yourself, " he continued, sitting down by her, and letting her rest comfortably against him. "You will do yourself amischief some day, Fay. I shall get Doctor Martin to come up and seeyour foot, and then, perhaps, he will give you a lecture. "

"Oh, no, " she returned, charmed at this change of tone, for his angerhad frightened her; "there is no need for that, dear, it is only asprained ankle, and Miss Ferrers has bandaged it so beautifully, a dayor two's rest will put it all right. "

"But all the same, I should like to have Doctor Martin's opinion, " heanswered, quickly. "I am afraid you must have found it very awkward, Fay, being cast on the compassion of strangers. "

"Oh, no, indeed, " was the eager answer; "they were so good and kind tome, Hugh; they welcomed me just as though I were an old friend. I wasa little faint at first, my foot hurt me so; but when I opened myeyes, I found myself in such a lovely old room, on such an easy couch, and Miss Ferrers gave me some wine, and actually bathed my foot andbound it up herself. "

"What sort of a room was it, Wee Wifie?"

Fay thought there was something odd in her husband's voice, but shehad her head on his shoulder, and could not see his face, the winterdusk was creeping over the room, and only the fire-light illumined it. Hugh felt himself safe to put that question, but he could not quitecontrol his voice. 

"Oh, it was Miss Ferrers's morning-room, she told me so, and it had abay window with a cushioned seat overlooking the garden. Oh, howlovely Miss Ferrers is, Hugh. I have never seen any one like her, never. I am sure she is as sweet and good as an angel, only I wish shedid not look so sad: there were tears in her eyes once when we weretalking; let me see, what were we talking about? oh, about thosecottages you are building, she did look so interested--did you speak, dear?"

"No--go on, " he said, huskily; but if only Fay could have seen hisface. 

"I feel I should love her so if I could only see more of her. I couldnot help kissing her when I came away, but she did not seem at allsurprised. Mr. Ferrers wished me God-speed in such a nice way, too. Oh, they are dear people; I do wish you would let me know them, Hugh. "

"My dear child, it is impossible, " but Hugh spoke fast and nervously;"have I not already explained to you that there can be no intimacybetween Redmond Hall and the Grange. When old friends quarrel as wehave, it is a fatal blow to all friendship. "

"You were old friends, then?" in some surprise, for he had never saidas much to her before. 

"Yes, " he returned, reluctantly, for he had not meant to admit thisfact. 

"But quarrels can be made up, Hugh; if it be only a misunderstanding, surely it could be put right. " But he silenced her somewhat haughtily. 

"This is my affair, Fay--it is not like you to go against my wishes inthis way; what can a child like you know about it? I should havethought a wife would have been willing to be guided by her husband, but you seem to think you know best. "

"Oh, no, Hugh"--very much ashamed at this--"I am quite sure you arealways right; only"--hesitating a little as though she feared tooffend him--"I should like you to tell me what the quarrel was about. "

For a moment Sir Hugh remained absolutely dumb with surprise; it wasas though a dove had flown in his face; he had never known Faypersistent before. If only she had asserted herself from the beginningof their married life, she would have gained more influence over herhusband; if she had entrenched herself in her wifely dignity, andrefused to be treated like a child, kept in the dark about everything, and petted, or civilly snubbed according to her husband's moods, shewould have won his confidence by this time. 

Sir Hugh was quite conscious that he had been guilty of a grievouserror in not telling Fay about Margaret before she became his wife; hewished he had done so from the bottom of his heart; butprocrastination made the duty a far more difficult one; he felt itwould be so awkward to tell her now, he could not tell how she mighttake it: it might make her unhappy, poor little thing; it would be apity to dim her brightness. 

He was sheltering his moral weakness under these plausible excuses, but somehow they failed to satisfy his conscience. He knew he had donea mean thing to marry Fay when his heart was solely and entirelyMargaret's; what sort of blessing could attach to such a union?

But when Fay begged him to tell her the cause of his estrangement fromthe Ferrers, he positively shrunk from, the painful ordeal--he was notfit for it, he told himself, his nerves were disorganized, and Faylooked far from well; some day he would tell her, but not now; and theold sharpness was in his voice as he answered her. 

"I can not tell you; you should not tease me so, Fay. I think youmight have a little faith in your husband. "

"Very well, dear, I will not ask, " she replied, gently; but the tearssprung to her eyes in the darkness. She would not think him hard ifshe could help it; of course she was young--ah, terribly young--andHugh was so much older and wiser. The "Polite Match-Maker" had toldher that husbands and wives were to have no secrets from each other;but she supposed that when the wife was so much younger it made adifference--perhaps when she got older, and knew more about things, Hugh would tell her more. She longed to grow older--it would be yearsbefore she would be twenty; why? she was only seventeen last month. 

Hugh thought his Wee Wifie was tired, and tried to coax her to go tosleep; he brought her another cushion, and attended to the fire, andthen went away to leave her to her nap. Fay would rather have had himstay and talk to her, but she was too unselfish to say so; she lay inher pretty room watching the fire-light play on the walls, andthinking first of her husband and then of Margaret. She longed with avague wistfulness that she were more like that lovely Miss Ferrers, and then, perhaps, Hugh would care to talk to her. Were the creepingshadows bringing her strange thoughts? Fay could not have told any onewhy there were tears on her cheeks; was the consciousness beginning todawn upon her that she was not close enough to her husband'sheart?--that she was his pet, but not his friend--that other wiveswhom she knew were not kept outside in the cold?

"I am not too young to understand, if Hugh would only think so, " shesaid to herself plaintively. "How could I be, when I love him so?"

When Sir Hugh returned to the room an hour later, he was sorry to seeFay look so flushed and weary. "We shall have you ill after all this, "he said, reproachfully; "why have you not been a good child and goneto sleep as I told you?"

"Because I was troubling too much. Oh, Hugh!" clasping him round theneck, and her little hands felt hot and dry, "are you sure that youare not angry with me, and that you really love me?"

"Of course I am not angry with you, " in a jesting tone. "What anabsurd idea, Wee Wifie. "

"I like you to call me that, " she answered, thoughtfully, drawing downone of his hands and laying her cheek on it; and Hugh thought asMargaret had, what a baby face it was. "I mean to grow older, Hugh, and wiser too if I can; but you must be patient with me, dear. I knowI can not be all you want just at present--I am only Wee Wifie now. "

"Well, I do not wish to change her, " replied Sir Hugh, with a touch ofreal tenderness in his voice, and then very gently he unloosed theclinging arms. Somehow Fay's voice and look haunted him as he wentdown-stairs. "She is a dear little thing, " he said to himself, as hesat in his library sorting his papers; "I wish I were a better husbandto her, " and then he wondered what Margaret had thought of his WeeWifie. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

ERLE'S VISIT TO THE GRANGE. 

 He gazed--he saw--he knew the face Of beauty and the form of grace. 

 BYRON. 

Fay was not very well the next day, and Sir Hugh insisted on sendingfor Dr. Martin; Fay was much surprised when the kind old doctorlectured her quite seriously on her imprudence; and put a veto on anymore skating and riding for the present. The sprained ankle was atrifle, but all the same he told her grimly she must consider herselfa prisoner for a few days--a very hard sentence to Fay, whose nimblelittle feet had never been still for long, and who had certainly neverknown a day's illness in her healthy young life; but, with her usualdocility, she promised obedience. Sir Hugh was unusually busy justthen. Some vexatious lawsuit in which the Redmonds had been involvedfor a year or two, and in which both Sir Wilfred and his son had takengreat interest, was just drawing to a conclusion, and he was obligedto go up to town for a few hours almost daily, and but for Erle'ssociety, Fay would have been sadly moped; but with his usualgood-humor, Erle gave up his out-of-door pursuits to devote himself toher amusement. 

He was always contriving odd surprises for her; the mystified servantsoften heard Fay's merry laugh ringing like a peal of silvery bells, and thought that there could be very little the matter with theiryoung mistress; sometimes these sounds were supplemented by othersthat were still more extraordinary. 

One day Erle brought up the stable puppies--three black-faced, snub-nosed, roundabout creatures in which Fay had taken a kindlyinterest since the hour of their birth--and to her intense delightdeposited them on her lap, where they tumbled and rolled over eachother with their paws in the air, protesting in puppy fashion againstthis invasion of their liberties. 

Another time there was an extraordinary clucking to be heard outsidethe door, and the next moment Erle entered with a hen under each arm, and very red in the face from suppressed laughter. 

"I thought you would be pining after your favorites, Speckles andTufty, " he observed, with a chuckle; "so, as you could not visit thepoultry-yard, my Fairy Queen, I have brought Dame Partlet and hersister to visit you, " and he deposited the much-injured fowls on therug. 

It was unfortunate that Sir Hugh should have come in that moment; hisdisgusted look as he opened the door nearly sent Fay into hysterics;Speckles was clucking wildly under the sofa--Tufty taking excitedflights across the room. 

"How can you be so ridiculous, " observed Sir Hugh, with a frown; "Fay, do you think Dr. Martin would approve of all this excitement;" buteven he was obliged to check a smile at Erle's agonizing attempts tocatch Speckles. 

Fay began to wonder what he would do next; Erle gravely assured herthat if he could have induced Bonnie Bess to walk upstairs, which shewould not do under any pretense, preferring to waltz on her hind-legsin the hall, he would have regaled her with a sight of her favorite;but after the baby from the lodge, a half-frozen hedgehog, some whiterats kept by the stable-boy, and old Tom, the veteran cat with half atail, had all been decoyed into the boudoir, Erle found himself at theend of his resources. 

But he used to go down to the vicarage with a very long face, and theresult was that every afternoon, there were fresh, girlish facesgathering round Fay's couch. Dora Spooner would come with one of hersisters or a Romney girl to help Erle amuse the invalid. 

There were delightful little tea-parties every afternoon. Janet, whowaited on them, thought her mistress never seemed happier. Fay wastreated as though she were a little queen; Dora and Agnes Romney viedwith each other in attentions; perhaps Erle's pleasant face and brightvoice were powerful inducements in their way; the girls never seemedto think it a trouble to plow their way through the snowy lanes--theycame in with glowing faces to narrate their little experiences. 

"Yes, it is very uncomfortable walking; but we could not leave youalone, Lady Redmond. Mr. Huntingdon begged us so hard to come, " Dorawould say, and the hazel eyes looked at Erle rather mischievously. 

Erle was up to his old tricks again. Fay used to take him to task whentheir visitors had gone. 

"You are too fond of young ladies, " she would say to him, severely. "You will make poor Dora think you are in love with her if you pay herso much attention. Those are your London manners, I suppose, when youare with that young person who has the go in her, or with the otherone with the pretty smile, of whom you say so little and think somuch. "

"Come, now; I do call that hard on a fellow, " returned Erle, in aninjured voice. 

"You see I take an interest in you, my poor boy, " continued Fay, withquite a matronly air. "I can not allow you to make yourself socaptivating to our country girls. What will Dora think if you go downto the vicarage every morning with that plausible little story that noone believes? I am not dull one bit. I am laughing from morning tonight, and Mrs. Heron comes up and scolds me. No; Dora will believethat you admire hazel eyes and long lashes. Poor girl, she knowsnothing about that young person with the go in her. "

"Oh, do shut up, Fay, " interrupted Erle quite crossly at this. "Why doyou always speak of Miss Selby in this absurd fashion? She is worth adozen Dora Spooners. Why, the girls who were here this afternoon couldnot hold a candle to her. "

"Oh, indeed!" was Fay's response to this, as she lay and looked atErle, with aggravating calmness. 

"Why do you want to make out that girls are such duffers?" he went onin a still more ruffled tone, as though her shrewdness had hit verynear the truth; "they have too much sense to think a fellow is in lovewith them because he has a little fun with them; you married women areso censorious, " he finished, walking off in a huff; but the nextmoment he came back with a droll look on his face. 

"Mrs. Spooner wants me to dine there to-morrow; there is to be alittle dance; some of the Gowers are coming. Do you think you canspare me, Fay?"

"Oh, go away; you are all alike!" returned Fay, impatiently; "you haveonly to blame yourself if Mr. Spooner asks your intentions. I do notthink Mr. Huntingdon would approve of Dora one bit; she is not so veryhandsome, she will not hold a candle to you know whom, and she has nomoney--a vicar with a large family can not afford a dowry to hisdaughter. " But, as Erle had very rudely marched out of the room, shefinished this little bit of worldly wisdom to empty walls. 

Erle had been over to the Grange. He had mooted the question oneevening when he and Sir Hugh were keeping Fay company; and, to Fay'sgreat surprise, her husband had made no objection. "I suppose it wouldbe right for you to call and thank them, Erle, " he had said, as thoughhe were prepared for the suggestion; "and perhaps, Fay"--hesitatingslightly--"it might be as well for you to write a little note and saysomething civil after all their attention. " And Fay thanked him forthe permission with a radiant face, as though he had done her apersonal favor, and the next day wrote the prettiest and most gratefullittle note, which Erle promised to deliver. 

"You will be sure to keep the girls until I get back, " had been hisparting request when he came to fetch the dogs. 

It was not exactly the sort of afternoon that Erle would have selectedfor a country walk--a thaw had set in, and the lanes were perfectquagmires of half-melted snow and slash, in which the dogs paddled andsplashed their way with a perfect indifference to the state of theirglossy coats; any amount of slush being better than enforced inaction. 

"I shall have to leave you outside, my fine fellows, " observed Erle, as Nero took a header into a heap of dirty-looking snow, in which herolled delightedly. "I am afraid I shall hardly be presentable myselfout these are the joys of country life, I suppose. "

But he was not at all sorry when he found himself at the Grange, and apleasant-looking, gray-haired woman had ushered him into a room whereMr. Ferrers and his sister were sitting. It was a far larger room thanthe one where Fay had had her foot doctored that day, and wasevidently Mr. Ferrers's peculiar sanctum--two of the walls were linedfrom the floor to the ceiling with well-filled book-shelves, anordinary writing-table occupied the center of the room; instead of thebay-window, a glass door afforded egress to the garden, and sidewindows on either side of the fire-place commanded a view of theyew-tree walk; a Scotch deerhound was stretched on the rug in front ofthe blazing fire, and two pet canaries were fluttering about a standof ferns. 

Miss Ferrers had evidently been writing from her brother's dictation, for several letters were lying ready for the post. As Erle had crossedthe hall he had distinctly heard the sound of her clear, musicalvoice, as she read aloud: but the book was already laid aside, and shehad risen to welcome him. 

Erle fancied she looked paler than on the previous occasion, and hewondered what Mr. Ferrers would have said if he had seen those darklines under her eyes; perhaps she never told him when she wastired--women liked to be martyrs sometimes. 

He was received very cordially; and Miss Ferrers seemed rather touchedat the contents of her little note. 

"It was good of Lady Redmond to write, " she said to Erle with a smile;"but she makes far too much of my little services. "

"Oh, that is just her way, " returned Erle, candidly. "She is such agrateful little soul. Most people take all one's attentions as amatter of course; but Fay is not like that. "

"Oh, no, she is very sweet, " observed Margaret, thoughtfully; somehowshe had yearned to see that pretty, bright face again. 

"She is the finest little creature that ever lived, " returned Erle, with boyish enthusiasm; "it is wonderful how little she thinks aboutherself. And she is about the prettiest girl one can see anywhere; andshe is clever, too, though you would not believe it to hear her; forshe always wants to make out that she can do nothing. "

Mr. Ferrers smiled at this. "Lady Redmond did seem bent on provingthat fact to us. "

"Of course, did I not tell you so? but don't you believe her, Mr. Ferrers. Why, even Hugh, critical as he is, owns Fay is the besthorsewoman in these parts. I should like to see her and Bonnie Bess inthe Row; she would make a sensation there. And it is quite a treat tosee her drive her ponies; she knows how to handle a horse's mouth. Why, those tiny hands of hers could hold in a couple ofthorough-breds. Oh, she is a good sort; the Spooner girls swear byher. "

Miss Ferrers looked kindly at the young man; she liked to hear himvaunting his cousin's excellencies after this unsophisticated fashion. She had taken rather a fancy to this boyish, outspoken young fellow;and her brother shared this liking. She was about to put a question tohim, when he suddenly started up with an exclamation, and the nextmoment he had crossed the room and was standing before a picture, witha very puzzled expression on his face. It was the portrait of a girl, and evidently painted by a good artist. Of course it was she, Erletold himself after another quick look; in spite of the smiling mouth, he could not mistake her. There was the small, finely shaped head, setso beautifully on the long neck; the coils of black hair; the dark, dreamy eyes, which always seemed to hold a shadow in them. 

"I beg your pardon; but I had no idea you knew Miss Davenport, " hesaid at last, looking at Margaret as he spoke. But it was Mr. Ferrerswho answered. 

"Davenport? We know no one of that name, do we, Margaret? What doesMr. Huntingdon mean? Is it some picture?"

"Yes, dear, Crystal's picture. Mr. Huntingdon seems to recognize it. "

"Crystal? why, that is her name, too. I have heard Miss Trafford useit a dozen times. As though there could be two faces likethat"--pointing to the canvas. "She looks younger, yes, and happier, in the picture; but then, of course, one has never seen her smilinglike that. But it is Miss Davenport--ay, and to the life too. "

"You must be mistaken, " observed Mr. Ferrers in a voice so agitatedthat Erle regarded him with astonishment. He was strangely pale, andthe hand that was grasping the chair back was visibly trembling. "Thatis the portrait of our young cousin, Crystal Ferrers. "

"Yes, our adopted child, " added Miss Ferrers, "who left our homenearly eighteen months ago. "

Erle looked more puzzled than ever. "I can not understand it, " hesaid, in a most perplexed voice. "If she be your cousin, CrystalFerrers, why does she call herself Crystal Davenport? There can be noquestion of identity; that is the face of the Miss Davenport Iknow--the young governess who lives with the Traffords; that is thevery ring she wears, too"--with another quick glance at the hand thatwas holding a sheaf of white lilies. But here Mr. Ferrers interruptedhim. 

"Will you describe that ring, Mr. Huntingdon?"

"Willingly--it is of Indian workmanship, I fancy, and has a curiouslywrought gold setting, with an emerald very deeply sunk into thecenter. "

"Yes, yes; it must be she, " murmured Raby, and then for the moment heseemed able to say no more; only Margaret watched him, with tears inher eyes. 

Erle's interest and curiosity were strongly excited. There must besome strange mystery at the bottom of this he thought. He had alwaysbeen sure that Miss Davenport had some history. She was wonderfullyhandsome; but with all his predilection for pretty faces he had neverquite taken to her; he had regarded her with involuntary distrust. 

He looked at Mr. Ferrers as he stood evidently absorbed in thought. What a grand-looking man he was, he said to himself, if he would onlyhold his head up, and push back the mass of dull brown hair that layso heavily on his forehead. 

There was something sad in that spectacle of sightless strength; andto those who first saw him, Raby Ferrers always seemed like somepatient giant oppressed and bowed down, both physically and mentally, but grand in a certain sublime resignation that endured because he wastoo proud to complain. 

"It must be so, " he observed at last. "Margaret, I see light at last. Mr. Huntingdon"--turning to his guest--"I have been very rude, veryuncourteous, but your words have given me a shock; you have touchedaccidentally on a deep trouble. Now, will you be good and kind enoughto sit down and tell me all you can about Miss Davenport, as you callher. "

"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Ferrers. " And, with very fewinterruptions from either the brother or sister, Erle gave a full andgraphic description of Crystal's present home and surroundings--allthe more willingly that his listeners seemed to hang breathlessly onhis words. 

He described eloquently that shabby room over Mrs. Watkins's, that wasyet so pleasant and home-like; the mother with her worn, beautifulface, who moved like a duchess about her poor rooms, and was only thehead teacher in a girls' school. He dismissed the subject of thegentle, fair-haired Fern in a few forcible words; but he spoke oflittle Florence, and then of Percy, and of the curious way in whichall their lives were involved. 

Only once Mr. Ferrers stopped him. "And Miss Davenport teaches, yousay?"

"Yes, both she and Miss Trafford have morning engagements. I thinkMiss Martingale, where Mrs. Trafford is, has recommended both theyoung ladies. There are not many gentle people living there; theElysian Fields and Beulah Place are not exactly aristocraticneighborhoods. But Miss Trafford goes to the vicarage; there are youngchildren there; and by good luck the senior curate, Mr. Norton, wantedsome help with his two little boys. Miss Davenport is a Latin scholar, and they took her on the Traffords' recommendation. "

"And only her mornings are occupied? Excuse these seemingly triflingquestions, Mr. Huntingdon"--with a sad smile--"but you are speaking ofone who is very dear to us both. "

"I will tell you all I know, " returned Erle, in his kind-hearted way;"but I am only a visitor at Mrs. Trafford's. I think, at least I amsure, that they do a good deal of needle-work in their sparetime--embroidery for shops; they are very poor, you see. There isalways work about; sometimes they are making their gowns. They arenever ashamed of anything they do, they are such thorough gentlewomen. I do not think you could find a prouder woman than Mrs. Traffordanywhere, and yet she is frank, and generous to a fault. "

"They must be charming people, " observed Margaret, thoughtfully. "Crystal has told us all this in her letters, Raby. Mr. Huntingdon'saccount most fully indorses hers. "

"Yes, " he returned, quietly, "she is in good hands; our prayers havebeen answered, Maggie. But now dear, if we have heard all that Mr. Huntingdon can tell us about our poor child, will you leave me withhim a little, for I want to take him into our confidence; when heknows all, he may be willing to help us. " And Margaret rose without aword; but her beautiful eyes rested on Erle a moment, wistfully, asthough to bid him to be patient. 

And then, as the twilight crept over the room; while the girls werelaughing and chatting round Fay's couch, and wondering--Doraespecially--what could have happened to detain Mr. Huntingdon so late;and while the blazing pine knots threw a ruddy glow over Raby's paleface, Erle sat listening to one of the saddest stories he had everheard. 

And when it was finished they had a long talk together, and Erle toldRaby about Percy's hopeless passion, and of the impatience andloathing with which Crystal seemed to turn from her handsome younglover. 

"He makes his way with other girls, but not with her, " went on Erle;"and yet he is clever and fascinating, and will be rich, too, someday. It seems strange, does it not. Mr. Ferrers?"

"Not to me, " returned Raby, quietly; but there was a smile on his faceas he spoke. "Crystal will never care for your friend, Mr. Huntingdon;it is no use, his persecuting her with his attentions. "

"If I could only get Percy to believe it; but he seems absolutelycrazy on that point. Miss Davenport--Miss Ferrers, I mean--is notquite the style I admire; but she is superbly handsome, one must ownthat. "

"Yes, " replied Raby, with a sigh; "I always said her face would do forVashti's. She has Italian blood in her veins; her mother was aFlorentine. Oh, here comes Margaret, " as the door opened and shereappeared. "Maggie, what do you think? Mr. Huntingdon has invited meto Belgrave House. "

"My uncle is very hospitable, Miss Ferrers, " observed Erle, with asmile at her surprise; "Percy and I can always ask our friends. He isold, and has his own rooms; so we never interfere with him. Mr. Ferrers would find himself very comfortable with us, and I would takegreat care of him. "

"You are very good"--but rather doubtfully. "You will not go to Londonwithout me, Raby?"

"I think it will be better, Maggie. Mr. Huntingdon has promised totake me over to Beulah Place; we shall go there one evening. Oh, yes, it is all arranged. Please God, I shall bring her home with me, " andthere was a strange, beautiful smile on his face as he spoke. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

AMONG THE SHADOWS. 

 When no more the shattered senses round the throne of reason dwell, Thinking every sight a specter, every sound a passing bell; When the mortal desolation falleth on the soul like rain, And the wild hell-phantoms dance and revel in the human brain. 

 PHILIP STANHOPE WORSELY. 

It was nearly dinner-time when Erle reached Redmond Hall; Sir Hugh hadnot returned from London, Ellerton told him; he had telegraphed thathe might be detained all night--my lady was in the damaskdrawing-room, and the young ladies had left an hour ago. Erle listenedto all this, and then rushed up to his room to make himselfpresentable; and the dogs slunk off, evidently on the same errand. 

He had to dine in solitary state by himself, while Fay ate her chickenin the big drawing-room, where the old-fashioned mirrors alwaysreflected the tiny figure. 

Fay was looking very pretty to-night, but just a trifle sad at thethought that Hugh might not be home. She had put on his favorite gown, too, to do honor to her first appearance in the drawing-room; it was alovely gown, and she looked a perfect fairy queen in it, as Erle toldher when he came into the room; but somehow Erle's praise was ratherflat to-night. Fay was longing for her husband; and she had onlydressed to please his eyes. She played with her wedding-ring ratherrestlessly while Erle talked his nonsense, and then she rememberedthat he must be amused. 

"The girls were so dreadfully disappointed, " she said, trying to rouseherself; "they were very good and kind, and stayed with me until six, and then Dora said they must go; she kept looking at the door, andfancying she heard Nero bark; and then the younger one, Connie--no, not Connie, it was Addie--asked so many questions about you--where youlived, and if I had ever been to Belgrave House? trying to find outthings, you know; and, Erle--I don't believe you are listening a bit, "with a stamp of her little foot. 

"I don't believe I was, " returned Erle, frankly. "Don't be vexed, myFairy Queen, I can't bother about the girls to-night. I want to tellyou about my visit to the Grange--it is no secret, Mr. Ferrers says, and I thought you would be interested, it is such a strange affairaltogether. "

Well, it was not such a dull evening after all: neither of them couldtell how the time had passed when Ellerton came in to say the lasttrain had been due for some time, and, as Sir Hugh had not returned, would my lady have the house shut up; could it actually be pasteleven, and Erle and she still talking about this wonderful story. 

Fay's cheeks were quite pink when she bade Erle goodnight; her eyesshining like stars. Oh, these dear people, she thought, how strangeand sad it all was, and yet how interesting; she had made Erledescribe this Crystal over and over again. She must be an odd girl, she thought--so passionate and so undisciplined, and to think she wasliving with the other one, with the fair hair and the pretty smile;but when she had said this there had been no answering smile on Erle'sface. 

"Yes, " he had returned, seriously, "I have often wondered to see themsuch friends; they are so utterly dissimilar. Fern--Miss Trafford, Imean--is gentle and yielding--more like you, Fay; and Miss Ferrers--asI suppose I ought to call her--is so high-spirited and proud. I oftenwonder how Percy dares to make love to her, but he seems to dareanything. "

Well, Fay thought about it all when she went to bed; she had got usedto her big shadowy room by this time; she lay wide awake watching thefire-light flicker and dance on the walls; how odd that people wholoved each other so much should misunderstand each other so strangely;of course Crystal loved this grand-looking Raby, and yet of her ownaccord she was hiding from him; and Fay thrilled with pity andaffectionate sympathy, as she pondered over the sad story. She triedto tell Hugh when he returned the next day, but he was too busy orelse unwilling to listen to her. 

"Yes, I know all about it--I never cared very much for the girl, " hesaid, hastily; and then, as Fay looked intensely surprised, he addedrather irritably:

"I told you we were old friends once, and of course I saw Miss Crystalwhen I visited at the Grange; she was never my taste--handsome, ofcourse, but one could see she had a bit of the devil in her--she had atemper of her own if you like; and Mr. Ferrers spoiled her; he wasterribly infatuated--I dare say he is still--men will be foolssometimes. There, don't keep me talking, Fay; of course every one inSandycliffe and Singleton knows the story. I am not so sure that itwas not wise of the girl to run away, after all. "

"Hugh must have been very intimate with them all, " thought Fay whenshe was left alone. "How I wish he were not always too busy to talk tome. Erle says he is sure he is killing himself rushing about as hedoes, and he does look terribly ill. I wish he would see Dr. Martin, but of course my asking him to do so would only make him angry. It isvery wrong of me, I am afraid; but I can not help longing to know whyHugh has quarreled with them so. I don't like to vex him, but it seemsto me as though I have a right to know all that concerns my husband"--and Fay's throat swelled and her eyes grew a little dim. "Perhaps whensomething happens he will think me older and talk to me more, " shesaid; and though she was alone a rosy flush came over her face. 

Fay was very sorry when the time came for Erle to go back to BelgraveHouse; she would miss him sadly she knew. They had resumed their oldwalks and drives, and Fay paid visits to Bonnie Bess in her stable, and taught the pretty creature to follow her over the place like adog. 

Erle was sorry to go too; he had grown very much attached to his newcousin. Mr. Ferrers was to join him a little later at Belgrave House, and he promised to write and give her full particulars of their visitto Beulah Place. In his heart he had a secret longing to feel Fern'shand in his again, and to see her bright welcoming smile. "I have beenhere a whole month, " he grumbled; "no wonder Hugh is tired of me bythis time. "

Fay was rather surprised then to receive a letter from him two orthree days afterward telling her that Mr. Ferrers's visit wasindefinitely postponed. 

"Everything has gone wrong, " he wrote; "and the fates, thosemischievous cross-grained old women with the one eye between them, aredead against us. 

"I went over to Beulah Place the first evening just to reconnoiter, and was much disgusted to hear that Miss Davenport--Miss Ferrers, Imean, only I stick to the old name from habit--was nursing one of herpupils with the measles. The little rascal--it is a boy--had refusedto be nursed by any one else; and there she is in the curate's housekept in durance vile; and, to make matters worse, there is some talkof her going out of town with them. 

"I wrote off to the Grange at once, and Miss Ferrers answered me. Herbrother would defer his visit for the present, she said, until MissDavenport was back in her old quarters. He was much disappointed, ofcourse, at this delay; but he was satisfied to know that she was ingood hands, and he was used to disappointments. I did feel so sorryfor the poor old fellow when I read that. " And the rest of the letterwas filled with lively descriptions of a ball where he had met MissSelby, and danced with her half the night. 

Fay shook her head over this part of Erle's letter. He was anincorrigible flirt, she was afraid; but she missed him very much. Theold Hall seemed very quiet without Erle's springy footsteps and merrywhistle, and somehow Fay was a little quieter too. 

For a change was passing over Hugh's Wee Wifie in those early springdays. 

With the new hope there came a new and tender expression on her sweetface. 

She grew less child-like and more womanly, and day by day there grew acertain modest dignity that became her well. Hugh was very gentle withher, and careful to guard her from all imprudence; but life was verydifficult to him just then, and he could not always restrain hisgrowing irritability. 

He was ill, and yet unwilling to own anything was amiss. He scoffed atthe idea that his nerves were disorganized; and with the utmostrecklessness seemed bent on ruining his fine constitution. 

His restlessness and inward struggles were making him thin andhaggard; still any fatigue was better than inaction, he thought. Often, after a long day spent in riding over the Redmond and Wyngateestates, he would set out again, often fasting, to walk across plowedlands and through miry lanes to visit some sick laborer, and then situp half the night in his solitary study. 

Years afterward he owned that he never looked back on this part of hislife without an inward shudder. 

What would have become of him, he said, if the hand of Providence hadnot laid him low before he had succeeded in ruining himself, body andsoul?

No one but Hugh knew how often he had yielded to the temptation todrown his inward miseries in pernicious drugs; how in those solitaryvigils, while his innocent child-wife was sleeping peacefully like aninfant, his half-maddened brain conjured up delirious fancies thatseemed to people the dark library with haunting faces. 

But he never meant to harm himself really; he would say in his soberdaylight reflections he was only so very wretched. Margaret'sinfluence had always kept him pure, and he was not the man to findpleasure in any dissipation. 

No, he would not harm himself; but he wanted more to do. If he couldrepresent his county, for example; but he had lost his seat lastelection to his neighbor Colonel Dacre! If he could travel; if Faywould only spare him! And then he shook his head as he thought of hisunborn child. 

"You look so ill, Hugh, " Fay would say with tears in her eyes when hecame up to wish her good-bye, "I wish you would stay with me alittle. "

But Hugh would only give a forced laugh, and say that his "Wee Wifiewas becoming more fanciful than ever, and that he should not know whatto do with her if she went on like this;" and then, kissing herhastily, and unloosening the little hands from his neck, he would goout of the room pretending to whistle. 

But one evening, when they were together in the library, he fellasleep while she was talking to him, and looked so strange and flushedthat Fay got frightened and tried to wake him. 

"Come, Hugh, " she said, softly, "it is eleven o'clock, and I can notleave you like this, and I am so tired and sleepy, dear;" and sheknelt down and put her hand under his head, and stroked back the hairfrom his hot forehead. But Hugh only muttered something inaudibly, andturned his face away. 

And Fay, watching him anxiously, felt her heart sink with someundefined fear, and presently rang for his valet. 

"Saville, " she said, as the man entered the room, "I do not know whatis the matter with Sir Hugh to-night, he sleeps so heavily and looksso strange. If it were not so late, and I were sure that he would notmind it, I would send for Doctor Martin. "

"Nonsense, " exclaimed her husband, drowsily, for this threat ofsending for the doctor had roused him effectually, and he managed tosit up and look at them. 

"Why, what a white shaking child you look, you are not fit to be up solate, Fay; why don't you take more care of yourself. "

"I was so frightened, dear, " she whispered; "I could not bear to leaveyou. I am sure you are ill, Hugh; do let Saville help you to bed. "

"Oh, is that Saville? I thought--I thought--well, never mind. There isnothing the matter with me, Saville, is there?"

"No, Sir Hugh; only it is late, and I expect you are tired, as my ladysaid. "

"But she said I was ill"--very querulously; "I have never had a day'sillness in my life, have I, Saville? Mrs. Heron will know; ask Mrs. Heron--well, I think I may as well go to bed and have my sleep out. "

And the next day he reiterated the same thing, that there was nothingthe matter with him, nothing; only they had not called him at theusual time, and he had slept late; but he had no appetite, and did notcare to rise. 

It was foolish to have tired himself out so, he owned. But if Fay weregood and would not scold him, she might sit with him and readsomething amusing. But he did not tell her, or Saville either, that hehad tried to dress himself and had fallen back half fainting on thebed, or of the strange horrible feelings that were creeping over him, and that made him dread to be alone. Only Fay was very disappointedthat he did not seem to hear anything she read; or remember a word ofit. It was the shooting pain in his head, he told her; and then helaughed in a way that was hardly mirthful, and said he would try tosleep. 

But that night he never closed his eyes, and yet the next day he wouldnot allow Fay to send for the doctor, though she begged piteously forpermission. Doctors were old women, he said, and Dr. Martinespecially. It was only the pain in his head that kept him awake andmade him so feverish; but toward the evening his eyes began to shinebeautifully, and he grew quite lively and talkative. 

He said he was much better, if only his head and hands were notburning like live coals; and that he meant if it were fine to driveFay out in the pony-carriage to-morrow, and they would go and call onMargaret. 

Fay stared, as well she might. Did Hugh mean Miss Ferrers? she asked, timidly. 

And Hugh, speaking thickly, like a drunken man, said, "Yes, certainly!and why not?" and he would ask Margaret to go with him to Shepherd'sCorner to-morrow, and see Tim Hartlebury, who was lying dying or dead, he did not know which; but apropos to the Sudbury politics, and theold Tory member, Lord Lyndhurst of Lyndhurst, at whom the Radicalparty, with the publican of the Green Drake at their head, had shiedrotten eggs, would Lady Redmond assure him that the Grange was notinfested with serpents. The old hydra-headed reptile had lived therein his father's time, and there was a young brood left, he heard, thatwere nourished on Margaret's roses. No, he repeated, if there wereserpents at the Grange they would not drive there, for he was afraidof Raby, and he hated parsons, for even blind ones could seesometimes, and they might tell tales--lies--he said, beating wildly onthe bedclothes; lies, every one of them, and would they please takeaway his Wee Wifie, for he was tired of her. And Fay, trembling verymuch, called out to Saville to come quickly, for Sir Hugh was talkingso funnily, she could not make out what he meant. And Saville, as hestood and held his master's hands, thought his talk so very fanny thathe summoned Mrs. Heron and Ellerton at once, while the groom saddledone of the horses and galloped off for Dr. Martin; and when Dr. Martin arrived, and had seen his patient, the mystery was sooncleared. 

Sir Hugh had brain fever; and that night Ellerton and Saville had tohold him down in his bed to prevent him throwing himself from thewindow. He very nearly did it once in the cunning of his madness, whenthey left him unguarded for a moment; and after that they had to straphim down. 

They had taken his Wee Wifie from him almost by force; she had clungto him so--her poor mad Hugh, as she called him. But Mrs. Heron tookthe distracted young creature in her motherly arms when Dr. Martinbrought her downstairs, and soothed her as though she were a child. Fay put her head down on the housekeeper's shoulder and cried untilshe could cry no longer. "Will he die--will my darling die?" was allshe could say at first; and then she would ask piteously to go back tohim. 

No one ventured to let her cross the threshold. After this there weretwo hospital nurses sent down from London, and Dr. Conway, awell-known physician in town, met Dr. Martin in consultation. Savilleand Ellerton were always in the sick-room when wanted. Everything thatmoney could procure, or faithful attendance could give, was lavishedon the patient, but for a long time there was no improvement. 

If his violence had not banished Fay from the room his miserableravings would. 

The nurses were too much accustomed to such scenes to take much noticeof their patient's wild talk; but the trusty old servants, who knewtheir master's secret, shuddered as they heard him, for his talk wasalways of Margaret. He never even mentioned his Wee Wifie. 

"Oh, for Margaret!" he cried, to give him water to quench his thirst;for he was in torment, and no one could give him drink. Oh, forMargaret's cool hand--for Maggie--for his own love, Margaret; and soon and so on, through the long hours of that fevered dream. 

How that one idea beset him!

She was a star, and he went seeking her through space till he got lostand entangled in the Milky Way, and revolved madly through theinfinite. 

She was in Paradise, standing on the topmost stair of the goldenladder, stretching out her hands and calling to him to come to herbefore the door was shut; and ever as he tried to climb, the fiendscame swarming from their pits of darkness, and dragged him down withendless fallings and precipitous crashings, while his Wee Wifielaughed mockingly from the distance. 

"Oh, for Margaret, Margaret, Margaret!" and so on through the day andthrough the night, until they thought it must have killed him. 

Those were terrible days at Redmond Hall. The very servants wentcarefully about the house with hushed voices, looking after theiryoung mistress with pitying eyes, as she wandered like a lost spiritfrom one room to another, generally followed by the faithful Janet. Erle came down once, but Fay grew so hysterical at the sight of herold favorite that Mrs. Heron was quite frightened, and begged him togo away; and, as he could do no good, he acquiesced very sensibly inthis piece of advice. 

Mrs. Heron was growing quite unhappy about my lady. Nothing she couldsay would make Fay cease from those aimless wanderings; she could noteat, she could not rest, and her fits of weeping seemed only toexhaust her. 

Nothing did her any good until Dr. Martin came to her one day, and, taking the thin little hand in his, gave her his faithful promisethat, if the fever abated, and she were strong enough, she should helpto nurse him by and by, but it would depend upon herself, he said, meaningly; and Fay promised to eat and sleep that she might be fit tonurse Hugh. 

She meant to be good and keep her promise; but one evening the longingto see her husband was too strong for her. 

Saville had just gone down-stairs for something and had left thedressing-room door ajar. Fay, gliding down the corridor in her whitedress, caught sight of the half-opened door, and the temptation wastoo strong for her; the next moment she was in the dimly lighted room, with her finger on the handle of the closed door. 

It yielded to her touch at once, and Fay's hungry eyes tried to piercethrough the semi-darkness. 

It was the oriel chamber, and Sir Hugh lay on the very bed where, Mrs. Heron had solemnly assured Fay, many a Redmond had breathed his firstand last breath. It had been found impossible to move him, but Fay didnot remember this as she stood with beating heart, not daring to movea step. 

It was very quiet and still--one of the strange nurses was sitting bythe bed with her face toward the patient; she had not heard Fay'sstealthy entrance; the next moment Fay choked back a sob thatthreatened to rise in her throat, for she had caught sight at last ofthe white changed face that lay on the pillow; and then, regardless ofeverything but her love and longing, she glided quickly to the bed, and kissing the wide staring eyes, laid the shaven head tenderly uponher bosom. 

"Oh, my lady!" exclaimed the nurse, in a terrified voice, "this isvery wrong--very wrong indeed. "

"Hush--I am his wife--I have a right to be here. You know me, do younot, my darling Hugh?"

Poor Fay! she had her punishment then; for Hugh did not know her inthe least, and seemed to shrink from her with horror; he begged her tosend Margaret to him--his dear Margaret, and not stand there like somewhite horrible statue dressed up in grave-clothes. 

"You had better go, my lady, you are only exciting him, " observed thenurse, quietly; and Fay wrung her hands and hurried from the room. Saville found her crouching against the dressing-room door, with herface hidden in her hands, and fetched Mrs. Heron at once to coax heraway; but Fay hardly seemed to understand their meaning; her face hada white, strained look upon it as Mrs. Heron put her arm round her andled her tenderly to her room. 

CHAPTER XX. 

"LITTLE JOYCE. "

 In the cruel fire of sorrow Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail, Let thy heart be firm and steady, Do not let thy spirit quail; But wait till the trial be over And take thy heart again; For as gold is tried by fire, A heart must be tried by pain. 

 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 

"Oh, my lady, what will Doctor Martin say?" exclaimed Mrs. Heron, asshe almost lifted her young mistress on to the couch, and stood overher rubbing her cold hands. It was a warm April evening, but Fay wasshivering and her teeth chattering as though with cold. 

"What does it matter what he says?" returned Fay; the girl's lips werewhite, and there was still a scared look in her eyes. "Is that whythey would not let me see him--because they have cut off his hair andmade him look so unlike himself, and because he talks so strangely?"

"Yes, my lady, and for your own good, and because--" but Fayinterrupted her excitedly. 

"My good? as though anything could do me good while my darling husbandsuffers so cruelly. Oh, Mrs. Heron, would you believe it? he did notknow me; he looked as though he were afraid of me, his own wife: hetold me to go away and not touch him, and to send Margaret. Oh, " witha sort of restless despair in her voice, "who is this Margaret of whomhe always speaks?"

Mrs. Heron's comely face paled a little with surprise--as she toldEllerton afterward, she felt at that moment as though a feather wouldhave knocked her down. "My heart was in my mouth, " she observed, feelingly, "when I heard the pretty creature say those words, 'who isthis Margaret of whom he always speaks?' Oh, I was all in a tremblewhen I heard her, and then all at once I remembered Miss Joyce, and itcame to me as a sort of inspiration. "

"Do you know who he means?" continued Fay, languidly. 

"Indeed, my lady, there is no telling, " returned the good housekeeper, cautiously; "it is often the case with people in fever that theyforget all about the present, and just go back to past days; and so itmay be Sir Hugh thinks about the little sister who died when he was alad at school, and of whom he was so fond. "

"Sir Hugh never told me he had had a sister, " replied Fay, roused tosome animation at this. "Was her name Margaret?"

"Yes, to be sure. " But Mrs. Heron forbore to mention that the childhad always been called by her second name Joyce. "Ay, she was a prettylittle dear, and Master Hugh--I mean Sir Hugh--doated on her; she hadthe whooping-cough very badly, and Miss Joy--I mean Miss Margaret wasalways delicate, and it just carried her off. "

"And my husband was fond of her?" was the musing reply, "and yet itseems strange that he should go back all those years and think of hisbaby sister. "

"I don't think Doctor Martin would say it was strange if you were toask him, my lady, " was the diplomatic answer. "We might mention itto-morrow, and see what he says. You may depend upon it that folktravel backward in their mind when the fever gets hold of their brain. Most likely he is thinking a deal of his mother and Miss Margaret, forhe was always an affectionate lad was Master Hugh. "

"Dear Margaret! that was what he called her. "

"Ay, no doubt, precious little lamb. I can see her now, with her curlyhead and white frock, as she pelted Master Hugh with rose-leaves onthe lawn. Now, my lady, you are only fit for bed, and there is not amorsel of color in your face, and Ellerton says you hardly toucheddinner. Now I am going to bring you up a glass of wine and a sandwich, and you will let Janet help you undress. "

Fay was too weary to resist. What did it matter, she thought again;but with her usual sweet courtesy she thanked Mrs. Heron, and tried toswallow a few mouthfuls, though they seemed to choke her, but she wasglad when they left her alone. Sleep? how was she to sleep, with thisnightmare of horror oppressing her? Again, the poor shaven head waslying in her bosom. She was kissing the wide staring eyes. Why had hepushed her from him? "Oh, Hugh, you ought to have known me, " shesobbed, as she tossed wearily in the darkness. Janet, who was sleepingin the adjoining room, heard her once and came to her bedside. 

"Were you calling me, my lady?" she asked. 

"No, Janet, " answered the poor child. "I am only crying because I amso unhappy. "

"Better go to sleep, my lady, " was Janet's sympathizing reply; "thingsseem always worse in the dark; most likely we shall hear the master isbetter to-morrow. Saville says he has a deal of strength in him andwill cheat the doctors yet;" and somehow this homely consolationsoothed Fay, and by and by she slept the unbroken sleep of youth. 

Dr. Martin listened to Mrs. Heron's account with a very grave face thenext morning, but he chose to make light of the whole affair to Fay. 

"You hardly deserve to be told that this escapade of yours, LadyRedmond, has done our patient no harm, " he observed, in a half-jokingvoice. "Sir Hugh is quieter to-day--much quieter. I should not besurprised if there be decided improvement in a few hours, but, " asFay's eyes filled with tears of thankfulness, "it was a very riskything to do, and as you deserve to be punished for it, I must insistthat these ponies of yours, who are eating their heads off withidleness, shall be put in harness at once, and you will please take along drive that will not bring you within sight of Redmond Hall forthe next two hours. "

Fay laughed at the doctor's grim face, but she was ready to promisehim obedience if Hugh were better; she was quite willing to take thedrive; she rang and ordered the ponies at once, and took the reins inher own hands. The fresh spring sunshine was delicious; the softbreezes seemed laden with messages of hope. Dr. Martin was right whenhe ordered that drive. Fay's little pale face looked less miserable asshe restrained her ponies' frolics. She found herself listening to thebirds and noticing the young spring foliage with her old interest asthey drove through the leafy lanes. Fay had just turned her ponies'heads toward the winding road that led straight to the shore, when thefrisky little animals shied playfully at a lady in a gray cloak whowas standing by the hedge looking at a nest of young linnets. As sheturned Fay saw that it was Miss Ferrers, and involuntarily checked herponies, and at the same moment Miss Ferrers stepped into the road. 

"Oh, Lady Redmond, " she said, and Fay wondered why she was so pale. Had she been ill too? "This is a most unexpected pleasure. May I--mayI"--hesitating for a moment, "ask you to stop and speak to me?"

"Certainly, " returned Fay; and with quick impulse she handed the reinsto the groom, and sprung into the road. "Take the ponies up and down, Ford; I shall not be long. I was just going down on the beach for abreath of sea-air, " she continued, turning to Margaret, "and I am soglad I have met you, because we can go together, " for she thought Hughwould certainly not mind her exchanging a few courteous words withMiss Ferrers when they met face to face; besides Miss Ferrers hadasked to speak to her. 

"I wanted to know--but of course I see by your face--that Sir Hugh isbetter, " began Margaret, but her dry lips would hardly fashion thewords. 

"Oh, yes, " returned Fay, eagerly. "Doctor Martin says he is quieter, much quieter, this morning, and he hopes to find decided improvementin a few hours; oh, Miss Ferrers, it has been such a terrible time, Ido not know how I have lived through it. "

"It must have been dreadful for you, and you are looking ill yourself, Lady Redmond, " with a pitying glance at the small white face thatlooked smaller and thinner since she saw it last. 

"I do not know how I have been, " returned Fay, simply. "I seemed tohave no feeling, the time passed somehow, it was always meal-time, andone could not eat, and then night came, but it was not always possibleto sleep. I was always wandering about, and it did not seem easy topray, and then they came and told me it was wrong to grieve so, buthow could I help it?"

"Was there no one to come to you, to be with you, I mean?" but Fayshook her head. 

"I did not want them. Aunt Griselda would have come, but I would notlet them send for her, she would only have troubled me. Erle--ErleHuntingdon I mean--came down, but I did not want to see him; it onlymade me cry, so he went away, and since then I have been alone. "

"Poor child, " returned Margaret, softly. Yes, she was not too young tosuffer; she and Raby had not done full justice to her. The childishface had lost its baby roundness; the beautiful eyes were dim withweeping; the strained white look of endurance that one sees on olderfaces was on hers: and, with a sudden impulse that she could notcontrol, Margaret stooped and kissed her. "Oh, I am so sorry for you, what you must have suffered, " she said, in a voice that seemed full oftears. 

Fay responded to the caress most warmly. "Oh, you are always so kind;one feels you understand without telling. I thought you would be sorryfor me. Do you know I did something dreadfully wrong yesterday; theyhave never let me see him--they have shut me out of my husband'sroom--but last evening Saville left the door ajar, and I went in. "

"You went in; oh, Lady Redmond!" and Margaret shuddered as though thesea breezes chilled her. 

"Yes, and he did not know me; fancy a husband not knowing his wife. They had cut off his beautiful hair, and be looked so strange, and hiseyes were so bright and large, and then, when I kissed him, he pushedme away. Miss Ferrers"--with a quick remembrance of the housekeeper'swords--"you were old friends, at least Hugh said so; do you rememberhis ever speaking of a little sister who died?"

"Oh, yes, " returned Margaret, quickly; "little Joyce; he was very fondof her as a boy, she was a lovely little creature. "

"Joyce, but her name was Margaret, Mrs. Heron says. "

"To be sure, I remember now, Margaret Joyce; it is engraved so on thetombstone, but they never called her Margaret, it was always Joyce. "

"How strange, " replied Fay, in a puzzled tone; they were standing on alittle strip of beach now, and the waves were coming in with a lazysplash and ripple; there was no one in sight, and only a little boatwith sails rocking in the distance; how calm and still and peaceful itlooked. "Little Joyce, " she repeated, dreamily, while the soft seabreeze fanned the little tendrils of hair from her temples; "but itwas dear Margaret for whom he was asking. "

There was a quick gasp strangled before it rose to a sob--for onemoment Margaret thought she was in danger of swooning--the sky seemedwhirling, the sea was all round her, the sand was nothing but a giddycircle of purple and rose, and blinding yellow; then it passed, therewas firm ground under her feet, the mist cleared before her eyes, andFay was holding her by the arm. 

"Were you giddy? how white you looked. Shall we sit down a little?your hand is trembling still. "

"It was nothing, I have not been strong lately; yes, we will sit, theair will do us both good. What were you saying, Lady Redmond?" asthough the words were not burned into her memory: "Dear Margaret!"Why, the very angels must have wept to hear him!

"Whom could he mean?" continued Fay, with nervous reiteration. "Idon't believe Mrs. Heron was right when she said that he was thinkingof his baby sister; he would have called her Joyce. Margaret; there isno one that I know who has that name except yourself; but, " looking ather doubtfully, "though you were old friends, it was not likely thathe meant you. "

A deep flush rose to Margaret's face, a quick petition for help andwisdom to guide her at this critical moment rose from her heart. 

"He used to call me Margaret, in the old days, " she said, in a verylow voice. "That need not surprise you, Lady Redmond, as we were suchold friends; his mother called me Margaret too. "

"You knew his mother. "

"Yes, when I was a child, Sir Hugh and I were playfellows; has he nottold you that; ah, well, it is sad when old friends get estranged. Lady Redmond, I see you have a question on your lips, may I ask younot to put it. I think that it would not be acting honorably to yourhusband if you should hear anything from our lips; he can not tell youhimself now, but it will not hurt you to wait. "

"No, " replied Fay, slowly, "no, it would not hurt me to wait, as yousay, but then you see Hugh may refuse to tell me, as he did before. "

"Will you ask him again, and see if he refuse? will you tell him thatMargaret Ferrers begs him most earnestly to tell you why Redmond Halland the Grange are estranged? tell him, that no consideration for usneed seal his lips any longer, that he has always been free to speak, that we will willingly take our share of blame; will you tell himthis?"

"Oh, yes, " returned Fay, in a relieved voice; "and he will be sure totell me now; no doubt he was afraid of paining you in some way. Hughis so kind-hearted, he hates to make any one uncomfortable. I will nottry to find out any more by myself; I will be good and patient untilhe gets well. "

"That is spoken like a brave wife, " replied Margaret, with a faintsmile. "By one who loves her husband more than herself. "

"As I love Hugh, " was the soft response; "dear Miss Ferrers, I must gonow; the ponies will be growing restless, and I am a long way fromhome. "

"Yes, I must not keep you. God bless you, Lady Redmond. Will youforgive me if I stop here, for I have been walking from Pierrepoint, and need rest, " but Margaret did not add that her strength hadforsaken her, and that she dared not move from her place for fear herlimbs should refuse to carry her; she would wait a little untilstrength came back, and she could meet Raby with her usual calmness. 

"Yes, you look very tired, " was Fay's unconscious answer; "but youwill soon get rested with this lovely air. " And then she kissed heraffectionately, and went up the beach with her old elastic step, andMargaret watched her sadly until she was out of sight. 

"She is sweet and good, but he does not love her yet, " she said toherself; "but it will come, it must come in time. "

Fay drove happily home, and was met at the lodge gates by the goodnews that Sir Hugh had had an hour or two's refreshing sleep, and thatDr. Conway, as well as Dr. Martin, were quite satisfied with theprogress he had made. 

"Oh, could it be quite true?" Fay asked, when she reached the Hall. 

Yes, it was quite true the fever had abated. Sir Hugh's wonderfulstrength and vitality had triumphed at last, and the doctors soonannounced that he was out of danger. 

There were still days of weary waiting for Fay before it waspronounced safe for her to enter her husband's sickroom; but at lastthe day came, and one sweet spring evening, Hugh waking up from abrief doze, felt tears falling on his forehead, and saw Fay leaningover him. He was too weak even to put out his hand, but a faint smilecame to his lips. "My Wee Wifie, " Fay heard him say, but the nextmoment the smile had died away into sadness. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

"LET ME SEE MARGARET. "

 Be with me, love, when weak and worn, My life chord vibrates to and fro; When with the flood-tide's backward flow, My soul stands waiting to be gone. 

 And let me, with my failing hand, Hold fast to that I love so well, Till thine clasps but an empty shell, Amid the drift-weed on the sand. 

 Be with me that my closing eyes In that last hour may seek thy face, Thine image so can none displace, But soar with me through yonder skies. 

 HELEN MARION BURNSIDE

"But they were not out of the wood yet, " as Mrs. Heron observed toEllerton. 

When, he had reached a certain point Sir Hugh failed to make anyfurther progress. 

The London physician, Dr. Conway, frankly owned that Sir Hugh's casecompletely baffled his medical skill and experience. 

Just when they had least expected it the fever had abated, and he hadbegun to amend, and now he as steadily refused to get well. 

Day after day he lay in an extremity of weakness that was pitiable towitness; and ever, as time went on, seemed sinking slowly from sheerinanition and exhaustion. After all there must be some strangemischief at work, he said; but Dr. Martin was of a different opinion. 

He had seen enough of his patient by this time to be sure that therewas sickness of heart as well as of brain, and that it needed someother healing power than theirs before the man could throw off theload of oppression that was retarding his recovery and, gathering uphis wasted energies, take up his life again. 

But now he seemed very far from recovery. 

Day after day he lay with that far-off look on his face that it madeFay weep to see, for she thought that he must surely die. 

Hugh thought so too. 

Hour by hour he felt himself drifting nearer to the dark valley which, to his tired eyes and heart, seemed only like some still haven ofrepose. Only to sleep, he said, to sleep--to rest--and with his whitelips he murmured, "and may God have mercy on my soul. " And ever helonged and prayed that he might see Margaret again. 

And one night he dreamed of her. 

He dreamed that he was dying--as he surely believed he was--and thatMargaret came to his bedside and looked at him. He could see herdistinctly; the pale, beautiful face, the folds of her dress, the waveof her dead-brown hair. And when he awoke and saw only the springsunshine filling the room, and quivering light under his eyelids, andknew that the fresh day was dawning brightly to all but him, he couldnot suppress the groan that rose to his lips, "Margaret, Margaret. "

Fay was sitting by him, but the curtain concealed her; she had beencurled up for hours in the big arm-chair that stood at the head of thebed. It was her habit to rise early and go to her husband's room andsend the nurse to rest; indeed, Dr. Martin had to use all hisauthority to induce her to take needful exercise, for Fay begrudgedevery moment spent out of the sick-room. 

She was looking out at the avenue and listening to the soft soughingof the spring breezes in the tree-tops, and thinking of the summerdays that were to bring her a marvelous gift; but at the sound ofHugh's agonized voice her day-dream vanished. "Margaret, Margaret, " hehad said, and then almost with a sob, "my one and only love, Margaret. "

No! she was not asleep, the words were ringing in her ears. Hugh, herHugh, had spoken them, "My one and only love, Margaret. "

He must take back those words, that was her first thought. Oh, no, hecould not mean them; it would not be possible to go on living if shethought he meant them; but he was ill, and she must not agitate him, she must speak to him very quietly for fear the fever had returned, and his poor head was confused again. 

"You have been dreaming, " she said, gently--oh, so gently. "What is ityou want, my dearest. "

And Hugh, folding his wasted hands together as though he were praying, looked up to her with unutterable longing in his eyes, and panted out"Margaret. "

"Margaret, " she repeated, slowly; "what Margaret do you mean, Hugh?"

"Margaret Ferrers, " he whispered. "Oh, Fay, dear Fay, if I havewronged you, forgive me. In the old times before I knew you, Margaretand I were engaged--she had promised to be my wife, and then she tookback her promise. Child, I meant to tell you, I always meant to tellyou, but I did not like to grieve you by what was over and gone; but Iam dying--God knows I can not live in this weakness--let me seeMargaret once, and bid her goodbye before I go. "

Ah, there was no doubt now! slowly, but surely, the color faded out ofthe sweet face. 

If he had raised that helpless arm of his, and felled her to theground, she could not have felt so stunned and bruised and giddy asshe stood there, winding and unwinding the fringe of the quilt betweenher cold fingers, with that strange filmy look in her eyes. 

She understood it now. The arrow so feebly winged had sped to thedepths of that innocent heart, and what she would not have believed ifan angel had told it her, she had heard from her husband's lips. 

Margaret was beloved and not she, and Fay must bear it and live. 

And the fair child-face grew whiter and whiter, but she only took thenerveless hands in hers and kissed them. 

"Do not fret, Hugh, it shall be as you wish, " she said, in a voice solow that he only just heard her, for a sobbing breath seemed to impedeher utterance; "it shall be as you wish, my dear husband, " and then, not trusting herself to look at him, she left the room. 

In the corridor she met Saville. 

"Please find the nurse and send her to Sir Hugh, " she said, hurriedly, "and tell Ford I want him to take a note over to Sandycliffe, " andthen she went into the library and wrote a few words. 

 "DEAR MISS FERRERS, --My husband wishes to see you; will you come to him at once? He thinks that he is very ill, and can not live, and he wishes to bid you goodbye. He has told me the reason, and it is quite right, and I hope you will come, for I can not bear to see him fret. "

And then she remembered that she had not ordered the pony-carriage, and that Ford would be saddling one of the horses; so she rang forEllerton, and made him understand very carefully, that Ford was todrive over to the Grange and take the note, and that he must wait andbring Miss Ferrers back with him. "For you must know, Ellerton, " shesaid, with pathetic dignity, but not looking at the old servant, "thatSir Hugh feels himself worse, and wants to say good-bye to his oldfriend;" "for of course, " thought Fay, when Ellerton had left thelibrary with tears in his eyes, "if Hugh and she were engaged, all theservants must know, and it was better for me to speak out like that. "

When Margaret read that poor little note the tears fell fast andblotted the page. "Thank God she knows at last, " she said to herselfas she folded it up, and then hurriedly prepared to obey the summons. 

She hoped that she would not see Lady Redmond before that parting withHugh were over, for she needed all her strength for that; and to hergreat relief only Ellerton received her. She was ushered for a fewminutes into the empty drawing-room, and then Sir Hugh's nurse camedown to her, and said Dr. Martin had just left the house, and hermaster would see Miss Ferrers now. 

And there was no one in the sick-room when she entered it, though thenurse had told her that she would be in the dressing-room within call. There was no one to see the flash of joy in the sick man's eyes, whenMargaret's cold lips touched his forehead, or to hear his low"Margaret, darling, " that greeted her. 

But when she had looked in his face she knew he would not die, andthat her work was before her; and while poor weak Hugh panted outwords of passionate longing and despair, she was girding up herstrength for what she had to say, and praying for help that she mightbe able to comfort him. 

And no one knew what passed between them but their guardian angels;only Hugh's miserable selfish passion sunk down abashed as he listenedto this brave sweet woman who was not ashamed to tell him how sheloved him, and how she would love him to her life's end. And as he sawinto the depths of that pure heart, its stainless purity, itsunrepining sorrow, he trembled and was silent. 

"What am I that I should touch even the hem of her garment?" he saidto himself afterward. 

And she told him what he had never guessed, that were he free shewould never marry him or any man, for in her trouble long ago she hadvowed herself to Heaven; and with a few forcible words she showed himthe plan and purpose of her future life--when Raby should have ceasedto need her; drawing such calm pictures of a tender ministry and asaintly sisterhood, that Hugh, looking at her with dazzled eyes, thought he could almost discern a faint halo round her head. 

"You were always too good for me, Margaret, " he muttered, but she onlysmiled at him, and still holding his hands as she knelt beside him, she whispered that her prayers were heard, and that she knew he wouldnot die, that it was only his weakness, and he would soon struggleback to life again. 

"But what good is life to me without you, Margaret?" he asked, in adespairing voice. 

"What good? Have you forgotten your wife, Hugh?"

"No, " he murmured, restlessly, "but she is only a child;" but Margaretshook her head. 

"You are wrong, she is not a child, nor ever will be again. " And thenvery gently she urged him when he was stronger to tell Fay the wholestory of their engagement; for she was afraid those few words that heconfessed were all he had said must have made her very unhappy; butHugh would not allow this. He told Margaret that she did notunderstand Fay, or how young and innocent she really was; she had notseemed agitated or disturbed when he had asked to see Margaret--shehad answered him quite tranquilly; he was sure she would not sufferfrom the knowledge of their engagement, for he was always kind to herand she loved him; and then he added bitterly that the suffering washis, but when he got well, if he ever did get well, he would go away, for he could not go on living like this. 

And when Margaret saw how it was she did not dissuade him; perhaps, after all, it would be better for him to go away for a little, andcome back and begin his life anew, doing a man's work in hisgeneration. 

"One day you will love your wife, " she said to him, "and indeed youcan not fail to love her, and then you will only remember that youhave a sister Margaret praying for you every day of her life. No, donot look at me like that, Hugh. Up in heaven it will be no sin to loveyou--I can keep my love till then. " And she then tried to leave him, for, strong as she was, she could not have borne this scene muchlonger, and Hugh was terribly exhausted. 

"Will you kiss me once more, Margaret?" he had asked, faintly, and shehad stooped over him again and kissed his forehead and eyes, and thengently bade God bless him. 

Was this a woman he had loved or an angel, Hugh wondered, as sheclosed the door and left him alone in the sunlight; but he was tooweak to carry out the thought. When the nurse came to his side he hadfallen into a refreshing sleep. 

As Margaret crossed the threshold of the dressing-room she caughtsight of a listless little figure sitting in one of the deepwindow-seats of the corridor. There was something in her attitude thatstruck Margaret--an air of deep dejection, of utter forlornness, thatwent to her heart. The beautiful little head seemed drooping withweariness; but as she went closer and saw the wan face and the babymouth quivering, with the under lip pressed like a child's in pain, she gave an involuntary exclamation. She would not suffer, Hugh hadsaid, she was so young and innocent; and now--the angels comfort yourbroken heart, sweet Fay. 

"Hush!" she said, turning round as she heard Margaret's voice; "wemust not talk here, it would disturb him, and he must be kept veryquiet--oh! very quiet, Doctor Conway says. Come in here, if you wishto speak to me, " and she led the way into her little room. "Will yousit down?" she went on, with the same passive gentleness; "you weregood to come, but--but--it must have tired you. "

"Oh! Lady Redmond--" But here Margaret could say no more. She seemedto have no strength left for this; she felt as though her calmness andfortitude were deserting her. 

"I told Doctor Conway that you were coming, and he thought it would dono harm, and Doctor Martin said the same. He knows you, he says, andhe was sure that you would be very wise and quiet, that you would notexcite him. No, do not tell me anything about it. I--I can trust you, and Hugh would not like me to know. "

"Indeed you are mistaken, " began Margaret, eagerly, but Fay checkedher with a little dignity. 

"Never mind that. Do you know, Miss Ferrers, that Doctor Conway saysthat my husband is better, that he will not die, it is only weaknessand a nervous fancy; but though he is so slow in getting well, theynotice a gradual improvement. "

"Thank God, for your sake, Lady Redmond. " But as she said this apainful flush mounted to Fay's forehead. 

"You should say for his sake, " she returned, quietly. "What does itmatter about me? Perhaps before the summer is over we may be at resttogether, baby and I. "

"Lady Redmond! Oh! I can not bear it;" and here Margaret burst intotears. Yes, she who had parted dry-eyed from her lover wept bitterlyfor the deceived and unhappy wife. 

"Why do you cry, Miss Ferrers?" asked Fay, in the same subdued voice. "It seems to me that if God would take us both it would be so muchbetter for us all. Nobody wants us"--and here her lips quivered--"andI should not like my baby to live without me. What could Hugh do withit, you know?"

"My child, " replied Margaret, checking her sobs, "is this your faith?is this your woman's courage? Would you who love him so be content todie without winning your husband's heart?"

Fay looked at her wonderingly. 

"It is yours to win, " she continued. "Oh! do not look at me like that, as though I have murdered your happiness. What have you done, you poorchild, that you should suffer like this for my sake. For the sake ofmy future peace of mind I entreat you to listen to me. "

And then, as Fay did not refuse, Margaret took the listless littlehand and told her all. And she judged wisely in doing so, for it wasout of her great pity for him that Fay learned to forgive her husband, and that the vague hope arose in her heart that she might comfort andwin him back. And when Margaret had finished her sad story, Fay puther arms round her and kissed her. 

"Oh, I am so sorry for you; how unhappy you must have been when yougave him up; but it was noble of you, and you did it for his sake. Forgive me if I wronged you, for when you were in that room talking tohim, I felt angry and bitter with him and you too; but I see it is noone's fault, only we are all so unhappy, please forgive me, for indeedyou are better than I. "

"There is nothing to forgive, " replied Margaret, gently. "Yes, I triedto do my duty, and if your husband has failed in his, remember that heis not patient by nature, that men are not like us. One day he will beyours, and yours solely, and then you will be able to think of mewithout bitterness. " Then, taking the little creature in her arms, sheadded, "Good-bye, be brave and patient and generous for your husband'ssake, and it will all come right, " and with a low word of blessing shelet her go. 

And when Hugh woke that evening from his long trance-like sleep hefound his Wee Wifie as usual beside him. 

She had been sitting there all day, with her great tearless eyes fixedon vacancy; refusing to take rest or food, never moving except to dropher head still lower over her clasped hands. 

"You are tired, Wee Wifie, " he said, as she stooped over him and askedhow he felt. "You will wear yourself out, my child;" and he felt forthe little hand that generally lay so near his own. Fay put it in his, and bent over him with an unsteady smile. 

"I am not so very tired, and I like to take care of you, " she said, with a quiver in her sweet voice. "I promised in sickness as well ashealth, you know; let me do my duty, dear, " and Hugh was silent. 

But that night, while Hugh slept, and Margaret knelt praying pitifulprayers for Fay, Fay, tossing in her lonely chamber, sobbed in thedesolate darkness:

"Oh, if it would please God that, when the summer has come, baby and Imight die together; for if Hugh can not love me, my sorrow is greaterthan I could bear. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW. 

 Over the grass we stepped unto it, And God He knoweth how blithe we were, Never a voice to bid us eschew it; Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

 The beck grows wider, the hands must sever On either margin, our songs all done, We move apart, while she singeth ever Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

 JEAN INGELOW. 

That room of Mrs. Watkins's was unusually quiet that May evening, onlyFern Trafford was sitting alone by the open window looking outlistlessly at the few passers-by. 

Fern's busy hands were idle to-night, and the work lay unheeded in herlap. There was a shadow too on the fair face, and a little pucker ofanxiety on the smooth girlish forehead, as though some harassingproblem were troubling her. 

Fern was not quite happy in her mind. Erle Huntingdon had been therethat very afternoon, but he had not stayed long, and his manner hadbeen different somehow. 

Fern was revolving the visit in rather a troubled way. She wondered ifErle's decided nervousness and want of ease had been owing to hermother's rather cool reception of him. Mrs. Trafford had not beencordial in her manner; she had treated the young man with somerestraint and dignity, and had not pressed him to prolong his visit. Erle must have felt that he was not wanted, for he had very soon risento take his leave, and had gone away a little sadly. 

Fern was too loyal to blame her mother, but she wished she had been alittle kinder to poor Erle. Something was vexing him she was sure; hewas not in his usual spirits. Once or twice when there had been amoment's pause, she had looked up from her work and found him watchingher; and once she was sure that there were tears in his eyes. If theyhad only been alone she would have asked him what was the matter, andif anything was vexing him. He wanted to tell her something, she wassure, but her mother had been there all the time, and had followed himto the door herself; and though she had gone to the window for aparting look he had not once glanced up--he had walked away very fastwith his head bent, as though he were absorbed in thought. 

It had not been quite a happy winter to Fern. First Erle and thenCrystal had been away, and she had missed them both terribly. It wasnot as though she had other friends to take their places, and theirabsence had made quite a blank in her existence. 

If her mother could always stay at home and talk to her, if Fluff wereolder and more of a companion, she might not have missed them so much;but somehow her day-dreams were hardly as consoling as usual. Theyseemed more shadowy and unreal, and now and then Fern felt a littledull. Ever since her mother and Crystal had given her those hintsabout Erle, the girl had felt some hostile influence threatening hersweet content. Her thoughts were always straying to that unknownEvelyn Selby of whom Percy had spoken. Now and then she would questionErle about her in her innocent way, but he always evaded thesequestions. 

"Oh, yes, I see her sometimes, " he would answer. "What makes you somuch interested in Miss Selby? I have other lady friends, dozens anddozens of them;" and then Fern would look confused and uncomfortable, and would change the subject; but all the same this girl was never outof her thought. She was rich and well-born and beautiful, and Erle wasalways meeting her. 

Fern tried to hide these thoughts, but Mrs. Trafford often fancied thebright face was a little clouded. Fern laughed and talked as much asever, and worked as busily for them all; but more than once, when shehad returned earlier than usual, she had found Fern with her handslying idly in her lap, and a very thoughtful look on her face. Fernwould jump up at once, with a merry laugh at her own idleness; but hermother did not always forget the look. It was far too dreamy andabstracted, she said to herself, as she watched her child tenderly. 

Crystal was thinking much the same as she entered the room ratherquietly that May evening--so quietly, indeed, that Fern was notconscious of her presence till she pat her hand on her shoulder with alight laugh. 

"Asleep, or only dreaming with your eyes open, Fern. What is thematter, little one?"

"Oh, Crystal, how you startled me, " exclaimed Fern, turning crimsonunder Crystal's sharp scrutiny. "What made you come in so noiselessly?I never even heard your footsteps. Yes, I was dreaming, I believe, "pushing back her hair with rather a tired gesture. "Fluff was sleepyand went to bed, and mother had to help Miss Martingale with theaccounts, and one gets stupid sitting alone. "

"I never heard you say that before, " rather incredulously; "you arethe brightest girl I know, Fern; your mother's name 'Little Sunshine'just suits you; you always seem to me the very essence of sunshine. "

"Oh, one must be dull and stupid sometimes, " returned Fern, with asuspicion of tears in her voice. "Never mind about me; tell me aboutyour afternoon, Crystal; have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Yes--no--well, the children did. The flowers were beautiful and thegardens so pretty, and there were plenty of gayly dressed peoplethere. Oh, by the bye, I saw Mr. Huntingdon; he was walking with sucha handsome girl. "

Fern felt an odd choking sensation in her throat. "You must have beenmistaken, Crystal; Mr. Erle has been sitting with us. "

"Oh, yes, he told us so, for of course he came up to speak to me whenMiss Selby had joined her friends; they came in very late, just as wewere leaving. "

"And--and--it was Miss Selby?"

"Yes, and her aunt, Lady Maltravers; and they had other people withthem. I liked the look of Miss Selby; she has a nice frank face. Ithink she looks charming, and she walks so well too. I do like a girlto hold herself well. "

"And Mr. Erle was walking with her?"

"Yes, they are evidently very intimate;" but Crystal forbore to addthat Erle had looked decidedly uncomfortable at the sight of her, though he had come up to her, and had entered into conversation. Shehad not thought him looking either well or happy, though Miss Selbyhad seemed in high spirits. But she kept these thoughts to herself. 

Fern did not ask any more questions. A miserable consciousness thatwas new to her experience kept her tongue tied. 

Erle had not mentioned that he was going to the Botanical Gardens withMiss Selby; he had only muttered something about an engagement as hetook his leave. 

Crystal saw that Fern looked discomposed, but she took no notice. Shethought the sooner that her eyes were open the better, for in her ownmind she was convinced from what she had seen that afternoon that ErleHuntingdon was on the eve of an engagement to Miss Selby, if he werenot actually engaged. They were quite alone when she had met themfirst. Lady Maltravers was sitting down at a little distance, and MissSelby was blushing and smiling and looking excessively happy, andCrystal had been rather indignant at the sight. 

"Pray do not let me keep you from your friends, " she had said rathercoldly when Erle came up to her. "That was Miss Selby, was it not, thetall young lady in gray with whom you were walking? what a nice faceshe has;" and Erle had reluctantly owned that it was Miss Selby. 

"Go back to her by all means, " Crystal had replied, with a touch ofsarcasm in her voice; "she is looking round and wondering whom youhave picked up. Oh, yes, I like the look of her very much. I think youare to be congratulated, Mr. Huntingdon;" and then Erle had marchedoff rather sulkily. 

"She looks absurdly happy, and I suppose she is in love with him; justsee how she smiles at him. What fools we girls are, " and Crystal hadturned away, feeling very sorry for Fern in her heart, but all thesame she knew better than to say a word of sympathy to Fern. 

"He has made himself very pleasant to her, but it can not have gonevery deep. I do not believe Fern knows what love is, " she said, verybitterly to herself, and then she changed the subject. 

"Oh, do you know, I had such a surprise, " she continued, cheerfully, as Fern averted her face and seemed much engrossed with a Savoyard andhis monkey on the opposite side of the way. "When I got to Upton Housethis morning I found Miss Campion had arrived unexpectedly, and ofcourse she went with us. "

"Do you mean Mrs. Norton's sister?" asked Fern, with languidcuriosity. 

"Yes, Aunt Addie, as the children call her; she is staying at someprivate hotel, and she drove over to see them. I was so pleased to seeher, for you know how kind she was to me at Hastings. I do believethat she has taken a decided fancy to me, and it does seem sostrange. "

"It is not strange at all, " exclaimed Fern, rather roused by this;"many people take a fancy to you, Crystal. I did directly motherbrought you in that evening. "

"Oh you, "--smoothing the fair hair caressingly--"you are a darling, and you love every one, but Miss Campion--well, she is quitedifferent. One would never expect a clever woman of the world who hasfriends and acquaintances in all quarters of the globe to be guilty ofthis sort of sentimentality; but all the same, " with a little laugh, "she seemed to be delighted to see me, and of course the Americanscheme was revived. "

"Oh, Crystal, " with a very long face, "I thought you had given up thatidea. "

"Not at all; but I wanted to hear more about it, and I could not quitemake up my mind. "

"You talk as though you were thinking seriously of it. Mrs. Nortonwould never consent to part with you. "

"Mrs. Norton would do exactly what her sister wished her to do, mydear. Aunt Addie's will rules Upton House. I begin to understandthings better now. We used to wonder how Mrs. Norton could afford allthose pretty gowns and bonnets, and why the curate's wife was so muchbetter dressed than the vicar's wife, and how they could afford to goout of town and have all those nice things for the children, but ofcourse it is all Aunt Addie's doing. "

"Miss Campion is rich then. "

"Yes; Mrs. Norton told me all about it when we were in the gardens. She says some old uncle left her all his money. She does so much goodwith it; and she is especially kind to Mrs. Norton, who is herfavorite sister. She has promised to send the boys to school when theyare old enough, and she pays my salary, and, in fact, the wholehousehold are much benefited by Aunt Addie. So Mrs. Norton told merather sorrowfully that if I made up my mind to go to America with hersister they would not say a word to prevent it. "

"But you will not go, dear, " coaxingly. 

"Miss Campion has friends in New York, " returned Crystal, evasively;"but she does not mean to stay there long. She wants to see Niagaraand Colorado, and I forget the route she has planned; but a companionshe must have, and she offers such handsome terms, and after all shewill not, be away more than five or six months, and as she says thechange will do me good; the only thing is she will start early nextweek and, as I tell her, I have nothing ready, but she only laughedand said we should have plenty of time to market in New York; and thatshe loved shopping. "

"Crystal, I do believe that you have made up your mind to leave us. "

Crystal hesitated a moment, and her dark eyes grew a little misty. 

"And if it be my duty, Fern, will you say a word to keep me, mydarling?" as Fern looked sorrowfully in her face. "I am not leavingyou for good and all; I will never do that until--" but here shepaused, and then hurried on. "The fact is, Fern, your mother can nolonger protect me; your brother's unmanly persecution is driving meaway. No, I will say nothing bitter of him to-night; after all he isyour brother; but it will be better for him if I leave here--a briefabsence may help to cure him. "

"But his selfishness must not drive you away, my poor Crystal. "

"Dear, it will be far better for me to go, " returned Crystal with asigh. "I am growing restless again, and, as Miss Campion says, thechange will do me good; I came home to tell you this to-night I havetold Miss Campion that I will go. "

"Next week!"

"Yes, probably next Wednesday or Thursday, about a week from to-day. Ishall have to be very busy, you see. Don't look so pale over it, Fern;six months will soon pass. Do you know, " rather sadly, "I have hadsuch a curious feeling all day, as though something were going tohappen, and that I wanted to get away first. Oh, I can't explain it; Ifelt the same yesterday. Fern, did Mr. Huntingdon tell you anythingmore about those friends of his whom he met down at Sandycliffe?"

"No, dear, " with rather a wondering look, "he only just mentionedthem, you know. What nice people they were, and so kind and friendly;he took rather a fancy to them. "

"Yes, but I thought he might have spoken of them again. "

"Oh, no, he only saw them twice; he just went over to tell them howLady Redmond's ankle was; it was only the accident that made him speakof them at all. How interested you seem in those Ferrers, Crystal. "

"Yes, " was the quick response; but something in her voice made Fernlook at her inquiringly. "Did you--did you know them, Crystal?" sheasked, in some surprise. 

"Yes, " was again the brief answer; but after a moment's silence shesaid, "Fern, you have been very good, very patient all this time, youhave never asked me any questions about my past life. I think as I amgoing away from you, and as one can not tell what may happen, that Ishould like you to know my miserable story. Oh, it will be safe withyou; I do not fear that for a moment; I have only hesitated all thesemonths because of the pain of telling it, and for fear you shouldcease to love me if you knew of the faults I am so bitterlyexpiating. "

"Faults, " incredulously; "I have never seen them, Crystal, you alwaysseem so good and brave and patient. "

"My dear, " she answered, mournfully, "appearances are deceitfulsometimes. Do you remember the story of the poor demoniac whose namewas Legion, and how he sat clothed and saved and in his right mind: tome it is one of the most touching and beautiful instances of theRedeemer's power. He was so galled by his chains, he was so torn andwasted by those evil spirits among the Galilean tombs. Fern, " with adeep pathetic look in her eyes, "sometimes it seems to me that, thankGod, the evil spirit is exorcised in me too--that there is nothing inmy heart now but passionate regret for an unpremeditated sin. "

"My poor dear Crystal, is it so bad as that?"

"Yes, " with a sigh; "shall I tell you about it--as I told yourmother--oh, how good she was to me, how she tried to comfort me, andshe had suffered so much herself. Of course, you have always knownthat my name is not really Davenport, but you have never guessed thatit is Crystal Ferrers. "

"Ferrers! Do you mean that you belong to Mr. Erle's friends, the blindclergyman who lives with his sister at the Grange?"

"Yes, I am Margaret Ferrers's cousin, the young cousin whom theyadopted as their own child, and who lived with them from childhood. Well, I will tell you from the beginning, for you will neverunderstand without hearing about my mother. Give me your hand, dear;if you are tired, and do not want to hear more, will you draw it away. I am glad it is getting dusk, so you will not see my face; the moonwill rise presently, so we shall have light enough. "

"One moment, Crystal; does Mr. Erle know?"

"No, of course not, he is a mere acquaintance; what should put that inyour head, Fern?"

"Oh, nothing, it was only fancy, " returned the girl; she hardly knewwhy she had put the question; was it something in Erle's manner thatafternoon? He had asked her, a little anxiously, if Miss Davenportwere going away again, and if she would be at home the following week. "For she had been such a runaway lately, " he had said with a slightlaugh, "and I was thinking that it must be dull for you when she isaway. " But Fern had assured him that Crystal had no intention of goingaway again, for she had no idea of the plot that Crystal and MissCampion were hatching between them. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

CRYSTAL'S STORY. 

 The path my father's foot Had trod me out (which suddenly broke off What time he dropped the wallet of the flesh And passed) alone I carried on, and set My child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwood, To reach the grassy shelter of the trees, Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother-babe! My own self-pity, like the redbreast bird, Flies back to cover all that past with leaves. 

 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

"I must begin at the very beginning, Fern, " said Crystal, with astifled sigh. "I hope I shall not weary you;" and as Fern disclaimedthe possibility of fatigue with much energy, she continued: "Oh, Iwill be as brief as possible, but I want you to understand it allplainly. 

"I have told you that Margaret Ferrers is my cousin; her father, Colonel Ferrers, had a brother much younger than himself: his name wasEdmund, and he was my father. 

"I recollect him very little, except that he was very kind to me, butthey tell me that he was a singularly handsome man, and veryaccomplished, and greatly beloved by all who knew him. 

"He was much younger than Uncle Rolf; he was still at college whenUncle Rolf went out to India with his wife. He distinguished himselfthere, and made a great many friends; his brilliant abilitiesattracted the notice of rather an influential man; he offered him asecretaryship, and soon afterward took him with him to Rome. 

"There his success was even greater than it had been in London. Everyone conspired to spoil and flatter the handsome young Englishman. Hewas admitted to the most select circles; the youthful queens ofsociety tried to find favor in his eyes; he might have made more thanone splendid match, for there was quite a _furor_ about him, but hesoon put a stop to his brilliant career by a most imprudent marriage, for he fell in love with a Roman flower-girl and made her his wife. 

"Ah, you look shocked, Fern; society was shocked too, they had made somuch of him, you see. 

"People said he was mad, that Bianca's dark eyes had bewitched him; itmay be so, but from the day when he first saw her tying up her rosesand lilies on the steps of the fountain, to the last moment when helaid his head like a tired child on her bosom to die, he never lovedany other woman but her, and he loved her well. But it was not a happymatch; how could it be? it was too unequal, he had all the gentlenessand calm that belonged to the Ferrers, and she--she brought him, beside her dark Madonna beauty, the fierce Italian nature, theungovernable temper that became the heritage of her unhappy daughter. "

Fern started as though she would have spoken, but Crystal only pressedher hand and went on--

"When a few months had passed over, and the fame of Bianca's greatbeauty had got abroad, society relaxed its frowns a little, andreceived its erring favorite into its arms again. 

"They had left Rome and had settled at Florence, and friends began toflock round them; Bianca was only a peasant girl, but love taught herrefinement, and she did not disgrace her husband's choice; but itwould have been more for her happiness, and my father's too, if theyhad never withdrawn from the seclusion of their quiet villa. 

"For very soon the fierce jealousy of her undisciplined nature beganto assert itself. 

"She could not endure to see her husband talk to another woman, orhear him praise one even in the most moderate terms. A mere triflewould provoke her, and then long and painful were the scenes thatensued. 

"She loved him passionately; she loved him as only an Italian canlove; and she made his life so bitter to him that he yielded it upalmost thankfully at last. He had been very patient with her, and whenhe was dying, he put his hands upon her dark hair in his tender way:

"'We have not been happy together, dear, ' he said, 'but I do not thinkit has been my fault. I loved you always, but it was hard to make youbelieve it; be good to our child, Bianca, for my sake. ' And then, asshe knelt beside him in speechless anguish and remorse, he called hislittle Crystal to him and kissed and blessed me, and while he wasstill holding my hand a sudden spasm crossed his face and he put hishead down upon her shoulder, and in another moment he was gone. 

"My poor mother, she did not long survive him. 

"As soon as the news of my father's death reached England, Uncle Rolfwrote at once offering a home to his only brother's widow and child. 

"It was my father's desire, she knew, that she should live under theprotection of his relatives, so she obeyed his wishes at once. She didnot hesitate for a moment, though she felt she was a dying woman, andit broke her heart to leave her husband's grave. She would bring herchild to England and place her safely in Colonel Ferrers's care, andthen she could go with an easy conscience to rejoin her beloved. 

"How well I remember that journey; every detail was stamped upon mychildish recollection. 

"Alas! she never lived to reach England. She was taken very ill inParis, and after a few days of intense suffering, she passedpeacefully away. 

"A kind-hearted American widow and her daughter, with whom my fatherhad a slight acquaintance in Florence, had traveled with us and wereat the same hotel, and nothing could exceed their goodness to my poormother. 

"They nursed her most tenderly, and were with her when she died, andMrs. Stanforth promised my mother most faithfully that they wouldwatch over me until they had seen me safe under Colonel Ferrers'scare. 

"Every one was kind to me. I remember once when I was sitting in acorner of the saloon with Minnie Stanforth, I heard people talkingsoftly of the beautiful Florentine lady who lay dead upstairs, and howsome one had told them that she had died of a broken heart from theloss of her English husband. 

"I was not with her when she breathed her last. Minnie had coaxed meaway on some pretext or other, and when I became restless andmiserable, she took me in her kind arms, and with the tears streamingfrom her eyes, told the truth. 

"Fern, sometimes when I shut my eyes I can recall that scene now. 

"I can see a child crouching in a corner of the big gaudy salon wherea parrot was screaming in a gilded cage, a forlorn miserable child, with her face hidden in her hands and crying as though her littleheart would break. 

"I remember even now with gratitude how good the Stanforths were tome. Minnie had a little bed placed beside hers, and would often wakeup in the middle of the night to soothe and comfort me, when I startedfrom some dream in a paroxysm of childish terror and grief. Young as Iwas I so fretted and pined after my mother, that if we had stayedlonger in Paris I should have been ill; but, as soon as the funeralwas over, we started for England. 

"Uncle Rolf had been prevented, by an attack of gout, coming to thefuneral, but he wrote to Mrs. Stanforth giving her full instructions, and promised that if possible he would meet us at Dover. 

"It was early one November morning, as I lay listlessly in my berth, that I was aroused by the noise overhead. Was the brief voyage over, Iwondered; had we reached England so soon? and, weak as I was, Icrawled on deck, full of languid curiosity, to see my father'scountry. But the first glimpse disappointed me--a leaden sea, whitechalky cliffs, and a gray sky, with black ugly-looking buildings andships looming out of a damp mist; this was all I could see of OldEngland. And I was turning away disconsolately when Mrs. Stanforthcame up to me with a tall gentleman with a kind, brown, wrinkled faceand a gray mustache. 

"'Here is your little niece, Colonel Ferrers, ' I heard her say in herpleasant clipping voice; 'poor little dear, she has fretted herselfalmost to death for her mother. ' Then as I hung back, rather shyly, Ifelt myself lifted in my uncle's arms. 

"'Little Crystal, ' he said, gently, and I thought I felt a tear on myface as he kissed me, 'my poor Edmund's child. ' And then, stroking myhair, 'But you shall come home with me and be my dear littledaughter;' and then, as the kind hand fondled me, I crept nearer andhid my face in his coat. Dear Uncle Rolf, I loved him from thatmoment. The rest of the day seemed like a dream. 

"We were speeding through a strange unknown country, past fields andhedge-rows, and stretches of smooth uplands, ugly plowed lands andpatches of gray sullen gloom that resembled the sea. 

"Now I was gazing out blankly at the dreary landscape, and now noddingdrowsily on my uncle's shoulder, till all at once we stopped undersome dark trees, and a voice very close to me said, 'Let me lift herout, father. ' And then some one carried me into a sudden blaze oflight; and all at once I found myself in a large pleasant room withsome sweet-smelling wood burning on the hearth, and a girl withdead-brown curls sewing at a little table with a white china lamp onit. 

"The strong arms that had carried me in and put me on the sofa, andwere now bungling over the fastenings of my heavy cloak, belonged to atall youth with a pleasant face, that somehow attracted me. 

"'Come and help me, Maggie, ' he said, laughing, and then the fair, mild face of Margaret bent over me. 

"'Poor child, how tired she looks, Raby, ' I heard her whisper, 'and socold, too, the darling;' and then she knelt down beside me and chafedmy hands, and talked to me kindly; and Raby brought me some hotcoffee, and stood watching me drink it, looking down at me with hisvivid dark eyes, those kind, beautiful eyes--oh, Raby, Raby!" and herefor a moment Crystal buried her face in her hands, and Fern wasgrieved to see the tears were streaming through her fingers. 

"Do not go on if it troubles you, " she said, gently; "I am interested, oh, so interested in that poor little lonely child; but if it painsyou to recall those days, you shall not distress yourself for me. "

"Yes--yes--I wish to tell it, only give me one moment. " And for alittle while she wept bitterly; then drying her eyes, she went on in abroken voice:

"Ah, I was not lonely long; thank God, there is nothing moretransitory than a child's grief, deep and inconsolable as it firstappears. 

"I did not forget my mother--I do not forget her now, but in a shorttime I threw off all traces of sadness. The change, the novelty of mylife, the unfailing kindness that I experienced, soon worked abeneficial effect on my health and spirits. In a little while I ceasedto regret Italy and its blue skies--and the Grange with its dearinmates became my world. 

"But it was Raby who was my chief friend--my favorite playfellow. 

"I loved Uncle Rolf; child as I was, I very soon learned to reverencethat simple, kindly nature--that loyal heart; and Margaret was like adear elder sister; but it was Raby who from the first became my masterand my companion; Raby who instructed and reproved and praised me;whose frown was my worst punishment; whose smile was my reward. 

"It was he who implanted in me a thirst for knowledge; all the leisuremoments he could snatch from his own studies were devoted to mine. During his college terms he corresponded with me, and planned out mywork during his absence, sparing himself neither time nor pains; andfrom the night he carried me in, poor, weary child, to the light andradiance of his peaceful home--he seemed to have adopted mepeculiarly, until it came to be understood at the Grange that Crystalwas Raby's darling and belonged especially to him. 

"I think that if Margaret had not been endowed with that singularunselfishness that belonged to her nature, she must have missedsomething out of her life; once she had been everything to herbrother, but now it was Crystal! Crystal who must bring him his books, and hunt out the words in the dictionary. Crystal who must tidy hispapers and lay the little spray of flowers beside his plate atbreakfast. Crystal who must go with him on his rounds among the sickand aged--for true to the priestly office to which he proposed todedicate himself, the young under-graduate already devoted a portionof his time to deeds of charity. Little by little in my childishselfishness I stole from her her sweetest privileges; the many littleoffices with which a loving woman delights to minister to the objectsof her affection, be they father, brother or husband. 

"I took the stool at his feet, the low chair at his side, but shenever complained; for the brother and sister understood each othermost truly. In their quiet looks, I have read a mutual assurance thatspoke of perfect trust and undiminished affection; Margaret couldnever be jealous of Raby, or Raby of Margaret. 

"Raby had very peculiar notions on the subject of female education. 

"Mine, for example, was carried on in rather a desultory fashion. Iwas not fretted by restraint, or made stupid by long tasks; justsufficient knowledge was imparted to excite my reasoning powers andarouse the desire for more. 'Let her learn, ' he would say, 'but lether learn as the bird learns to sing. ' And when Margaret, in hergentle way, sighed over my lamentable ignorance of all feminineacquirements and household method:

"'Let her be, ' he would reply, with masculine preremptoriness, 'wemust not force nature. When the time comes for her womanly instinctsto develop, not an English matron or even our own clever Margaret willexcel Crystal then. ' And still, more strange to say, he ratherstimulated than repressed my vanity; and so I grew up quite consciousof my own personal attractions; but without the knowledge having undueweight with me. 

"From the first he would have me dressed in the quaint, rich style inwhich I came to them first. 

"'It suits her peculiar style of beauty, ' I heard him once say, whenMargaret remonstrated with him on the extravagance of the idea. I wascurled up on the window-seat, reading, and they did not think I waslistening. 

"'Raby is right, ' observed Uncle Rolf; 'she will never make aquiet-looking English girl like our Maggie here--were you to dress heras a Puritan or a Quaker; ah, she will break hearts enough, I'llwarrant, with those dark, witch eyes of hers; we must be careful ofthe child! If Bianca's beauty were like her daughter's, one can notwonder much at poor Edmund's choice. '

"Something in my uncle's speech aroused my childish petulance. Iclosed my book and came forward. 

"'I don't want to break any hearts!' I cried, angrily; 'I only wantRaby's--I am going to belong to Raby all my life, I will never leavehim, never!' and I stamped my foot in a little fury. 

"They all laughed, Uncle Rolf long and merrily, but Raby colored up ashe smiled. 

"'That's right, darling, ' he said, in a low voice. 'Now go back toyour book. ' And I went at once obediently. 

"When I bade him good-night that evening, and stood lingering by hischair on some pretext or other, he suddenly took hold of me and drewme toward him. 

"'Little Crystal, ' he said, 'you think you love Raby indeed; I am sureyou do, and Heaven knows how sweet your childish affection is to me;but do you know--will you ever know how Raby loves you?' and puttinghis hands on my head he bade God bless my innocent face, and let mego. 

"Oh, those delicious days of my childhood. But they are gone--they aregone! Long rambles on the sea-shore with Margaret, and in thecorn-fields with Raby; now nutting in the copse or gathering brierroses in the lanes; setting out our strawberry feast under the greatelm-tree on the lawn or picking up fir-cones in the Redmond avenue. Spring flowers and autumn sunsets--bright halcyon days of my youthmade glorious with love. 

"For as yet no shadow of the future had fallen upon me, no taint ofthat inherited passion had revealed itself; perhaps nothing hadoccurred to rouse the dormant temper lulled by the influences of thishappy home. But the time came soon enough. Shalt I ever forget thatday?

"It was during the Easter vacation--I must have been nearly thirteenthen. Raby had been unwell; some low, feverish attack had seized him, and he was just ill enough to lie on the sofa all day and be pettedand waited upon. I was perfectly happy from morning to night; Idevoted myself to his amusement; reading to him, talking to him, oreven sitting silently beside him while he slept. 

"'Our Crystal is getting quite a woman, ' he said once, when I turnedhis hot pillow and put the cooling drink beside him; and at that briefword of praise my face flushed with pleasure, and I felt amplyrewarded. 

"One day we had visitors, Hugh Redmond and two girls, distantrelations of his, who were staying at the Hall with their mother. 

"One of them, Isabel Vyvie, I had seen several times, and had taken agreat dislike to her. 

"She was a tall, striking-looking girl, much handsomer than hersister, Emily, and she must have been two or three years older thanRaby. She always seemed to like his society; so, while the otherstalked to Uncle Rolf and Margaret, she sat on my low chair besideRaby's couch, and talked to him without seeming to notice any oneelse. 

"Miss Vyvie was very handsome and a flirt, and Raby was only a youngman. 

"It would hardly have been natural if he had not seemed gratified byher interest in him, though I did not know until afterward that hevalued it at its true cost. 

"Still she was pleasant and her little airs amused him, and he enteredinto a long conversation with some enjoyment, and for once I wasforgotten. I tried to join in once or twice, but Miss Vyvie treated meas a child, and scarcely deigned to notice me; but Raby did not seemto resent her indifference or want of courtesy. 

"'He only cares for me when others are not by, ' I thought, and myheart began to swell with jealous emotion. But just before she leftsomething occurred that fanned the envious spark into a flame. 

"Her white hand was resting on the little table that stood beside thecouch. There was a diamond ring on one finger that flashed as shemoved; presently she stretched it out to Raby, with a bewitchingsmile. 

"'Oh, what lovely lilies of the valley, ' she exclaimed, pointing tothe flowers; 'they are the first I have seen this year. I adorelilies, they are perfectly exquisite. Do let me have them, Mr. Ferrers. I know they grew in the garden, and I shall keep them as amemento of Sandycliffe and the dear Grange. Come, you must not let mebreak the tenth commandment and covet any longer, ' and the fair, girlish hand rested near the flowers as she spoke. 

"Raby looked embarrassed and hesitated. 

"I had gathered those lilies for him before the dew was off them. Theygrew in a little nook of the Redmond grounds; they were his favoriteflowers, and I had walked all those miles to hunt for them. 

"'Come, ' she said, 'surely you will not refuse me, Mr. Ferrers, ' andher smile was very winning; and Raby, though reluctant, laid thelittle spray of lilies in her hand. He could hardly have doneotherwise, but I was too young to know that. 

"'There, she has gone at last, the pretty chatterbox, ' he exclaimed, with a yawn of real or pretended weariness as the door closed upon ourvisitors. 'Crystal, my child, come here: I have not heard your voicefor the last hour. Tell me what you think of Miss Vyvie; is she not alively young lady?'

"I made him no answer. I was past it. 

"Oh, if I had only gone silently out of the room to recover myself. Ifhe had not spoken to me just then. He started when he saw my face. 

"'Crystal, my dear child, what is the matter?' and then--then it burstforth. Oh, my God, I must have been beside myself. Surely some demonmust have entered into my childish heart before I could have pouredforth that torrent of passionate invective and reproach. 

"They had never witnessed such a scene. Margaret, sweet soul, criedand trembled as she heard me, and Uncle Rolf grew quite pale. 

"'That child, ' he cried, 'Edmund's child!' and his voice was full ofhorror; but Raby rose slowly from his couch, and without a word led mefrom the room. 

"I do not know whether I yielded to that firm touch, or whether hisstrength compelled me; but, still silent, he took me up to my room andleft me there. 

"Oh, the awfulness of that mute reproach, the sternness of that paleface; it recalled me to myself sooner than any word would have done. Almost before the door closed my passion had spent itself, and thenthe agony of shame and despair that followed! I had forfeited his goodopinion forever. He would never love me again! If I could die--oh, impious prayer that I prayed--if I could only die! But I would neversee his face again. I would go where they could never find me, where Iwould never grieve them more. 

"Fern, it was a strange feature that marked those passionate fits ofmine; but I never yielded to them afterward without the same desireseizing me to go away and see them no more; and but for the watchfulcare that surrounded me at those times I should often have escaped. 

"It came upon me now, this horror of restraint, and overmastered me. To my fancy I seemed to feel the walls falling in upon me in judgmentfor my sin. I was suffocated, and yet restless. Oh, to be away, Ithought, to be away from those reproachful faces; and I rusheddownstairs, through the house and down the yew-tree walk; but thegarden-door into the lane was locked, and at that slight obstacle Ishivered and lay down on the grass and crushed my face against theground, and felt like some youthful Cain, branded with unextinguishableshame. 

"I had lost Raby's love. I had forfeited his respect. There lay theunbearable sting. Never should I forget that pale, stern face and theunspoken reproach in those dark eyes. 

"'Oh, I can not bear it, ' I cried; 'I can not, can not, bear it. '

"'My child, ' said Raby's grave voice close to me, 'if you are sorry, and your grief tells me you are, you must ask pardon of our Father inheaven. "

"'Then--may a merciful God forgive me for my blasphemy--I cried, 'notHis, but yours, Raby. I can not live without your love;' and then Iwas almost choked with my sobs. 

"'Crystal, ' he said, with a heavy sigh, 'can this be my child whom Ihave taught and guided, my child for whom I have prayed every night;'and, touched by the gentleness of his tone, I crept a little nearerand clasped his feet. 

"'I can never be forgiven, ' I sobbed. 'What has heaven to do with sucha sinner as I?'

"'Ah, little one, ' he answered, 'have not I forgiven thee, and I wasstretched on no cross for thy sake;' and then, kneeling down by myside, he raised my wet face from the grass and laid it gently on hisarm and kissed it, and then I knew I was forgiven. 

"Never, never shall I forget how he talked to me--and yet he wasill--as a brother and a priest, too! How he helped me to bear theterror of the sin and the shame of my repentance; how, withoutremoving one iota of its guilt or one dread of its probableconsequences, he led me to the one consolation. 'Thy sins, even thine, shall be forgiven thee, ' and then he took me back into the house, castdown indeed and humbled, but no longer despairing, and led me to UncleRolf. 

"'Father, ' he said, still holding my hand, perhaps because he felt howI trembled, 'father, Crystal has come to ask your pardon andMargaret's also for the pain she has caused you both, and to say that, with God's help, she will never offend so again. '

"Never! oh, Raby, never! when the inborn enemy was strong as death andcruel as the grave. Oh, my good angel, Raby, what have the yearswritten, against me--against me--your unhappy child?"

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A GRAVE DECISION. 

 From the day I brought to England my poor searching face (An orphan even of my father's grave); He had loved me, watched me, watched his soul in mine, Which in me grew, and heighten'd into love. 

 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

"The years rolled by, but, alas! they brought no added happiness withthem. The taint in my nature that had revealed itself so unexpectedly, only developed more strongly as time went on; at rare intervals--veryrare, I am thankful to say--fierce gusts of passion overmastered myreason, so that for a brief time I seemed like one possessed with anevil spirit. 

"They tried everything--everything that human wisdom and kindnesscould devise to save me from myself, but in vain. All causes foroffense were removed, and every possible means taken to ward off thethreatened excitement; but when the paroxysms came, they wasted nowords, no severity upon me, they simply left me to myself. 

"But the punishment that followed was a terrible one. For days anddays after one of these outbreaks, sometimes for a week together, Rabywould refuse to speak to me or to hold any communication at all. 

"Our walks and rides, our pleasant studies, were all broken off, everylittle office and attention refused, my remarks met by a chillingmanner that drove me to silence. 

"Left completely to my own society, I wandered aimlessly about thehouse or sat moping over my books or work in a corner. I never soughtto rebel against the rigor of my sentence; it was a just one I knew, and I bore it as patiently as I could. And then all at once, sometimeswhen I least expected it, when I was most hopeless and forlorn, a handwould be placed on my head in the old caressing manner, and a low'forgiven, darling, ' would bring me back to sunshine and happiness;but, oh, how he suffered. I never knew until afterward that hispunishment was even greater than mine. 

"I am speaking now of my younger days, but presently there came a timewhen they treated it less as a fault than a malady; when Raby dreadedthe repentance more than the paroxysm, for so poignant was my anguishof remorse that it threatened to prey on my health. 

"Then, when they saw how I wept and strove against it, and how thetorment of my own undisciplined nature was more than I could bear, then they grew to look upon me as one upon whom some deadly scourgewas laid--some moral sickness that they could not understand indeed, but which, out of their great love, they could afford to pity. 

"Years rolled on. Raby had passed through his university life withhonors; had gained a fellowship, and had taken orders, and accepted acuracy some distance from Sandycliffe. 

"It was only a temporary position until the church at Sandycliffe hadbeen restored and was ready for use; the living had been alreadypromised to him, and small as it was, he wished to hold it, at leastfor the present. Raby was a man singularly devoid of ambition, andthough he must have been conscious that his were no common gifts, healways told us that he did not wish a wider sphere until he had testedhis powers, and had worked a little in the home vineyard. 

"At this time he was much occupied with his studies, and somedoctrinal treatise on which he was engaged; and as only Sunday dutywas required of him, he was able to be with us from Monday toSaturday, a great boon to us, as Uncle Rolf's health was failing, andhis son's constant presence was a great comfort to him. He died when Iwas about fifteen, and then Raby became master of the Grange. 

"The next two years that followed were, in spite of my dear uncle'sloss, very happy ones. 

"The fits of passion became more rare and decreased in violence, andfor a time ceased altogether. It seemed to be coming true what Rabyhad once prophesied, that I should outgrow them when I became a woman. 

"That was our chief joy; but later on, after a year or so, HughRedmond came more frequently to the Grange, and by and by Margaret andhe were engaged. Raby gave his consent rather reluctantly, he alwaystold me he did not consider him worthy of a woman like Margaret, hethought him weak and impulsive and without ballast; but Margaret hadlost her heart to her handsome young lover, and could see no fault inhim, and for a time all went smoothly; but I am anticipating a little. 

"The event that stands prominently in my recollection was a ball thatwas to be given in honor of young Egerton Trelawney, the eldest son ofa wealthy merchant living at Pierrepoint. Margaret was going, and ofcourse Hugh Redmond would be there, but they were not engaged then. Margaret had induced Raby to let me accompany her, for I was nearlyseventeen then, and very womanly for my age. He consented ratherreluctantly, I thought, and the subject dropped. Another time I shouldhave tried to extort a more gracious permission, for my heart was seton the ball; but for some time I had noticed a slight change in Raby'smanner to me, an imperceptible reserve that made me a little less atmy ease with him; it was not that he failed in kindness, for he hadnever been so good to me, but there was certainly a slight barrierbetween us. He ceased to treat me as a child, there was somethingdeferential in his tenderness; his eyes had a keen, watchful look inthem as they rested on me that perplexed me. 

"I was beginning not to understand Raby at all; either he was notquite happy, or I had disappointed him in some way; and yet, though Ilonged to question him, an unusual shyness held me back. 

"It was the evening before the ball, and Raby was in the library soabsorbed in his Hebrew manuscript that for once he had not missed mefrom my accustomed place. 

"The new ball dress Margaret had ordered had ordered for me in Londonhad just arrived, and she had coaxed me to put down my book and try iton in case any alterations should be required. I had never seen anygown I liked better; the rich, creamy tint just set off my olivecomplexion and coils of black hair to perfection. I was quite startledwhen I saw myself in the long pier glass; my neck and arms weregleaming through the dainty, cobwebby lace, a ruby pendant sparkledlike a crimson star at my throat. Margaret was enchanted. 

"'Oh, Crystal, ' she exclaimed, 'how beautiful you look, just like anEsther or Vashti with their grand Oriental faces. Come down with meand let us startle Raby from his dusty old folios; he will think hesees a vision. '

"I followed her smiling; I was pleased that Raby should see me in thisqueenly garb. I stole gently behind his chair. 'Oh, king, liveforever, ' I said, laughing, and then he turned round; and as I droppedhim a mocking courtesy he tried to suppress the exclamation that roseto his lips. 

"'Shall I do?' I continued, mischievously; 'shall I do, Raby?' and Imade a sweeping obeisance to him, such as Esther might have made toAhasuerus, but no like scepter of favor was extended to me. 

"'Yes, you will do very nicely, ' he said, curtly, and then he wentback to his folios. But I had seen the expression in his eyes, thelong, wistful look he had cast at me, and I triumphed. 

"But my triumph was of brief duration. The next morning Raby treatedme with almost chilling reserve. In vain I laughed, and talked, andstrove to win him to merriment; his manner repelled all such attempts, and I was obliged to chat with Margaret. 

"'Where are you going?' I asked, presently, when he had closed hisbooks and was preparing to leave the room. 

"'I am going up to West Point to see poor Lettie White, ' he returned;'her mother has been down this morning and tells me she is worse. Youhad better not accompany me, Crystal, ' for I had started up from mychair. 

"'And why not?" I exclaimed, in a hurt voice; 'it is such a deliciousmorning, and there is no such place as the West Point for a breeze; itwill freshen me up for the evening. '

"'Well, do as you like, ' he returned, coldly, and closed the door. Theindifference of his tone wounded me. What could I have done to offendhim; but I was never proud where Raby was concerned, so I put on myhat and accompanied him. 

"For the first mile or two we were very silent. Raby walked on withhis shoulders slightly bent, and his eyes fixed on the ground, a habitof his when he was thinking very deeply. 

"'Raby, ' I said at last, rather timidly, 'I wish you would walk alittle slower, I want to talk to you;' and then he looked at me withsome surprise. 

"'I was only thinking of my next Sunday's sermon, ' he replied, as ifin apology for his want of attention. 'I told you you had better notcome with me, Crystal. '

"'Oh, I know you did not want me, ' I answered, lightly; 'your mannermade that fact very apparent; but you see I wanted to come, and so Ihad my own way. Of course I know the text you will choose, Raby. Whata pity that it is too far for me to come and hear that sermon. Tothink that neither Margaret nor I have ever heard you preach, and tolose that sermon of all others. '

"'What do you mean?' he answered, rather irritably, for my gay moodwas clashing with his somber one. 

"'Oh, the text will be, "Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. Allis vanity;" that will be your subject, Raby, will it not?'

"He turned round at that, and a smile dispelled his gravity; and thenhe took my hand and put it on his arm, and held it gently there. 

"'I think you have guessed my thoughts, Crystal, ' he said, quietly, 'but not all of them. Do you know I have been thinking as we camealong that you and I, dear child, have reached the cross-roads of lifeat last, where each must choose his or her path, and go on their wayalone. '

"'Oh, Raby, ' I exclaimed in some distress as I pressed closer to him;'what can you mean by saying anything so dreadful. I hope your pathand mine will always be the same. '

"'My dear, ' he returned, gently--very gently; but there was pain andsome strange solemn meaning in his face--'I disappointed you lastnight. You thought that I would not praise your finery or stoop toflatter your innocent vanity, that I held myself aloof from yourgirlish pleasure. Ah, ' with a sudden change of tone, 'you little knowwhat brilliant vision haunted me last night and drove sleep from myeyes; how it lured and tempted me from my sense of right; but God hadmercy on His poor priest, and strengthened his hands in the day ofbattle. '

"The white abstracted look of his face, the low vehemence of his tone, thrilled me almost painfully; never had Raby looked or spoken likethat. 

"'No, my darling, ' he went on, sorrowfully, 'I will never wrong thechild I have guided and protected all these years, or take advantageof your youth and inexperience, by using my influence and condemningyou to a life for which you are not fitted. Go forth into the worldthen, my Esther--did not Margaret compare you to Esther--makeexperience of its pleasures, its trials, its seductions, its falsewooings, and its dazzling honors; if they tell you your beauty mightwin a coronet they would be right. '

"'Raby!'

"'Hush! let me finish; go into the world that claims you, but if itfail to please you--if it ever cast you away humbled andbroken-hearted, then come back to me, my darling, come back to Raby;he will be praying for you here. '

"Shall I ever forget his tone; my tears fell fast as I listened tohim. 

"'What do you mean?' I sobbed; 'how have I offended you? Why do youpropose to send me away from you?'

"'Nay, ' he said, quietly, 'I am only speaking for your good. You areyoung, Crystal, but you must be conscious, indeed your manner told meso last night, that you have grace, beauty, and talents, triple giftsthat the world adores. You will be its idol. Make your own election, then, my child, for you are now a woman. I will never seek toinfluence you, I am only a humble priest. What has such a one to dowith a ball-room queen; the world's ways have never been my ways, forfrom my youth I have determined that "for me and my house, we willserve the Lord. "'

"His calm steadfast voice awed me; every word seemed to rebuke myvanity and presumption. Ah, I saw it all now. Raby was disappointedwith my choice; he had hoped--he had hoped otherwise. 

"We had reached the end of our walk by this time. Before us was thepoor cottage where Lettie White was dying. I took my hand from Raby'sarm and sat down on the little stone bench by the bee-hives. Rabyseemed to linger a moment, as though he expected me to speak to him, but I remained silent, and he turned away with a quick sigh and wentinto the house. Soon after I heard his voice through the upper window, where the white curtains were flapping in the breeze, and Lettie'sweak tones answering him. 

"Before me was a field of crimson clover; some brown bees were busilyat work in it. There were scarlet poppies too gleaming in the hedgedown below; the waves were lapping on the sands with a soft splash andripple; beyond was the sea vast and crystalline, merged in misty blue. Did I hear it with a dull whirring of repetition, or was it the voiceof my own conscience: 'For me and my house, we will serve the Lord. '

"Raby came out presently, and we walked home, still silent. Thedignity of his office was upon him; his lips were moving, perhaps inpetition for the dying girl. 

"When we reached the house he went up to his room. The evening came. Igot out our German books--Raby and I were studying together--andpresently he joined me. In his absence of mind he had forgotten allabout the ball, as I knew he would, and we were both absorbed inSchiller's magnificent 'Wallenstein' when Margaret entered, lookingwhat Hugh Redmond called his 'Marguerite of Marguerites, ' his pearlamong women. 

"Raby started and looked perplexed. 

"'What, is it so late? You are dressed, Margaret, and this carelesschild has not commenced her toilet. Pray help her, Maggie, she will bedreadfully late. '

"Margaret gave me a wistful smile. 

"'The carriage is here already, ' she answered, quietly, 'and Mrs. Montague is waiting. Crystal is not going to the ball, Raby. '

"'Not going?' He turned and looked at me, our eyes met, and then heunderstood. 

"'Does not Margaret look lovely, ' I asked in assumed carelessness, when the hall door had closed, and he came back to the room. 

"For answer he took me in his arms. 

"'Not half so fair as my Esther, ' he said, tenderly, 'though she isnot wearing her regal dress. I thank God, ' and here his voice grew lowand solemn. 'I thank God, Crystal, that my darling has chosen thebetter part that shall not be taken away from her. '"

CHAPTER XXV. 

GO BACK TO RABY. 

 O calm grand eyes, extinguished in a storm, Blown out like lights o'er melancholy seas, Though shriek'd for by the shipwrecked. O my dark! My Cloud, --to go before me every day, While I go ever toward the wilderness, I would that you could see me bare to the soul. 

 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

"Things went on very happily for a long time after this. The church atSandycliffe was finished; Raby gave up his curacy, and read himselfin; and then came the day when Margaret and I heard him preach. 

"Shall I ever forget that day--it was Eastertide--and all thatbelonged to it? the last unclouded Sunday that was ever to rise uponme; the tiny flower-decked church already crowded with worshipers, thememorial window that Raby and Margaret had put in, sacred to thememory of their father, with its glorious colors reflected on thepavement in stains of ruby and violet; and lastly, the grave beautifulface of the young vicar as he looked round upon his little flock forthe first time, his eyes resting for a moment as though in silentbenediction on the vicarage seat. 

"Were I to tell you what I thought of that sermon, you might think mypraise partial, but there were many there, Hugh Redmond among them, who commented afterward on the eloquence and vivid power of thepreacher. Hugh Redmond had accompanied us to church, for he andMargaret had been engaged some months, and they were always together. He declared that that sermon had made a deep impression on him. 

"Many were affected that day by Raby's deep searching eloquence, butnone more so than a lady who sat alone under the pulpit, and who drewdown her crape veil that no one might see her tears. 

"I knew her well; she was a childless widow who had lately come tolive at Sandycliffe in a pretty cottage about half a mile from theGrange, and with whom Margaret had become very intimate--a fairgentle-looking woman who had gone through much trouble, and who wishedto devote her life to good works; and as I looked at her now, my owneyes misty with sympathy, did I ever imagine that the time was fastapproaching when I should wrong her with the bitterest hatred, andeven seek to lift my hand against her. 

"And yet you were one of God's dear saints, Mona!

"The service over, we lingered for a moment in the shady church-yard, Hugh and Margaret and I, until Raby should join us. He came out atlast, a little pale and tired-looking. Margaret met him, her eyesshining like stars. 

"'Oh, Raby, ' she faltered, 'God has given me my heart's desire. ' Hesmiled, but his hand went out to the girl standing silently behindhim. 

"'What does my child say?' he whispered, when the others had gone on alittle; but I had no answer ready, he was so good, so far above me. With a sudden impulse I lifted the kind hand to my lips as though hewere a king. 

 * * * * *

"Raby was very zealous in his profession. There was so little to do inSandycliffe, but he offered himself as coadjutor to the vicar ofPierrepoint, and as there was a large poor population there, he andMargaret, and Mrs. Grey, his faithful helper, found plenty of scopefor their energies. 

"Mrs. Grey had no ties, she was rich and lonely, and she sought relieffrom her sick heart in ministering to the needs of others. Her healthwas delicate, and the air of Sandycliffe suited her--she had taken afancy to the place; and the pretty cottage she rented was more to hertaste than her house at South Kensington. 

"Margaret and she were always together, their natures were congenialto each other, and a warm friendship grew up between them; Raby wasalso much interested in the young widow. I heard him say much morethan once that she was a rare creature, and so humble in her ownestimation that one would never have guessed how cultivated andaccomplished she really was; 'her manners are so perfectly gentle, ' hewent on, 'no wonder Margaret is glad to have found such a friend. '

"I began to think that she was Raby's friend too, for nothing seemedto be done in Sandycliffe without Mrs. Grey--'our Mrs. Grey, ' as Rabycalled her. Scarcely a day passed without seeing her at the Grange, and very often, as I knew, Raby called at the cottage. 

"When I was with him their conversation was always about Pierrepoint, about the workmen's club Raby had started, and the mothers' meetingthat was Mrs. Grey's hobby; she was certainly, in spite of her weakhealth, a most active creature; Raby always seemed to defer to heropinion. He told Margaret that Mrs. Grey was one of the mostclear-headed women he had ever met, that her large-minded views werealways surprising him. I used to listen in silence to all this. Iliked Mrs. Grey, but I began to be jealous of her influence; I thoughtRaby was too much guided by her judgment--perhaps he was fascinated byher sweet looks. 

"'Small beginnings make large endings. ' 'Behold how great a matter alittle fire kindleth. ' Even in a small country place like Sandycliffethere are busy and mischievous tongues. Presently a whisper reached myears that fanned the smoldering embers of discontent within me to ascorching flame. 

"Raby was a young unmarried man, and Mrs. Grey was young andattractive. What if people declared that her heart was buried in herhusband's grave, and that she would, never marry again; they knewyoung widows always said those sort of things. Perhaps the vicar wouldinduce her to change her mind some day. It would be such an excellentmatch, they went on; they were evidently cut out for each other, bothso good; and then she was rich, it would be such a fortunate thing forMr. Ferrers, especially when his sister left him; and then, looking atme, they supposed I should go to Redmond Hall with my cousin when shemarried. People talked like this to us both. Margaret used to laugh asthough she were amused at the notion, and she seemed to expect me tolaugh too; then she got a little indignant, and contradicted thereport gravely. Nothing of the kind could ever happen, she said--shewished those busybodies would leave Raby and Mona alone; Mona was herfriend, not his. But somehow I did not believe her. Fern, you look atme reproachfully, you think I ought to have been wiser; but how couldI know; I was Raby's adopted child, his pet, but Mrs. Grey was morehis equal in age, and she was very pretty. Her fair delicate style ofbeauty, and her extreme softness and gentleness might be dangerouslyattractive to a man like Raby, and I feared--I distrusted her. 

"Alas! in a little time I learned to look upon her as my deadliestrival; to hear her name on his lips would send a jealous thrillthrough me. 

"They were always together, at least it seemed so to me; but perhaps Iwas wrong. By and by I dropped all pretense of parish work; it did notsuit me, I said. Raby seemed grieved, but he was true to his word, anddid not try to influence me. Perhaps he thought I was restless and waspining for excitement and gayety. Alas! he little knew I would wandermiles away, that I might not encounter them coming up the villagestreet together, or witness the frank, cordial smile with which theyparted. Mona's look, her touch, her soft vibrating voice set everynerve on edge. I was pining with a disease for which I knew no nameand no remedy, and which was preying on my health and spirits. 

"And worst of all, I was completely misunderstood. When in the unequalstruggle my appetite failed and sleep forsook me, and a sort of feverkept me restless and irritable, and still no physical illness was atthe root, they misconstrued the symptoms and attributed my depressionto another cause. I saw in their looks that they distrusted me; theythought my old enemy was coming back, and redoubled their gentlenessand care. Then Raby would speak tenderly to me, till every wordsounded like a caress; and Margaret would follow me from place toplace like some guardian spirit, as though she did not wish to losesight of me. But they never guessed the cause--how could they? for asthe weeks went on, a cold forbidding haughtiness hid their child'ssuffering heart from them. I would die, I said to myself recklessly, before they should guess my secret. 

"Raby's face grew sad and then somewhat stern. I knew the old doubtswere harassing him; he feared their quiet life was irksome to myyouth, that I was fretting in secret for the gayeties and triumphs Ihad renounced. 

"One day we three were sitting at luncheon together; I was playingwith the food on my plate to prevent them noticing my want ofappetite, as though I could ever evade Raby's eyes, and longing toescape from the room, for I felt more than usually miserable. 

"Raby was watching me, I could see, though his conversation wasdirected to Margaret. She had been talking about the new schools thatMrs. Grey proposed building at Pierrepoint. 

"'She wants to sell her house at South Kensington, ' she said; 'shenever means to live there again. It is a great pity, I tell her, forit is such a comfortable house and so beautifully furnished. But shewill have it that she feels happier in her cottage; how good she is, Raby. '

"'Yes, indeed, hers is almost a perfect character, ' he replied; 'sheis so strong and yet so womanly, so very, very gentle. '

"Something in Raby's words touched too sensitive a chord, and after avain attempt to control myself, I suddenly burst into hystericaltears, and left the room. They thought it was my strange temper, but Iwas only miserable that the enemy--my Philistine--was upon me, when hewas only lurking in ambush for the time when my weakness would renderme an easy prey. 

"Let me go on quickly, for the remembrance of that day overpowers me. They never came near me. Raby always treated me himself at such times, and sometimes he would not allow Margaret to come to me; it was sonow, and yet her dear face and sympathy might have saved me. I sobbedmyself quiet, and then I lay on the couch in the morning-room, feelingstrangely ill. I was faint and sick. I had eaten nothing, and I wantedfood and wine, and to be hushed and comforted like a little child; andno one came near me. Of course not! they thought it was a fit of theold passion. No doubt Raby was in the village talking it over withMona. 

"It grew toward evening--cool quiet evening, but there was no quiet inmy heart. I was burning with inward fever. 

"I had had little sleep the night before, something odd and tumultuousseemed rising in my brain; a gleam of fair hair was blinding me. Heloves fair women, I thought, and he calls me his dark-eyed Esther. Oh, Raby, I hate her! I hate her! You shall never marry her! You shallnever call her your darling! I felt as though I should kill her first;for, indeed, I was nearly wild with passion, they had left me too longalone. 

"Presently the door opened, and Raby came in. He looked very grave, Ithought, as he sat down beside me. His quiet glance recalled me tomyself. 

"'Crystal, ' he said, gently, 'have you been ill again, my dear?' Theyalways called the paroxysms 'illness' now, but the word displeased me. 

"'Where is Margaret?' I asked, sullenly. 'I can not talk to you, Raby. I am weak, and you do not understand. If I am ill, as you say, youshould not keep Margaret from me. '

"'She is at the schools, ' he returned, soothingly, 'I left her withMrs. Grey--they will be here directly; but, Crystal, my darling, before they come in I want to have a little talk with you. You arebetter now, are you not? I want to tell you what I have decided to dofor my child's welfare. I am going to send her away!'

"I sprung up with an exclamation of dismay, but he put me back firmlyand quietly on the couch as though I were a child, and went on withhis speech. 

"'Crystal, ' he said, rather sternly, 'I claim obedience as yourguardian; I claim it legally and morally. ' Never had he spoken soseverely before. 'I am doing what costs me a great sacrifice. I amgoing to send you away from us for a little while for your own good;for your own peace and happiness. Alas! I see plainly now, how we havefailed to secure either. ' I tried to speak, but I could not. I crushedmy hands together as though they were in a vise, as I listened. 

"'Heaven knows, ' he continued, sadly, 'how I have tried to do my dutyto you, and how Margaret has tried too; how we have loved you, prayedand cared for you, never thinking of ourselves, but only of you. Whathave we done that you should hide your unhappiness from us? Why didyou not come to me and tell me frankly, and like a brave girl, thatthe sacrifice I asked was too great for you to yield; that your youthand temperament demanded a different life to mine; that the quiet andmonotony were killing you; would anything have been too hard for yourbrother's love?'

"I shivered at the word. Oh, Raby, why--why did you utter it? whonever were, who never could be a brother of mine. He had never usedthat word before; it bore a terrible meaning to me now. 

"'I have spoken to Doctor Connor, ' he went on, more quickly, 'and hisopinion coincides with mine; and so I have arranged it all with Mrs. Grey; surely a kinder and sweeter soul never breathed, not even ourown Margaret. You are to go abroad under her care for six months;Doctor Connor advises it. Yes, it will be hard for us, but never fear, my darling, the time will soon pass. 

"'You shall go to Switzerland and Italy, and see your father's grave, and your beautiful Florence again. You shall see fresh sights andbreathe fresh air until this weary lassitude has left you, and youcome back to us like our old Crystal. '

"'I will not go, Raby, ' I exclaimed, exasperated beyond endurance atthe very idea. 'I will never go with Mrs. Grey;' but I might as wellhave spoken to a rock. 

"'I am your guardian, and I tell you that you will go, Crystal, ' hereturned, severely, but his sternness was only assumed to hide hispain. 'Nay, my child, ' as he saw my face, 'do not make it too hard forme, by a resistance that will be useless. Think how the months willfly by, and how the change will benefit you, and how good it is of ourdear Mrs. Grey to give up her peaceful home and her work just for yoursake and mine. '

"His sake! He was driving me mad. Ah, it was on me now. He might talkor he might be silent, but this would make itself heard. 

 * * * * *

"Oh, Mona, lying deep in your quiet grave, where they carried you sosoon, it was not I, but the demon who possessed me!

 * * * * *

"He was very white now. He took hold of my hands and held them firmly. 

"'How dare you, Crystal, ' he said, sternly; 'how dare you speak of alady, of Mrs. Grey in that way. Ah, Heavenly Father, forgive thisunhappy child, she can not know what she says. '

"I answered with a mocking laugh that seemed forced from my lips, andthen, as though my unhappy fate were sealed, Mrs. Grey entered. 

"She thought that it was a hysterical attack, and came at once toRaby's help. 

"'Do not be alarmed, Mr. Ferrers, ' she said, gently, 'it is onlyhysteria;' and she held out a glass of cold water to him. The actionprovoked me. I tore myself from Raby's grasp, dashing the glass aside. I longed to break something. There was a bottle beside me, somechemical acid that Hugh Redmond had carelessly left that very morning. I snatched up the vial, for I wanted to crush it into a million atoms, and rush from the room; but she called out in affright, 'Oh, Crystal, don't touch it, it is--' and then she never finished. 

"I saw her white hands trembling, her blue eyes dilated with horror;and then my demon was upon me. I knew what it was, and I hurled it ather, and Raby sprung between--he sprung between us, oh, Raby, Raby!--and then, with a shriek that rang through my brain for monthsafterward, he fell to the ground in convulsions of agony. 

 * * * * *

"I can not go on. I can not!

"Was not Cain's punishment greater than he could bear?

"When they came to me as I lay in my despair across the threshold ofhis door, and told me that the light of those beautiful eyes wasquenched forever; that I should never meet that loving glance again, that he was blind--blind--and that it was my hand that had done it;then it was that in my agony I breathed the vow that I would removetheir curse from them, that I would wander forth, Cain-like, into thegreat world, until my punishment was in some degree commensurate withmy sin. Fern, I have never faltered in my purpose. I have neverrepented of my resolve, though their love has sought to recall me, andI know that in their hearts they have forgiven me. I have worked, andwept, and prayed, and my expiation has not been in vain. 

"In the Crystal you know, you will hardly find a trace of thehigh-spirited girl that Raby loved, nay, that he loves still. Ah, Iknow it all now; how he seeks for his darling, and makes it his lifepurpose to find her, and bring her back to peace. I know how even inhis intolerable anguish he prayed them to have mercy upon me, and tospare me the awful truth. I have seen his face, that changed blindface of his. I have ministered to him with these hands, I have heardhis dear voice, and yet I have not betrayed myself. "

"Crystal, " sobbed Fern, and indeed she could scarcely speak for hertears, she was so moved by this pitiful story, "if I were you I wouldgo back to-morrow; how can you, how can you leave him, when he needsyou so?"

"I go back to him?" repeated the other girl, mournfully. "I who haveblighted his life and darkened his days; who have made his existence along night? I who have robbed him of the glory of his priesthood, andmade him what he is, a wreck of his former self?"

"Yes, " was the steady answer. "I would go back to him and be his eyes, though his goodness humbled me in the dust. Ah, Crystal, are you worsethan she out of whom the Saviour cast seven devils, and who loved muchbecause much had been forgiven her. "

"Hush, hush! you do not know, Fern!"

"My darling, I do know, " persisted Fern, gently, "and I tell you thatit is your duty to go back to Raby, who loves you so. Nay, " shecontinued, as a deep blush rose to Crystal's olive cheek, "he nevercared for this Mona--your own words have proved that. Go back to him, and be the light of his eyes, and take his darkness from him, for Isee plainly that he will never leave off seeking you, and you only. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE TALL YOUNG LADY IN BROWN. 

 Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day

 In the world's broad field of battle In the bivouac of life Be not like dumb driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife. 

 LONGFELLOW. 

As Fern finished her little speech, Crystal hid her face in her hands, but there was no answer--only the sound of a deep-drawn sob wasdistinctly audible. A few minutes afterward she raised it, and in themoonlight Fern could see it was streaming with tears. 

"Do not say any more, " she implored; "do you think my own heart doesnot tell me all that, but I will not go back yet; the flaming sword ofconscience still bars my way to my Paradise. Fern, do you know why Ihave told you my story? It is because I am going away, and I want youto promise me something, and there is no one else I can ask; no, notyour mother, " as Fern looked surprised at this, "she has enough totrouble her. "

"What is it?" asked Fern, rather timidly. 

"I am going away, " returned Crystal, "and one never knows what mayhappen. I am young, but life is uncertain. If I never come back, ifanything befalls me, will you with your own hands give this to Raby, "and as she spoke, she drew from her bosom a thick white envelopesealed and directed, and placed it in Fern's lap. As it lay there Ferncould read the inscription: "To be given to the Rev. Raby Ferrers, after my death. "

"Oh, Crystal, " she exclaimed, with a shiver, "what could happen toyou. You are young--not one-and-twenty yet--and your health is good, and--" but Crystal interrupted her with a strange smile. 

"Yes, it is true; but the young and the strong have to die sometimes;when the call comes we must go. Do not look so frightened, Fern, Iwill not die if I can help it; but if it should be so, will you withyour own hands give that to Raby; it will tell him what I havesuffered, and--and it will comfort him a little. "

"Yes, dear, I will do it;" and Fern leaned forward and kissed hersoftly. The moon was shining brightly now, and in the clear whitelight Fern noticed for the first time how thin and pale Crystallooked; how her cheek, and even her slight supple figure, had losttheir roundness. There were deep hollows in the temples, dark linesunder the dark eyes, in spite of her beauty she was fearfully wan. Thegrief that preyed upon her would soon ravage her good looks. For thefirst time Fern felt a vague fear oppressing her, but she had noopportunity to say more, for at that moment Crystal rose quickly fromher seat. 

"You have promised, " she said, gratefully; "thank you for that. It isa great trust, Fern, but I know I can rely on you. Now I can talk nomore. If your mother comes in, will you tell her about Miss Campion. Ithink she will be glad for many reasons. Now I will try and sleep, forthere is much to be done to-morrow. Good night, my dear;" and the nextmoment Fern found herself alone in the moonlight. 

When Mrs. Trafford returned, she heard the news very quietly. 

"It will be better--much better, " she said, quickly. "You must notfret about it, my sunbeam. Crystal is beginning to look ill; changeand movement will do her good. Our life is very quiet. She has toomuch time to feed upon herself. She will be obliged to rouse herselfamong strangers. " And when Fern told her tearfully of the promise shehad made, Mrs. Trafford only listened with a grave smile. 

"Put it away safely, my dear; you will never have to give it, I hope;only it is a relief to the poor child to know you have it. Hers is astrange morbid nature. She is not yet humbled sufficiently. When sheis, she will go back, like the Prodigal, and take the forgiveness thatis waiting for her. Now, my darling, all this sad talk has made youlook pale. You must try and forget it, and go to sleep. " But, for thefirst time in her healthy girlhood, sleep refused to come at Fern'sbidding; and she lay restless and anxious, thinking of her friend'stragical story until the gray dawn ushered in the new day. 

The little household in Beulah Place were very busy during the nextfew days. The girls went out shopping together to replenish Crystal'smodest wardrobe, and then sat working until nearly midnight tocomplete the new traveling dress. Fern was putting the final stitcheson the last afternoon while Crystal went to bid good-bye to herpupils. The black trunk in the girl's room was already packed, for shewas to start early in the morning. 

Percy had not yet heard the news; he had been away from town the lastweek, to Crystal's great relief. She had begged Mrs. Trafford and Fernto say nothing about her movements. He might appear at any moment, andCrystal dreaded a scene if he heard of her approaching departure. 

"It will be much better for him not to know until the sea is betweenus, " she had said to Mrs. Trafford. "When he hears I have gone withoutbidding him good-bye, he will see then that I mean what I say--that mylife has nothing to do with his;" and Mrs. Trafford had agreed tothis. 

It was with a feeling of annoyance and very real discomfort, then, that Crystal caught sight of him as she came down the steps of UptonHouse. He was walking quickly down the street, and evidently perceivedher at once. There would be no chance of escaping him, so she walkedslowly on, quite aware that he would overtake her in another minute. As they were to part so soon, she must put up with his escort. Ofcourse he had been to Beulah Place, and was now in search of her; poorfoolish boy!

The next moment she heard his footstep behind her. 

"Miss Davenport, this is too delightful, " and his handsome face wore alook of pleased eagerness. "I thought I should have to wait some time, from Fern's account, but I have not been here a moment. There is nohurry, is there?" checking her pace as Crystal seemed inclined to walkfast. 

"We are busy people, Mr. Trafford, " she answered, pleasantly, "and cannever afford to walk slowly. Why did you not wait with your sister?You have not seen her for a long time. "

"Has it seemed a long time to you?" he returned, with quick emphasis. "I wish I could believe that you had missed me, that you had evengiven me a thought during my absence;" and he looked wistfully at thegirl as he spoke. 

"I am sure your mother and Fern missed you, " she replied, evasively. She wanted to keep him in good humor, and avoid any dangerous topics. She would like to leave him, if possible, with some kindly memory ofthis interview. In spite of his sins against her, she could notaltogether harden her heart against Fern's brother. 

Any stranger meeting these two young people would have regarded themas a perfectly matched couple. Percy's refined aristocratic face anddistinguished carriage made a splendid foil for Crystal's dark beautyand girlish grace. As Percy's eyes rested on her they scarcely noticedthe shabby dress she wore. He was thinking as usual that he had neverseen any one to compare with this young governess; and he wondered, ashe had wondered a hundred times before, if her mother had been anEnglishwoman; his mother would never tell him anything about MissDavenport, except that she was of good birth and an orphan. 

"Did you bring Mr. Huntingdon with you?" she asked, rather hurriedly, for she was quite aware of the fixed look that always annoyed her. Theadmiration of men was odious to her now the only eyes she had cared toplease would never look at her again. 

"Do you mean Erle?" was the careless answer. "Oh, no, my dearlybeloved cousin has other game to bring down;" and here there was aslightly mocking tone in Percy's voice. "He is with _la belle_ Evelynas usual. I am afraid Erle does not quite hit it as an ardent lover;he is rather half-hearted. He asked me to go down to Victoria Stationto meet his visitor, but I declined, with thanks. I had other businesson hand, and I do not care to be ordered about; so the carriage mustgo alone. "

"You are expecting visitors at Belgrave House then?" she asked; butthere was no interest in her manner. She only wanted to keepconversation to general subjects. She would talk of Belgrave House orof anything he liked if he would only not make love to her. If he onlyknew how she hated it, and from him of all men. 

"Oh, it is not my visitor, " was the reply; "it is only some old fogyor other that Erle has picked up at Sandycliffe--Erle has a crazeabout picking up odd people. Fancy inflicting a blind parson on us, byway of a change. "

He was not looking at the girl as he spoke, or he must have seen thestartled look on her face. The next moment she had turned her longneck aside. 

"Do you mean he is actually blind, and a clergyman? how very strange!"

"Yes; the result of some accident or other. His name is Ferrers. Erleraved about him to my grandfather; but then Erle always raves aboutpeople--he is terribly softhearted. He is coming up to London, on somequest or other, no one knows what it is, Erle is so very mysteriousabout the whole thing. "

"Oh, indeed, " rather faintly; "and you--you are to meet him, Mr. Trafford?"

"On the contrary, I am going to do nothing of the kind, " he returned, imperturbably. "I told Erle that at 6:30, the time the train was due, I was booked for a pressing engagement. I did not mention theengagement was with my mother, and that I should probably be partakingof a cup of tea; but the fact is true nevertheless. "

Crystal did not answer; perhaps she could not. He was coming up toLondon, actually to Belgrave House, and on this very evening. Erlemust have got scent of her secret--how or in what manner she could notguess; but all the same, it must be Erle who had betrayed her. She hadthought him a little odd and constrained the last few times she hadseen him; she had noticed more than once that his eyes had been fixedthoughtfully on her face as though he had been watching her, and hehad seemed somewhat confused when he had found himself detected. Whatdid it all mean; but never mind that now. Raby would be coming toBeulah Place, but she would be hundreds of miles away before that; shewas safe, quite safe; but if only she could see him before she went. If she could only get rid of this tiresome Percy, who would stay, perhaps, for hours. Could she give him the slip? She could neverremain in his company through a long evening; it would drive herfrantic to listen to him, and to know all the time that Raby was near, and she could not see him. And then all at once a wild idea came toher, and her pale cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew bright, and shebegan to talk rather quickly and in an excited manner. 

"Oh! do you know, Mr. Trafford, " she said, gravely, "I think it isvery wrong of you to encourage Mr. Erle to come so often to BeulahPlace. Fern is pretty--very pretty, and Mr. Erle is fond of sayingpleasant things to her, and all the time he knows Mr. Huntingdonwishes him to marry Miss Selby. He has no right to make himself soagreeable to your sister; and I think you ought to keep him in betterorder. "

"Oh! I don't pretend to be Erle's mentor, " he returned, a littlesulkily; for he thought he saw her drift to keep him from talking ofhis own feelings. "I never interfere with other fellows. "

"Yes, but Fern is your sister, " in a reproachful voice; "and I dothink you are to blame in this. Why do you not tell him that he mustleave your sister alone, and keep to Miss Selby. Your grandfatherwould be very angry if he knew of these visits to Beulah Place, andthen Mr. Erle would get into trouble. "

"I can't help that, " was the indifferent answer. "Erle must take hischance with the rest of us; he knows as well as I do the risk heruns. " And in spite of her pre-occupation, Crystal noticed a curiouschange in Percy's tone. 

"Do you mean that he would get into serious trouble? is that what youwould imply? I do not think you are doing your duty, Mr. Trafford, ifyou do not warn him of Mr. Huntingdon's displeasure. Mr. Erle is weak, he is easily gulled, but he has good principles; you could soon inducehim to break off his visits. "

"I don't see that I need trouble myself about another fellow's loveaffair; I have too much on my own mind. Of course you look impatient, Miss Davenport, it is a crime to speak of my own feelings; but how canyou expect me to take interest in another fellow when I am so utterlymiserable myself. "

"Mr. Trafford, " she said, trying to control her impatience, "I wishyou would let me speak to you for once, as though I were your friend, "she would have substituted the word sister, but she feared to provokeone of his outbursts of indignant pleading. 

"You know you may say what you like to me, " he returned, moved by thegentleness of her speech, for she had never been so gracious to himbefore. "You have more influence over me than any one else in theworld. If you could make me a better man, Miss Davenport. "

"I would give much to do it, " she answered, in a low voice thatthrilled him strangely. "Mr. Trafford, will you be angry with me if Ispeak to you very frankly, and earnestly--as earnestly, " here shepaused, "as though we were bidding each other good-bye, to-night, fora long time. "

"If you will call me Percy, " he replied, with sudden vehemence, "youshall say what you like to me. "

"Very well, " she answered, with a faint smile at his boyishinsistance, "it shall be Percy then--no, do not interrupt me, " as heseemed about to speak. "I am very troubled and unhappy about Mr. Erle's visits; they are doing harm to Fern, and I must tell you, oncefor all, that you are not doing your duty either to your sister orcousin. "

"Erle again, " he muttered, moodily. 

"Yes, because the matter lies very close to my heart, for I dearlylove your sister. Mr. Trafford--Percy, I mean--you have youth, health, talents--the whole world lies before you; why do you envy your cousin, because he is likely to be a richer man than you?"

"He has robbed me of my rightful inheritance, " was the moody answer. 

"It could never be yours, " she returned, quickly; "a Trafford willnever be Mr. Huntingdon's heir. "

"I would change my name. "

"That would avail you little, " with a touch of her old scorn, for thespeech displeased her. "Mr. Huntingdon would never leave his money tothe son of the man whom he hated, and of the daughter whosedisobedience embittered his life. Mr. Erle has to answer for no sinsbut his own. "

"He had better be careful though, " was the quick response. 

"What, have you done him mischief already? Why--why are you not moregenerous to the poor boy? Why do you encourage these visits that youknow will anger Mr. Huntingdon? Why do you tempt him from his duty?Percy, I implore you to be true to yourself and him. Look into yourown heart and see if you are acting an honorable part. "

"You are always hard on me, " he returned, sullenly. "Who has beenblackening my name to you?"

"No one, no one, " she answered, quickly; "but you are a recklesstalker, and I have gathered much from my own observation. You havetold me more than once that you are in debt; sometimes I fear yougamble. Oh!" as a dark flush mounted to his forehead, "I should begrieved to think that this is true. "

"You would hate me all the more, I suppose, " in a defiant voice. 

"Indeed I do not hate you, my poor boy; but you make me very angrysometimes. Do you know me so little as to think I could ever bringmyself to love a gambler, or one who tried to rob another of hisinheritance--one who was so afraid of poverty that he deserted hismother for the loaves and fishes of the man who was her worst enemy?"

"The old story, " in a despairing voice; "will you never give me eventhe benefit of an excuse--will you never allow me to defend myself?"

"I am not your judge, " was the cold reply; and then, as she saw themisery of his face, she relented. "Indeed, it is not too late toretrieve the past. If you have debts, if you are in trouble, own itfrankly to your grandfather. "

"And be turned out of the house a beggar?"

"What of that, " she replied, cheerfully; "you have a profession; everyone says how clever you are--what a splendid barrister you will make. You can take pupils; success and money will come to you in time. "

"Too late, " he muttered; "I can not free myself. " Then, with a suddenchange of look and tone, "Crystal, if I do this--if I leave BelgraveHouse, will you give me a hope of winning you in the future?"

She shook her head; "I can not give you that hope. "

"Why not?" he demanded, fiercely. 

"Because I belong to another, " she answered, slowly, and there came awonderful light in her eyes; "and for his sake I will live as I am tomy life's end. "

They had reached Beulah Place by this time, and Mrs. Watkins's shopwas in sight. There were few passers-by, so no one noticed why Percysuddenly stood still and seized his companion's hands. 

"You love another man? You dare to tell me this?"

"I tell you this for your own good, and that you may never speak to meagain as you have done. You must not be angry with me for telling youthe truth; and now will you ring the bell, for there is no need to gothrough the shop?"

"I am not coming in, " he said, hoarsely. "I can not trust myself. "

"Then we will say good-bye here, " was the quiet answer, and shepressed his hands kindly. "Forgive me if I have made you unhappy, butindeed it is your fault, and I thought it better to tell you thetruth. Good-bye, my poor boy;" but though her voice was full ofgentleness and pity, he scarcely heard it. He had wrung her hands, almost throwing them from him, and had turned away without a word. 

Crystal looked after him rather wistfully; her heart felt strangelysoft to him to-night. "Was it wrong to tell him, I wonder?" she saidto herself, as she quickly retraced her steps. "He is terriblyreckless, one never knows how he may take things. It was good of himto listen to me so patiently; and now he has gone away sore andangry. "

Crystal was walking very fast now, as though she had suddenlyremembered some errand. As an empty hansom passed her she hailed it. "Will you drive me to Victoria Station, " she said to the man in abusiness-like tone; "I want to meet the 6:30 train from Singleton. Ithink there is time. "

"None too much, " was the somewhat gruff answer, "but my horse isfresh;" and Crystal drew into a corner and tried to curb herimpatience by watching the passers-by; but her fear of being too latekept her restless and miserable. 

As they drove into Victoria Station a handsome barouche, with a pairof fine bays, attracted Crystal's attention. The footman had got downand was making inquiries of a porter. "Singleton train just due, "Crystal heard the man say, as she handed the cabman his fare; and asshe quickly passed through the station, the train slowly drew up atthe platform. 

Only just in time! Crystal pressed eagerly forward, scanning theoccupants of all the carriages until she came to the last. 

There were two passengers in this compartment; a young lady, with agood-natured freckled face, was speaking to a very tall man who wasstanding in the center of the carriage. "You must let me help youout, " Crystal heard her say in a pleasant countrified voice, "and waitwith you until your friends find you;" and then came the answer in thedeep tones Crystal knew so well. 

"Thank you, you are very kind. My unfortunate infirmity gains newfriends for me everywhere; so after all, you see, even blindness hasits alleviations, Miss Merriman. "

"Oh, I will be sure to tell papa what you say; it will be such acomfort to him. Now, will you put your hand on my shoulder--it is adeep step--take care;" but as Raby tried to follow this instruction, alittle gloved hand, that certainly did not belong to Miss Merriman, gently guided him and placed him in safety. 

Miss Merriman nodded and smiled her thanks. 

"There, you are all right now. What is the matter Mr. Ferrers?"

"I thought some one touched me, " he returned, with a puzzled look, "and you were on my other side, so I suppose it was some kindstranger. "

"Yes, a young lady, " as Crystal moved away rather suddenly. "Ah! thereis a footman; he seems in search of some one. I will ask him if he belooking for you, " and Miss Merriman darted away. 

Raby stood quietly waiting, but he little knew that the girl whom hehad come to London to seek was standing a few yards from him, tryingto see him through the tears that blinded her. 

Many people turned to look after the tall, striking-looking man inclerical dress. The felt hat just shaded the pale, massively cutfeatures. He looked older, Crystal thought, and a little sadder, butthe mouth was as beautiful as ever. 

Once he looked up as hasty footsteps brushed him, as though he wouldmove aside, but a girlish figure interposed between him and the loadedtruck, and again the little hand guided him to safety. 

"It is all right--the man says he is waiting for Mr. Ferrers, "observed Miss Merriman briskly at this moment. "What horrid thingsthose trucks are; I was afraid one would have knocked you, only theyoung lady led you away. "

"What! a young lady?" asked Raby, quickly. 

"Oh, only a tall young lady in brown, who seemed to notice you wantedhelp. She has gone now--probably a passenger for the down-train. "

"I think all young ladies are good to me, " returned Raby, with gravecourtesy, holding out his hand. "I know I have met with a very kindfellow-passenger;" and then, as he took the footman's arm and enteredthe carriage, Miss Merriman saw the tall young lady in brown walkquickly out of the station, and as she passed her there were tearsrunning down her cheeks. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

FLUFF GOES TO SEE GRANDPAPA. 

 Thou, like a little curious fly That fusses through the air, Dost pry and pry With thy keen inquisitive eye. 

 And with many questions, ever Rippling like a restless river, Puzzling many an older brain Dost thou hour by hour increase thy store Of marvelous lore. Thus a squirrel, darting deftly, Up and down autumnal trees, Sees its hoard of chestnuts growing swiftly In a heap upon the leaf-strewn leas. 

 CLAUDE LAKE. 

"And now, I look almost as smart as the Princess Dove herself. "

"I really think you do, Fluff, though you remember her dress was acurious embroidery of rainbows and dew-drops sewn all over withpeacocks' eyes; but I assure you I like your white frock much better;and the new hat is very pretty. "

"But Fern!--"

"But Fluff!--"

"If I were to be lost--really and truly lost, you know--would thefunny old town-crier tell a long story about me as he did about thedog when we were down by the sea last summer?"

"Of course he would, and mother and I would stand and listen to himand try not to laugh. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed, a little witch-girlin a clean white frock, rather too much starched; a frilled cape thatcrackles when she moves, and a pretty broad-brimmed hat. ' Well, Fluffy, what does that mysterious look mean? you are very rude tointerrupt the old crier, " and Fern tried to frown, while Fluff noddedher head sagaciously. 

"It would not be stolen or lost, it would be strayed like the sheep inthe turnip-field, when the shepherd turned them all out because theyhad no business there. Supposing I strayed on purpose, Fern, you mustsend a crier covered all over with gold lace to find me. "

"Indeed! have you lost your senses, Fluff?"

"Never mind the senses; I saw them all five in china in Mrs. Watkins'sleft hand corner-cupboard, china images she called them, and I thoughtthem so pretty. Give me the fourpence half-penny for buns, Fern--oneBath, two plain, and a half-penny to the sweeper that takes me bestover the crossing. "

"Oh, Fluff, Fluff, do be careful, and mind you do not go too far; comeback soon, like a good child. "

"Of course I am good on my birthday. What did they do to Ananias andSapphira, Fern?"

"Dear me, what an odd question, Fluffy!"

"Never mind that; in the Sunday-school the teacher always answers thechildren's questions directly; she is a very nice teacher though shehas red hair, but she can not help that. "

"Oh, indeed! so I must tell you about Ananias and Sapphira. What isthe matter? how pale you look, my pet. Well, they fell down deadbecause they had told a lie. "

Fluff shifted her pence uneasily. 

"That was the lie they told about the land and money that they wantedto keep themselves. I think they were greedy people; one Bath, twoplain, and a half-penny for the sweeper. Here is the fourpence, Fern;I don't think I shall be hungry until tea-time. Now, good-bye, I mustgo. "

"Why, Fluff, what nonsense! here, Fluff;" but Fluff was scuttlingdown-stairs as fast as she could go, and Fern was only in time to seeher little feet whisking through the shop door. 

"I don't believe there is such another child in the United Kingdom, "she said to herself, laughing. "She is terribly young for her age, butso amusing; how dull it will be without her this afternoon, and poorCrystal so far away, I wish mother had not let her go, or that shewere safe home again;" and Fern sighed as she looked round the emptyroom. 

Now it so happened that Fluff had coaxed her mother to let her take awalk alone on her birthday; this was the treat she had selected forthe occasion. 

She was to wear her best frock and her new hat that Crystal hadtrimmed for her as a parting present; and she had promised to be verycareful, and not go too far. The four-pence was to be expended inbuns--so she and her mother had arranged, but Fluff had secretlyintended to put it to another purpose, until her conscientiousscruples had obliged her to leave it at home instead of paying theomnibus fare that was to save her poor little legs; they would getsorely tired before they reached their destination. 

Fluff ran down several streets, till she was out of breath, and thenshe fell into a little trot; but first she gave the half-penny to aragged boy, and begged him earnestly never to tell stories; and afterthat she asked him the way to Belgravia. Not getting a lucid answerfrom him, as he only told her that he had been a cripple from hisbirth and had sold lucifers ever since, which, being brimstone, wasbad for the rheumatics, Fluff told him that she would have repeatedthe whole story of Ananias and Sapphira to him, only she had no time, and then she resumed her walk with much dignity. 

And the method of it was this--if method it could be called which had, in its sidelong movements, the similitude of a crab. First she wentinto every baker's shop she passed, and, shaking her head sorrowfullyat the fresh currant-buns on the counters, asked in a confidentialwhisper the quickest and shortest way to Belgravia; and when theywished to know what part, or asked her business, in a kindly way, shepursed up her mouth and said that was not the question, and would theyplease confine themselves to facts, or some such speech, in her oddabrupt way. 

And she looked such a little lady as she spoke, and held her littlehead up so proudly, that most of them answered her with civility; andone big baker's boy, just starting on his afternoon round, said hewould see her past the dangerous crossing in the next street, and puther a little on her way. Fluff said she was very much obliged to him, and trotted confidingly by his side, adapting her conversation to herhearer as she thought best, for she enlarged in a rambling way on theMiracle of the Loaves, and told him what her teacher said on thesubject of the fishes; and then she became confidential, and explainedto him that she bore an innocent partiality for the moist peely bitsof soft crusts that one could pare off a loaf without showing a saddeficiency, and how she always liked to take in the bread at Mrs. Watkins's for the purpose; and lastly, she told him in a weary littlevoice that she was going to see grandpapa, who lived in a big house inBelgravia, but that she was getting very tired, for she had a bone inher leg--two bones, she thought--and might she sit please on the topof his little cart to rest her poor legs when he went into the nexthouse?

The baker's boy was a good-natured fellow, but, as he expressed itafterward, he thought her the rummiest little lady he had ever met;indeed, he confided his suspicions to a grocer's lad that she "was abit cracky;" but he let her sit on his cart for all that, and trundledher the length of two or three streets; and further revived herdrooping spirits by a dab of hot brown bread, scooped skillfully outof the side of a loaf which, as he said, would never show. 

After that they got facetious, and admired a Punch and Judy showtogether, and parted with deep regret, when a policeman desired themto move on. 

Fluff began to feel rather lonely after this. It was getting late, shewas afraid, and those little legs of hers ached dreadfully; but shefell in at the park gates with a playful flower-girl, who ran a racewith her, basket and all, and then stood and jeered in broad Irishbecause she was beaten, while Fluff sat down, sulky and exhausted, ona bench under the trees. 

It was nearly tea-time now, she thought; in another hour or so Fernwould be sending the old crier after her. She wondered how she was toget back. She was very thirsty, and felt half inclined to cry; andthen it struck her that the large splendid-looking building oppositemight be Belgrave House, and she ran up to a workman just passing andasked him. 

"No, " he said, eying her wondering, "that was not Belgrave House, itwas in the next square;" and when she heard that she clapped her handsjoyfully, and went and drank out of a little iron bowl in company witha sweep. She asked him if she might drink first, and he said, "Oh, laws, yes! you ain't near so smutty as me, " which speech Fluff took asa compliment. But she had fallen down twice, and her nice white frockhad got unsightly patches of green on it. 

But she felt as though her troubles were over when she stood in frontof Belgrave House, its many windows shining like gold. 

What a grand place it was--finer than the Crystal Ball Palace wherePrincess Dove and Prince Merrydew lived; and, oh dear, what joy, thedoor was open!

The footman had just run out to the pillar box, and another footmanwas fast asleep in a chair that looked like a baby's cradle turnedupside down. 

Fluff ran up the steps and looked in. 

There was a beautiful scent of flowers as she crept timidly into thehall, such sleepy warm flowers Fluff thought, only they made her headdrowsy; and there was a great staircase with carved balustrades anddark slippery stairs, and the doors were all shut, and there was not asound in the whole house, except the singing of some birds. Fluffbegan to feel giddy. 

But it was babyish to feel frightened in her own grandpapa's house, soshe took courage, and passing the sleepy footman on tiptoe, creptsoftly up the stairs, holding very tightly to the balustrades, for shefelt as though she were slipping every step, and presently she came toa sunny landing-place with a conservatory, where some canaries weresinging. Here she saw a half-open door, and pushed it open, and thenshe thought she was in fairy-land. 

It was such a large beautiful room, with marble ladies standing in thecorners, with wonderful green plants growing in gilded baskets, andsatin couches, and lace draperies, and lovely china; and in anarm-chair a gentleman asleep, for he had his eyes shut. 

Fluff stole in and peeped at him; no, he was not asleep, for his eyesopened, and yet he did not seem to see her, perhaps he was thinking. His face looked very nice and kind, and with the unerring instinct ofchildhood she laid her hand on his knee. 

"If you please, sir, will you tell me where I can find grandpapa?"

The gentleman raised his eyes--as Fluff told her mother afterward, "helooked at me without seeing me;" and then his hand closed quietly overthe child's. Nothing ever seemed to startle Raby Ferrers in thatstrange dreamy life of his. 

"Who are you, my child, and who is your grandpapa?"

"My grandpapa's name is Mr. Huntingdon, and he lives in thishouse--Belgrave House it is called, and I am Florence Trafford, butthey call me Fluff at home. "

The name roused him effectually; ah, he was startled now. "FlorenceTrafford, did you say; do you mean that you live at Beulah Place inthe Elysian Fields. "

"Yes, at Mrs. Watkins's--mother, and Fern, and I, and Crystal too, only she went away this morning. "

"Away--what do you mean?" and Fluff's poor little hands were held sotightly that they were quite red and sore afterward. 

"Oh, she has gone to America with that horrid Miss Campion; yes, andshe is horrid to take our dear Criss-crass away. Fern cried so thismorning, and Crystal cried too, but she had to go, she said, so it wasno use making a fuss about it; and she does not mean to come back fora long time. What is the matter?" peering curiously in his face, "doesyour head ache?"--for Raby had uttered a low groan, and had droppedFluff's hands, and he was pushing back the heavy dead-brown hair asthough he were suddenly oppressed. 

Fluff did not wait for his answer; she chattered on very much at herease. 

"Mother and Fern only think I am taking a walk, but I always meant tocome and see grandpapa on my birthday. I should think he ought to bevery glad to see me; and if he is not, " here her lip quivered alittle, "I should tell him he is very naughty to live in thisbeautiful house while poor mother is so poor, and goes out teaching. "But, as she spoke, the door had opened softly, and a tall gray-hairedman, with a thin erect figure, walked slowly into the room, leaning onErle's arm, while Percy followed him. 

Fluff gave a little exclamation at the sight of the two young men, andthen ran toward Mr. Huntingdon, her broad-brimmed hat falling on herneck, and her dark eyes all aglow with excitement. 

"I have come to see you, grandpapa, " she said, holding out her handwith the air of a little princess; and then, as he did not take it, she continued rather piteously, "please, dear grandpapa, don't beangry with me, for I have come all this way of my own accord, and I amso tired and hungry. "

If a thunder-bolt had fallen in the midst of that stately room itcould not have created a greater sensation. 

Erle flushed and looked uncomfortable, a dark frown crossed herbrother's face; Mr. Huntingdon's was inscrutable as usual, only a graytint seemed to spread over his features, and there was a slighttrembling in the hand that held Erle's arm. 

Fluff looked from one to the other, and then she touched Erlecoaxingly. 

"Do ask grandpapa to be kind to me, Mr. Erle, " she pleaded. "Percy isalways cross, but you have been so good to me and Fern. " But a sternvoice interrupted her. 

"Do you know this child, Erle? she seems to recognize you. "

"Yes, sir, " stammered Erle, losing color now as fast as he had gainedit; his embarrassment was not lessened by the look on Percy's face. "Ihave seen her when I have been with Percy. She is Florence Trafford, Mrs. Trafford's youngest child, and I expect what she says is quitetrue, and that she has come of her own accord, though I have no ideahow she found her way here. "

"How should you, Mr. Erle, " returned Fluff, nestling up to herfavorite, "when I never told you a word about it, or any of themeither? Why, bless me, the stupidest of all those stupid owls in theZoölogical Gardens, that we laughed at so much, knew more about itthan you did. Oh, you need not frown, Percy, you do not come half sooften to see poor mother as Mr. Erle does, and he is far kinder toFern. "

"I think you had better hold you tongue, Fluff, " replied her brother;but he evidently enjoyed the sight of Erle's discomfiture. "I don'tsee why you are to be troubled with this sort of scene, " he continued, addressing Mr. Huntingdon, who was eying Fluff gloomily all this time. "If you wish it I will ring for Roger to take her home. "

"No, no, let her be for a moment, " he replied, quickly; and Fluff, whohad looked terrified at Percy's proposition, came closer and rubbedher curls delightedly against his coat-sleeve. 

"That's right, grandpapa. I have not spoken to you yet, have I? and Ihave so much to say. I was that little baby you know whom mothercarried through the snow that night. Yes, " as Mr. Huntingdonshuddered, "I heard mother tell Fern all about it one night when theythought I was asleep--only I got sleepy and lost half; but I said tomyself, 'I shall go and tell grandpapa that poor mother is verymiserable and unhappy, and that he must come and take care of her. '"

"There, there, you have said your lesson very prettily, " observed Mr. Huntingdon with a sneer. "Children are apt parrots;" but Erle saw thathis sneer was forced, and that he sat down like an old man, and hesaid, earnestly:

"Oh, sir, do not think so badly of your daughter. She has not sent thechild on this errand. I would stake my life on it. "

"And how long have you taken upon yourself to defend my daughter, Mrs. Trafford?" asked his uncle coldly. Erle almost repented of hisgenerous impulse when he heard that hard relentless voice. They hadnot noticed their visitor, and Raby, at the other end of the greatroom, lost much of what was passing, he was so absorbed with his ownbitter disappointment. As Erle was silent a moment, Mr. Huntingdonrepeated his question. 

"Since he knew I had a pretty sister, " replied Percy, carelessly. 

Erle turned round and their eyes met, but Percy's fell before thatglance of utter contempt; Mr. Huntingdon intercepted the look betweenthe young men. 

"I was not speaking to you, Percy, " he observed, curtly; "I shouldhave thought it was your place to take your mother's part, but youchose to be silent. Well, it is no affair of mine. Erle, will you begood enough to answer me a question or two, and then I will troubleyou to send the child home. How often have you visited at mydaughter's house?"

"I can hardly answer that question, sir; I have been several times. "

"Did Percy take you?"

"In the first instance, yes; but I have been there alone too, " forErle's truthful nature scorned subterfuge. The crisis he had dreadedhad come on him at last; but Percy should not see that he was afraid. He might be weak and vacillating, but he was a gentleman, and a liewas abhorrent to him. Percy's innuendo might work deadly mischief, butall the same he would not shelter himself behind a falsehood. 

Mr. Huntingdon's hard look involuntarily softened. This show ofmanliness on his nephew's part pleased him. 

"Of course you went there, knowing that I should disapprove of suchvisits. Tell me, is this Fern of whom my grandson speaks so veryattractive?"

"She is very pretty. "

"That is all I want to know. Now, will you order the carriage to takethe child home? No, stop, I think Roger had better fetch a cab. " Butat this point Fluff began to cry. 

"Oh, I am so tired and hungry, " she sobbed, "and all those dreadfulbones in my legs, and the crier not come yet. What is the good of agrandpapa if he has no cakes and things, and on my birthday too!"

Mr. Huntingdon smiled grimly. 

"Very well, order the child some refreshment, Erle. After all, she isbut a starved bit of a thing; see she has what children like best. Percy, come with me a moment, I want to speak to you. "

"Oh, thank you, grandpapa, " exclaimed Fluff, cheering up at this; andas the door closed on Mr. Huntingdon, Erle knelt down by the child, and wiped the tears from the tired dirty little face that had broughtsuch trouble to him. 

And the heart of Fluff was glad within her, for they brought her fruitand cakes and sweet wine on a gold salver, so that she feasted like aking's daughter or like the Princess Dove herself; and Erle sat by andwatched her all the time, though he looked rather grave and unhappy, Fluff thought. 

Both of them were rather startled when Mr. Ferrers groped his waytoward them. He had been hidden by the curtain, and Erle had notnoticed him. 

"Mr. Erle, if you will allow me, I should like to take the childhome. "

"Of course, " rousing himself, and looking a little bewildered, "wewere both to have gone this evening. I had ordered the brougham, but Iam afraid now that I must ask you to excuse me. There arecircumstances--and, " here Erle paused and bit his lips. 

"There is no need for you to go, " returned Raby, sorrowfully; "thebird has flown. This child, " putting his hand lightly on Fluff's curlyhead, "told me before you came in that Crystal had gone toAmerica--she started this morning. "

"To America?" exclaimed Erle, in an incredulous voice. 

"Yes, but she has told me no particulars. It is hard, very hard, is itnot. I find one does not get used to disappointment. It is a heavyblow to my faith. I thought that to-night we should certainly havemet. "

"I am awfully sorry, Mr. Ferrers, I am indeed. I wish I could havecome with you. "

"You could not help me. I will take the child home, and talk to thosekind friends who have sheltered Crystal; at least I shall hear abouther, and know her future movements. "

"I think I hear the cab, Mr. Ferrers, and Fluff is fast asleep. "

"We will not wake her, poor little thing, " returned Raby, lifting herup as he spoke. Fluff grunted contentedly as her head dropped on hisbroad shoulder. Erle watched them as Roger guided them to the cab. Howhe longed to accompany them. The next moment he turned with a start, as his uncle's slow footstep paused beside him. 

"Erle, " he said, "look at this, " and he held out a costly ring, a halfhoop of diamonds. "I have heard all I wish from Percy. His sense ofhonor is none of the finest, but he is useful to me. You and I neednot heat ourselves in a perfectly useless discussion. Miss Selby has aright to expect this ring. You are treating her very shabbily, Erle. Come to me to-morrow and tell me you have placed it on her finger. "

"And if I refuse?" Erle's pale lips could hardly frame the question. 

Mr. Huntingdon smiled ironically. 

"I do not think you will refuse, Erle. You are too much a gentleman totreat a woman badly. All the world is saying you and Miss Selby areengaged. You can hardly allow a girl to be talked about. "

"But if I prefer another?" stammered Erle. 

"Tut, tut, boy, you will soon get over your fancy, " returned Mr. Huntingdon, impatiently. "Most young men have half a dozen flirtationsbefore they settle down. I suppose I need not tell you that I strictlyprohibit any visits to Mrs. Trafford for the future. If you infringethis rule it will be at your own risk;" and then he continued moreearnestly--"Erle, I am determined that you shall not disappoint me. You are my adopted son, and I trust my future heir. I have a right tocount on your obedience. Come to me to-morrow, and tell me you andMiss Selby are engaged, and all will be well between us. " Then, pressing his shoulder gently, and in a voice no one had heard from himsince his daughter's loss--"I am an old man, and my life has not beena happy one. Do not let me feel that you have disappointed me too. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

"I WANT HIM SO. "

 No shade has come between Thee and the sun; Like some long childish dream Thy life has run; But now the stream has reached A dark deep sea, And sorrow, dim and crowned, Is waiting thee. 

 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 

Fluff woke up before they reached their destination, very muchrefreshed by her brief nap. When the cab stopped before the side doorof Mrs. Watkins's, and she caught sight of Fern standing on thethreshold, as though she had been waiting there some time, she gave alittle cry, and literally jumped into her sister's arms. 

"Oh, Fluff, Fluff! what does this mean?" exclaimed poor Fern, who hadpassed a most miserable afternoon, picturing Fluff being borne in apoliceman's arms to the nearest hospital; but Fluff silenced her by anembrace so vehement that it nearly produced strangulation. 

"It is all right, Fern, so don't scold me. Grandpapa was not so veryangry--at least, only just at first; but he sent me in thebeautifulest supper, such nice things on a big gold plate--reallygold, you know, like Princess Dove's; and Mr. Erle was there, andPercy--and oh! I forgot the poor man in the cab, who is blind--quiteblind, but he is very nice too. "

"Will you let me explain about your little sister, Miss Trafford, "said Raby in his pleasant voice; and Fern, turning in some surprise, saw a very tall man in clerical dress standing beside her, as sheafterward expressed it to her mother, "with the very nicest face shehad ever seen. "

"I do not know if you have ever heard my name; I am Mr. Ferrers, andyour friend Miss Davenport, as she calls herself, is my sister'scousin. "

"Oh, yes, I know, " and Fern's voice grew pitiful all at once; "and youhave come just as Crystal has left us; did Florence tell you? Oh, I amso sorry, so very sorry. "

"Yes, the child told me; but there is much that I want to ask you. MayI come in? The cab will wait for me. " And then, as Fern guided him upthe narrow staircase, she told him that her mother was out--an eveningclass had detained her; and she had been thankful that this had beenthe case, and that she should have been spared the anxiety aboutFluff. Mrs. Watkins's boy was scouring the neighborhood, makinginquiries of every one he met; and she had just made up her mind tosend for her mother when the cab drove up. 

"And she really found her way to Belgrave House?" asked Fern, in avoice between laughing and crying; "oh, what will mother say, " and shelistened with eagerness to Mr. Ferrers's account of how the child hadaccosted him, and of her meeting with Mr. Huntingdon. 

Raby himself had been much mystified--he had known nothing of hishost's past history; he had thought that the child was only paying animpromptu visit until she mentioned her name. Erle had told him thatMrs. Trafford was Mr. Huntingdon's daughter, and that he had neverseen her since her marriage. This clew guided him to the meaning ofthe sternness in Mr. Huntingdon's voice; but he had hardly understoodin what way Erle was implicated, or why the child should receive solittle notice from her brother. When Raby had finished his account, which was annotated in a rambling and far from lucid manner by Fluff, Fern sent the child away to change her frock and make herself tidy, and whispered in her ear that she might stay with Mrs. Watkins for alittle; and when Fluff had left them she began to speak of Crystal, and to answer the many questions he put to her without stint orreserve; she even told him that Crystal had left them on account ofPercy's mad infatuation. 

"It was very wrong of Percy to take advantage of her unprotectedsituation, and I am sure she went to put a stop to it, and because itwas so awkward for us. Crystal is not like other girls--she does notcare for admiration; people turn round and look after her in thestreet because she is so beautiful, but she never seems to notice it. "

"No; you are right, " he returned, with evident emotion. 

As Fern spoke, a scene rose to his memory--a fresh young voice behindhis chair seemed to whisper in his ear, "Oh, king, live forever!" andthere she stood, his dark-eyed Esther, in her girlish loveliness, herwhite neck and arms gleaming through lace, a ruby pendant on theslender round throat, the small head looking so queenly with its coilsof smooth black hair; and he had turned coldly from her, and she neverknew that his was the soul of a lover. "No; you are right, " heanswered, gently; "she was as guileless and innocent as a child. "

Fern looked at him wistfully; all her heart seemed to go out to thissad, noble-looking man. Crystal had not said too much in his praise;but he looked older than she had imagined--for pain and the knowledgeof his shorn and wasted powers had aged him, and there was certainlyno youth in his aspect. 

"Oh, " she said, eagerly, for she longed to say something that wouldcomfort him, "I think sometimes that there is no one so good asCrystal--we have all grown to love her so. She has such high-spirited, troublesome pupils; but she is so patient with them when they are ill, she nurses them, and she has more influence over them than the mother;and she is always so kind and thoughtful, and no one ever sees hercross. She is angry with Percy sometimes; but then he deserves it; andshe will not take any pleasure, but all she thinks about is to dolittle kindnesses for people; and though she is so unhappy that shehas grown quite thin with fretting, she tries not to let us see it. "

"Has she told you all about herself?" he asked, in a very low voice. 

"Yes, and it is that that makes her so unhappy. Oh, she told me allabout it, and I thought she would never, never stop crying--it preysupon her mind, and her remorse will not let her be happy: she seems todread even forgiveness. 'I go back to him, when I have blighted hislife and darkened his days?' oh! you should have heard the despair inher voice when she said that, Mr. Ferrers, " and here Fern's sweettones trembled. "Mother and I sometimes think that it will kill her intime, unless she has help and comfort. "

"Do not fear, Miss Trafford, she shall have both soon; it will not belong before I find her. "

"But she is in America--at least, she is on her way there. "

"There are other steamers than the one in which she has crossed, "returned Raby, with a smile. "I suppose she means to write to you?"

"Oh, yes, she will write from every place--she has promised me longletters, and of course Mrs. Norton will hear from Miss Campion; do youreally mean to follow her, Mr. Ferrers?"

"Yes; and to the world's end if it be necessary. I have a strong will, and even blindness will not hinder me. Tell me how did she seem lastnight; did she leave cheerfully?"

"Well, no, Crystal puzzled us all night, " returned Fern, quickly; "shewent out to bid good-bye to her pupils, and Percy waylaid her, asusual, but she got rid of him somehow; but she was out a long time, and she would not give us any reason; but when she came back her eyeswere swelled, and she had a dreadful headache, and yet she said Percyhad nothing to do with it. "

A sudden, wild idea flashed into Raby's mind. "How was she dressed, Miss Trafford--I mean what colored gown did she wear?"

Fern seemed surprised at the question. "Oh, her old brown gown--shewas all in brown, I think;" but she did not understand why Mr. Ferrersseemed so strangely agitated at her answer. 

"The tall young lady in brown, who seemed to notice you wanted help;"he remembered those words of Miss Merriman. Good Heavens! it must havebeen she; it must have been her little hand that guided him so gently;oh, his miserable blindness. Of course she had seen this PercyTrafford, and he had told her all about the guest they expected, andshe had come to the station just to see him once again. 

But he would not speak of this to Fern; his darling's secret should bekept by him; he would hide these sweet proofs of her love and devotionin his own breast. Fern wondered why the miserable, harassed look lefthis face. He looked quite young--a different man--as he bade hergood-bye; his shoulders were no longer stooping, his head was erect. 

"Good-bye, Miss Trafford, " he said. "I shall come and see you and yourmother again before I leave. I shall go back to Sandycliffe next week, and set my house in order, and talk to my sister. I do not doubt for amoment that she will offer to accompany me. I shall not come backuntil I bring Crystal with me. " And Fern quite believed him. Therewere restless sleepers that night in Belgrave House. Raby wasrevolving his plans and wondering what Margaret would say; and on theother side of the wall Erle tossed, wakeful and wretched, knowing thathis fate was sealed, and that Evelyn Selby and not Fern Trafford wasto be his future wife. And now, as he lay in the darkness, he toldhimself that in spite of her goodness and beauty he could never loveher as he loved Fern. He knew it at the moment he asked her to marryhim, and when she put her hand in his and told him frankly that he hadlong won her heart. 

"You are too much a gentleman to treat a woman badly, " Mr. Huntingdonhad said to him, well knowing the softness and generosity of Erle'snature; and yet, was he not treating Fern badly?

He had thought over it all until his head was dizzy; but hisconscience had told him that his sin against Fern had been light incomparison with that against Evelyn. What were those few evenings inBeulah Place compared to the hours he had passed in Evelyn's society?

He had been in Lady Maltravers's train for months; he had suffered herto treat him as a son of the house. He had ridden with Evelyn in theRow; she had been his favorite partner in the ball-room. When they hadgone to the opera Erle had been their escort. It was perfectly true, as Mr. Huntingdon said, that she had a right to expect an offer fromhim; their names had long been coupled together, and Erle's weaknessand love of pretty faces had drawn the net round him. And there wereother considerations that had moved him--his dread of poverty; theluxurious habits that had become a second nature; and above all, reluctance to disappoint the old man who, in his own way, had beengood to him. Erle knew that in spite of his hardness and severity, hisuncle clung to him as the Benjamin of his old age. 

No, he could not help himself, he thought bitterly. And yet how drearythe prospect seemed. He had given up the first young love of his life, and now the barren splendors of Belgrave House seemed to oppresshim--the walls closed round him like the walls of a prison. 

And yet other men would envy him, and wonder at his luck. Evelyn hadmany admirers--many a one nobly born and nobly gifted would grudge himhis prize; though he knew, and hated himself for the knowledge, thatthey envied him in vain. 

Erle found it difficult to play his part well; but his young _fiancée_was too unsuspecting in her happiness to guess at her lover's secrettrouble. His slight gravity spoke well for him, she thought; mostlikely a greater sense of responsibility oppressed him. She was toomuch in love herself to notice how often he lapsed into silence. 

Every one thought him a most devoted lover; he was always at hispost--always ready to escort them to picture-galleries andflower-shows, or to stand sentinel at the back of Lady Maltravers'sbox. His uncle's generosity enabled him to load his betrothed withgifts. Evelyn used to remonstrate with him for his lavishness, notknowing that Mr. Huntingdon had prompted the gift. 

"Of course I love you to bring me things, " she would say, looking upin his face with her clear, candid eyes; "but indeed, dear Erle, I donot need so many proofs of your affection. "

"I feel as though I should never do enough for you, Eva, " he answered, hurriedly; "you must not refuse to let me give you things. I am alwaysthinking how I am to please you;" and as he clasped the diamondbracelet on the slender wrist he suddenly remembered what a prettyhand Fern had, so white and dimpled, and a vivid longing came overhim, turning him nearly sick with pain, to see that sweet face again, and to hear from those frank, beautiful lips that she was glad to seehim; but he never yielded to the temptation. 

On the contrary, he had put all such visits out of his power; for hehad written to Mrs. Trafford within a few days of his engagement, telling her that his uncle had interdicted them, and that he dared notrisk his displeasure, deeply as he regretted such a break in theirintercourse; and he told her that he and Miss Selby were engaged, andwould probably be married in the autumn; and then he sent his kindremembrances to her daughter. 

Mrs. Trafford thought it a very manly and straightforward letter. Hehad not acted so very badly after all, she thought; her father'sstrong will had evidently coerced him, and she knew how strong thatwill could be. He had meant no harm; he had only said pleasant thingsbecause it was his nature to say them; if only it had not gone verydeep with Fern. 

"I have had a letter from Mr. Erle, my darling, " she said, quietly, asshe noticed the girl had turned a shade paler, as though she hadrecognized the handwriting; but she had not spoken, only bent lowerover her work. 

"Yes, mother, " in a very low voice; "and I suppose he has told you thenews. "

"What news, my pet?"

"That he and Miss Selby are engaged. Oh, yes, I knew it directly I sawthe letter. It is good of him to tell us so soon. I am glad; you musttell him we are glad, mother. "

"Will that be the truth, Fern?" looking at her doubtfully. 

"One ought to be glad when one's friends are happy, " was the unsteadyanswer. "If he loves her, of course he must want to marry her. Crystalsays that she is very handsome and looks so nice. You must write avery pretty letter to him, mother, and say all sorts of kind things. And it is for us to be glad that he has got his wish, for I think hehas not looked quite happy lately. " And Fern folded up her work in herold business-like manner, and then went about the room, putting littletouches here and there; and if she were a little pale, the dusk soonhid it. Mrs. Trafford had no fault to find with her daughter thatevening; nevertheless she did not feel easy; she thought girlish pridewas bidding her conceal the wound, and that in reality her child wasunhappy. 

If any one had asked Fern what were her feelings when she saw thatletter in her mother's hands she would have answered most truly thatshe did not know. When a long-dreaded trouble that one knows to beinevitable at last reaches one, the mind seems to collapse and becomeutterly blank; there is a painless void, into which the mental visionrefuses to look. Presently--there is plenty of time; life is overlongfor suffering--we will sit down for a little while by the side of theabyss which has just swallowed up our dearest hopes. 

Numbness, which was in reality death in life, blunted Fern's feelingsas she worked, and talked, and fulfilled her little duties. When shewent up to her room and looked at Crystal's empty bed, she thought theroom had never looked so desolate. She undressed slowly, with longpauses, during which she tried to find out what had happened to her;but no real consciousness came until she laid her head on the pillowand tried to sleep, and then found her thoughts active. And thedarkness seemed to take her into its black arms, and there seemed norest anywhere. They were all over--those beautiful dreams that hadglorified her life. No bright-faced young prince would ride out of themist and carry her away; there would be no more kind looks full ofdeep, wonderful meanings for her to remember over her work; in themorning she would not wake and say, "Perhaps he will come to-day;" nofootstep would make her heart beat more quickly; that springy treadwould never sound on the stairs again. He was gone out of her life, this friend of hers, with his merry laugh and his boyish ways, andthat pleasant sympathy that was always ready for her. 

Fern had never imagined that such sad possibilities could wither upthe sweet bloom of youthful promise; she had never felt reallymiserable except when her father died, and then she had been only achild. She wondered in a dreary, incredulous way if this was all lifemeant to bring her--every day a little teaching, a little work, quietevenings with her mother, long streets that seem to lead nowhere; nomeadows, no flowers, no pretty things except in the shop windows;would she still live over Mrs. Watkins's when she was an old woman?

"Oh, how empty and mean it all seems, " she moaned, tossing restlesslyon her hot pillow. 

"Are you awake still, my darling?" asked her mother, tenderly. Someinstinctive sympathy had led her to her child's door, and she hadheard that impatient little speech. "What is the matter, dearest; youwill tell your mother, will you not?"

"Oh, mother, why have you come? I never meant you to know. " But hereshe broke down, and clasped her mother's neck convulsively. "I amglad--I will be glad that he is so happy; but oh, mother, I want himso--I want him so. " And then Mrs. Trafford knew that the wound wasdeep--very deep indeed. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE DARK VALLEY. 

 Not alone unkindness Rends a woman's heart; Oft through subtler piercings Wives and mothers die. 

 Though the cord of silver Never feel a strain; Though the golden language Cease not where ye dwell, Yet remaineth something Which, with its own pain, Breaks the finer bosom Whence true love doth well. 

 O this life, how pleasant To be loved and love, Yet should love's hope wither Then to die were well. 

 PHILIP STANHOPE WORSLEY. 

Every one noticed at the Hall that Lady Redmond was sadly altered inthose days--every one but one, and that was her husband. 

Had Sir Hugh's indifference made him blind? for he completely ignoredthe idea of any change in her. She was pale and thin--very thin, theytold him. Hugh said he supposed it was only natural; and when theyspoke of her broken rest and failing appetite, he said that wasnatural, too. 

They must take better care of her, and not let her do so much. Thatwas his sole remark; and then, when she came into the room a fewminutes afterward to bathe his aching head and read him to sleep, orto sit fanning the teasing flies from him for the hour together, Hughnever seemed to notice the languid step or the pale, tired face, outof which the lovely color had faded. 

His Wee Wifie was such a dear, quiet little nurse, he said, and withthat scant meed of praise Fay was supposed to be satisfied. 

But she knew now that all his gentle looks and words were given herout of sheer pity, or in colder kindness, and shrunk from his caressesas much as she had once sought them; and often, as she spoke to him, the shamed, conscious color rose suddenly to her fair face, and brokenbreaths so impeded her utterance that her only safety was in silence. Scarcely more than a child in years, yet Fay bore her martyrdom nobly. Unloved, unhelped, she girded on her heavy cross and carried it fromday to day with a resignation and courage that was truly womanly; andhiding all her wrongs and her sorrows from him, only strove with hermeek, young ways to win him yet. 

But as time went on her love and her suffering increased, and thedistance widened miserably between them. 

Sometimes when her trouble was very heavy upon her--when Hugh had beenmore than usually restless, and had spoken irritably and sharply toher--she would break down utterly and nestle her face against his in amoment's forgetfulness, and cry softly. 

Then Hugh would wonder at her, and stroke her hair, and tell her thatshe had grown nervous by staying at home so much; and then he wouldlecture her a little in a grand, marital way about taking more care ofherself, until she dried her eyes and asked him to forgive her forbeing so foolish; and so the pent-up pain that was within her found nooutlet at all. 

"Oh, if he will not love me--if he will not try to love me, I mustdie, " cried the poor child to herself; and then she would creep away, with a heart-broken look on her face, and sob herself to sleep. 

Ah, that was a bitter time to Fay; but she bore it patiently, notknowing that the days that were to follow should be still more full ofbitterness than this. 

Sir Hugh was getting better now--from the hour he had seen Margaretthere had been no relapse; but he was struggling through hisconvalescence with a restless impatience that was very trying to allwho came in contact with him. 

He was longing for more freedom and change of air. He should nevergrow strong until he went away, he told Fay; and then she understoodthat he meant to leave her. But the knowledge gave her no fresh pain. She had suffered so much that even he could not hurt her more, shethought. She only said to him once in her shy way, "You will be athome in time, Hugh; you will not leave me to go through it all alone?"And he had promised faithfully that he would come back in plenty oftime. 

And the next morning she found him dressed earlier than usual andstanding by the window in the library, and exclaimed at theimprovement; and Hugh, moving still languidly, bade her see how wellhe could walk. "I have been three times round the room and once downthe corridor, " he said, with a smile at his own boasting. "Tomorrow Ishall go out in the garden, and the next day I shall have a drive. "

And a week after that, as they were standing together on the terrace, looking toward the lake and the water-lilies, Hugh, leaning on thecoping, with a brighter look than usual on his wan face, spokecheerfully about the arrangements for the next day's journey. 

He was far from well, she told him, sadly, and she hoped Saville wouldtake great care of him; and he must still follow Dr. Martin'sprescriptions, and that was all she said that night. 

But the next day, when the servants were putting the portmanteaus onthe carriage, and Hugh went into the blue room to bid her good-bye, all Fay's courage forsook her, and she said, piteously, "Oh, Hugh, areyou really going to leave me? Oh, Hugh, Hugh!" And, as the sense ofher loneliness rushed over her, she clung to him in a perfect anguishof weeping. Sir Hugh's brow grew dark; he hated scenes, and especiallysuch scenes as these. In his weakness he felt unable to cope withthem, or to understand them. 

"Fay, " he said, remonstrating with her, "this is very foolish, " andFay knew by his voice how vexed he was; but she was past minding itnow. In her young way she was tasting the bitterness of death. "Mydear, " he continued, as he unloosened her hand from their passionategrasp, and held them firmly in his, "do you know what a silly childyou are?" and then be relented at his own words, she was such a child. "I told you before that I should never be well until I went away, butyou evidently did not believe me. Now I can not leave you like this, for if you cry so you will make yourself ill; therefore, if you willnot let me go quietly, I can not go at all. "

"No, no, " she sobbed; "don't be so angry with me, Hugh, for I can notbear it. "

"Well, will you promise me to be a brave little woman and not fretafter me when I am gone?" he went on more gently. "It is only sixweeks, you know, Fay, and I have promised to be back in time. "

"Yes, yes, I know you will, " she answered, "and I will be good--indeedI will, Hugh; only tell me you are not angry with me before you go, and call me your Wee Wifie as you used when you first brought mehome;" and she held up her wet face to him as though she were a childwanting to be kissed and forgiven. 

"You foolish birdie, " he said, laughing, but he kissed her more fondlythan he had done yet. "There, you will take care of yourself, my ownWee Wifie, will you not, and write long letters to me, and tell me howyou are getting on. "

"Yes, Hugh, " she replied, quietly; and then he put her down from hisarms. She had taken the flower from his button-hole, and stoodfondling it long after he had driven off. 

"Had you not better lie down, my lady?" Mrs. Heron said to her alittle while afterward, when she found her still standing in themiddle of the room; and she took hold of her gently, for she did notlike the look in my lady's eyes at all; and then she laid her down onthe couch, and never left her until she had fallen asleep, like achild, for very trouble. 

And then she went down and spoke put her mind to Janet; and thesubstance of her speech might be gathered from the concludingsentence. 

"And I am sorry to say it, Janet, of any one to whom I am beholden forthe bread I eat, and whom I have known since he was a baby; but, inspite of his bonny looks and pleasant ways, Sir Hugh is terriblyselfish; and I call it a sin and a shame for any man to leave a sweetyoung creature like that at such a time. What can he expect if shegoes on fretting herself to death in this way?"

Fay could not tell why she felt so strangely weak the next, day whenshe woke up, and Mrs. Heron could not tell, either. She did not fret;she did not even seem unhappy; she was too tired for anything of thatsort, she said to herself; but day after day she lay alone in herlittle room with closed eyes and listless hands; while Nero lay at herfeet wondering why his little mistress was so lazy, and why she wastedthese lovely summer mornings in-doors instead of running races withhim and Pierre. 

No, she was not ill, she assured them, when Mr. Heron and the faithfulJanet came to look after her, and to coax her with all kinds ofdainties; she was only so tired, and would they not talk to her, forshe felt as though she could never sleep enough; and would some onetell Sir Hugh so when they wrote to him, for he would get no longletters from her now--she had tried to write, but her hand was tooweak to hold the pen. But for all that she would not own she was ill;it was only the heat that made her so lazy, she said again and again. No, they must only tell Sir Hugh that she was very tired. 

But when a few more days had passed, Mrs. Heron thought she had beentired long enough, and sent for Dr. Martin. 

He looked very grave when he saw her, and Fay smiled to herself, forshe said, "The time is very near now, and then he thinks that I shalldie. "

But Margaret's reproachful speech came back to her--"Would you wish todie without winning your husband's love?" and to the alarm of the goodhousekeeper she suddenly became hysterical and begged her to send forSir Hugh. 

But her piteous request was forgotten for a time, for before night herlife was in danger. 

Hour after hour the desolate young creature looked death in the faceand found him terrible, and called out in her agony that she wasafraid to die unless Hugh would hold her hand; and for many a long dayafter that Fay did not see her baby boy, for the least excitementwould kill her, the doctor said, and her only chance was perfectquiet. 

And the urgent letters that were sent did not reach Sir Hugh for along time, for he was wandering about Switzerland. He had carelesslyaltered his route, and had forgotten to tell Fay so. 

But on his homeward route, which was not until the six weeks werepast, he found a budget awaiting him at Interlachen. 

Hugh was deeply shocked when he heard of his wife's danger, and blamedhimself for his selfishness in leaving her. 

The trip had refreshed him, but the idea of returning home was stillirksome to him. He had enjoyed his freedom from domestic restraint;and he had planned a longer route, that should end in the Pyramids, when Fay was well and strong again. It would not matter then; but hewas a brute, he confessed, to have left her just at that time. Then headded in self-extenuation that he was not quite himself. 

And one lovely summer morning, when Fay lay like a broken lily on herpillow, and looked languidly out upon the world and life, they broughther baby to her and laid it in her weak arms; and Fay gazedwonderingly into a dimpled, tiny face and blue-gray eyes that seemedto her the counterpart of Hugh's eyes; and then, as she felt the softbreathing of the warm, nestling thing against her shoulder, and sawthe crumpled hand on her breast, a new, strange flood of happinesscame into her starved heart. 

"Hugh's little boy, " she whispered, and a tender look shone in hereyes; and then she added, "he will love me for my baby's sake. "

And she was very happy in her belief. 

As long as they would let her, she lay cradling her boy in her feeblearms and whispering to him about his father: and when night came shewould lie awake happily trying to hear baby's soft breathing in thebassinet beside her, and if he woke and cried, she would ask the nurseto lay him beside her. 

"He will not cry when he is with his mother, " she would say, withmaternal pride. "He is always so good with me; indeed, I never knewsuch a good baby, " which was not wonderful, considering her experiencehad been confined to Catharine's baby at the lodge. And if the nursehumored her, Fay would cover the little downy head with noiselesskisses, and tell him not to cry, for father was coming home to lovethem and take care of them both. 

"You will love me now; yes, I know you will, Hugh, " she would murmursoftly when baby was slumbering peacefully in his blankets again, andnurse had begged Lady Redmond not to think any more about Master Baby, but to go to sleep. And as she obediently closed her eyes, the happytears would steal through her eyelids. 

Poor innocent child! when she had first discovered that Hugh did notlove her, her despair had nearly cost her her life; but no sooner washer baby brought to her than hope revived, for from the depths of hersanguine heart she believed that by her boy's help she should win hislove; not knowing in her ignorance that Hugh might possibly carenothing for the son though he desired the heir, and the baby charmsthat had been so potent with her should possess no magic for him. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

"IT IS ALL OVER, BABY. "

 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon, Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

 TENNYSON. 

It was on a hot thundery July afternoon that Sir Hugh entered RedmondHall, weary and heated and dusty, and thoroughly ashamed of himself. 

There are some men who hate to be reminded of their ownshortcomings--who are too proud and impatient to endureself-humiliation, and who would rather go through fire and water thanown themselves in the wrong. Sir Hugh was one of these. Despite hismoral weakness, he was a Redmond all over, and had a spice of thearrogance that had belonged to them in the old feudal days, when theyhad ruled their vassals most tyrannically. And especially did he hateto be reminded by word or deed that his conduct had not beenfaultless; his conscience made him uncomfortable enough, for he wasreally kind-hearted in spite of his selfishness; so it did not improvematters when Mrs. Heron met him in the hall, and, quite forgetting herusually stately manners, suddenly burst out, while her tearful eyesgave emphasis to her words:

"Oh, Sir Hugh, I am grateful and thankful to see you again, for wethought my lady would have died in her trouble, for, bless her dearheart, she fretted herself cruelly when you left her, and more's thepity!"

The housekeeper had meant no reproach to her master, but Sir Hugh'suneasy conscience took alarm. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Heron, " he said, with icy politeness, "I am deeplyindebted to you for reminding me of my shortcomings. Ellerton, be goodenough to tell Lady Redmond's nurse that I am here, and that I wish tosee my wife at once;" and he passed on in a very bad humor indeed, leaving Mrs. Heron thoroughly crest-fallen by her master's unexpectedsarcasm. 

Ellerton was an old servant, and he ventured to remonstrate beforecarrying out this order. 

"Will you not get rid of a little of the dust of your journey, SirHugh, and have some refreshment before you go up to my lady?"

"You have my orders, Ellerton, " returned his master, curtly; and heascended the staircase with the frown still heavy on his face. 

He did not like to feel so ashamed of himself, and this was his modeof showing it. 

Fay lay on a couch in her bedroom looking very lovely, in her whitetea-gown trimmed with lace, with her brown hair hanging in longplaits, and a little rose-leaf color tinting her cheeks. She waslistening with a beating heart for the well-known footsteps; as theysounded at last in the corridor and she heard his voice speaking toEllerton, she sat up, flushed and trembling, and under the soft shawlsomething that lay hidden stirred uneasily as she moved. 

"You must not excite yourself, my lady, " observed the nurse, anxiously; but she might as well have spoken to the wind, for Fayseemed to have forgotten her presence. 

"Oh, Hugh, my darling husband!" she exclaimed, as the door opened; andthe tender rose flush deepened in her cheeks as she stretched out herhand to him with her old smile. 

Hugh stooped over the couch and kissed her, and then sat down withrather a dissatisfied expression on his face; he thought they had madea fuss to frighten him, and bring him home--she did not look so veryill after all. 

"I could not come to meet you, love, " she said, with a little clasp ofhis hand, and she kissed it in her old way and laid it against herface. 

"My dear Fay, " he remonstrated, and bit his lip. "Nurse, you can trustyour patient in my care. I will ring for you in a little while. " Then, as the door closed behind her, he said in a vexed tone, "Fay, why willyou be so childish? you know that I object to demonstration before theservants, and have told you so, and yet you never seem to remember; dotry to be a little more dignified, my dear, and wait until we arealone. " And this to her who had come back to him through "The Valleyof the Shadow of Death, " bringing his boy with her!

Fay became very white, and drew her hand away. "You do not seem toremember how very ill I have been, " she faltered. And their the baby'sblind wandering touches over her breast soothed her. 

Hugh grew a little remorseful. 

"My dear, I assure you I have not forgotten it: I was very grieved tohear it, and to know that you should have been alone in your trouble;but was it my fault, Fay? Did you keep your promise to me not to fretyourself ill when I Was gone?"

"I kept my promise, " she replied, quietly; "the fretting and themischief were done before. We will not talk about my illness; it istoo bad even to think of it. Have you nothing else to say to me, Hugh?do you not wish to see our boy?"

Hugh started, conscience-stricken--he had forgotten his childaltogether; and then he laughed off his confusion. 

"Our boy! what an important Wee Wifie. Yes, show him to me by allmeans. Do you mean you have got him under that shawl?"

"Yes; is he not good?" returned Fay, proudly; she had forgotten Hugh'scoldness now, as she drew back the flimsy covering and showed him thetiny fair face within her arms. "There, is he not a beauty? Nurse saysshe has never seen a finer baby boy for his size. He is small now, buthe will grow; he has such long feet and hands that, she assures me, hewill be a tall man. Mrs. Heron says he is a thorough Redmond. Look athis hair like floss silk, only finer; and he has your forehead, dear, and your eyes. Oh, he will be just like his father, the darling!"

"Will he?" returned Hugh, dubiously, and he touched him ratherawkwardly--he had never noticed a baby closely before, and he was notmuch impressed with his son's appearance; there was such a redness, hethought, and no features to be called features, and he had such aridiculous button of a mouth. "Do you really call him a fine baby, Fay?"

"Fine! I should think so; the smallness does not matter a bit. Youwill be a big man some time, my beauty, for you are the very image ofyour father. "

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Hugh; he was quite appalled at the notionof any likeness between this absurd specimen of humanity and himself;but happily the little mother did not hear him, for she was adjustingthe long robe to her liking. 

"There, you must take him, Hugh; I want to see him once more in yourarms--my two treasures together;" and she held the baby to him. 

Hugh did not see how the weak arms trembled under their load, as heretreated a few steps in most genuine alarm. 

"I take him! My dear, I never held a baby in my life; I should beafraid of dropping him; no, let him stop with his mother. Womenunderstand these sort of things. There, now, I thought so, he is goingto cry;" and Hugh's discomfited look was not lost on Fay, as thebaby's shrill voice spoke well for his strength of lungs. 

"Oh, hush, hush, " she said, nearly crying herself, and rocking thebaby to and fro feebly. "You spoke so loudly, Hugh, you frightenedhim; he never cries so when we are alone. "

"You will be alone directly if you do not send him away, " was herhusband's impatient answer; "it is not pleasant for a man to bedeafened when he is tired after a long journey. Why, I do believe youare going to cry too, Fay; what is the good of a nurse if you exhaustyourself like this?" And he pulled the bell-rope angrily. 

"Oh, please don't send my baby away, " she implored, in quite a piteousvoice; "he is always with me now, and so good and quiet, only youstartled him so. "

"Nonsense, " he returned, decidedly; "your illness has made youfanciful; surely I must know best what is good for my wife. Nurse, whydo you allow Lady Redmond to wear herself out with a crying child? itcan not be right in her weak state. "

Fay gave up her baby without a word; she was too gentle toremonstrate, but if he could have read her thoughts. "He does not carefor his child at all, " she was saying bitterly to herself; and thenshe was very quiet, and shielded her face with one hand. Sir Hugh wasrather uncomfortable; he knew he had been out of temper, and that hewas disappointing Fay, but he never guessed the stab that he hadinflicted when he had refused to take their boy in his arms. 

"Well, Fay, " he said, in rather a deprecating manner, "I meant to havehad a little talk with you, now that noisy fellow is gone; but youseem sleepy, dear; shall I leave you to rest now, and come up againafter dinner?"

Fay uncovered her eyes and looked at him rather oddly, he thought, butshe made no answer. Hugh rose and looked at his watch, and repeatedhis question. 

"No, " she said, very slowly; "do not trouble to come up again, Hugh. Ican not talk to you to-night; I shall be better quiet. "

"There, I told you so, " he cried, triumphantly. "I knew that littlerascal had tired you. "

"My baby never tires me, " she answered, wearily, and closed her eyes. Oh, if she could only close them forever! But then she remembered howterrible death had seemed to her in her illness--a pit of infinitepain. 

Hugh looked at her a little puzzled; his Wee Wifie was very muchaltered, he thought; and then he kissed her two or three times withsome affection, and went to his dressing-room. 

But when she heard him go down-stairs she rang for the nurse to bringback her baby directly. The woman did not like her excited look, orthe fierce way she almost snatched him to her bosom. 

"You had much better try and get a little sleep, my lady, " she said, kindly; but Fay only shook her head. It was not bed-time yet, shesaid, but she would like to be quiet with her baby for a little. Andwhen nurse had gone to have a chat with Janet, she tottered from thecouch, and knelt down beside it, and laid her helpless arms about herbaby's neck, and wetted the white robe with her tears. 

"It is all over, baby, " she moaned; "he does not care for you or forme either--he only wants Margaret; but you must love your mother, baby, and grow up and comfort her, for she has no one but you to loveher in the whole wide world. "

Lady Redmond had a serious relapse after this, and it was two or threeweeks before she was carried to the couch again. 

 * * * * *

Hugh had not learned his lesson yet. Neither his wife's illness norhis own had taught him wisdom; he was as restless and unreasonable asever. 

He grew very impatient over Fay's prolonged weakness, which heinsisted was due in a great measure to her own fault. If she had notexcited herself so much on the night of his return, she would neverhave had that relapse. It was a very tiresome affair altogether; forhis own health was not thoroughly re-established, and a Londonphysician had recommended him a few months' travel; it was just whathe wanted, and now his trip to Cairo and the Pyramids must beindefinitely postponed. 

He rather obstinately chose to believe that there was a want of willin the matter, and that Fay could throw off her weakness if she liked. Still he was very kind to her in his uncertain way--perhaps becausethe doctors said he must humor her, or she would fade away from themyet. So he told her that she would never get strong while she laymoping herself to death in that little painted bird-cage, as he calledthe blue room; And when she answered listlessly that she could notwalk--which he was at first slow to believe--he used to carry her downto one of the sunniest rooms in the old Hall--into either themorning-room or library--and place her comfortably on her couch withher work and book before he started out for his ride. 

It was a new thing to have those strong arms performing gentle officesfor her. Fay used to thank him gratefully with one of her meek, beautiful looks, but she seldom said anything--his kindness had cometoo late to the poor child, who felt that her heart was slowlybreaking with its hopeless love. For who would be content with themirage when they are thirsting for the pure water? Or who would besatisfied with the meted grain and the measured ounce when they havegiven their all in all?

Those looks used to haunt Hugh as he rode through the Singleton lanes;he used to puzzle over them in an odd ruminative fashion. 

He remembered once that he had been in at the death of a doe--where, or in what country he could not remember; but she had been overtakenwith her fawn, and one of the huntsmen had dispatched her with hisknife. 

Hugh had stood by and shuddered at the dumb look of anguish in thewild deer-eyes, as with a sobbing breath the poor creature breathedits last, its helpless fawn licking its red wounds. Hugh had not beenable to forget that look for a long time; and now it recurred to hismemory, and he could not tell why Fay's eyes reminded him so much ofthe dying doe's--it was an absurd morbid idea. And then he touched hisblack mare a little smartly, and tried to efface the recollection by arousing gallop. But, do what he would, he could not get it out of hismind that his Wee Wifie was sadly altered; she was not the same Faywhose little tripping feet had raced Nero and Pierre along thegalleries with that ringing laugh. This was a tired Fay who rarelyspoke and never laughed--who seemed to care for nothing but her baby. 

Hugh used to tell her so sometimes, with an inexplicable feeling ofjealousy that rather surprised him; but Fay did not understand him. 

"What does it matter for whom I care?" she would say to herself. "Imust love my own baby. " And then she would think bitterly that Hughseemed to like her better now that she had ceased to vex him with herchildish demonstrations. "I am getting very dignified, " she thought, "and very quiet; and I think this pleases him. Do old people feel likethis, I wonder, when all their life is ended, and they have suchfeeble, aching limbs? Ah, no; I do not believe they suffer at all. Butnow I seem as though I can never rest for my longing that Hugh maylove me, and tell me so before I die. " And so she would press on inher sad plaintive little way. 

No wonder Sir Hugh marveled at her, so silent of tongue, so grave oflook--such an altered Wee Wifie; but all the conclusion at which hearrived was that the baby had been too much for her, and that, whenthe summer heat was over, she would grow strong again. And Fay nevercontradicted him. 

And by and by, when the days grew a little cooler, Fay began to creepabout the garden a little, and call herself well. Hugh drove her outonce or twice in her pony-carriage; but she saw he did not like it, and begged him to let her go alone--such reluctant courtesies gave herno pleasure. But presently Erle came for a brief visit, and was herready escort, and after that she really began to mend. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

FAY'S MISTAKE. 

 She loves with love that can not tire, And when, ah, woe! she loves alone Through passionate duty love flames higher As grass grows taller round a stone. 

 COVENTRY PATMORE. 

 Never! 'tis certain that no hope is--none? No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear, The hardest part of my hard task is done; Thy calm assures me that I am not dear. 

 JEAN INGELOW. 

Erle was quite shocked at Fay's changed appearance, but he said verylittle about it. He had an instinctive feeling that the shadow haddeepened, and that Fay was sick at heart; but he only showed hissympathy by an added kindness, and an almost reverential tenderness, and Fay was deeply grateful for his delicacy, for she knew now that, though she had been blind, others had had their eyes open; and she hada morbid fear that every one traced her husband's restlessness anddissatisfaction with his life to the right cause, and knew that shewas an unloved wife. Fay was very proud by nature, though no one wouldhave guessed it from her exceeding gentleness; and this knowledgeadded largely to her pain. But she hid it--she hid it heroically, andno one knew till too late how the young creature had suffered in hersilence. 

Erle and she were better friends than ever; but they did not resumetheir old confidential talks. Erle had grown strangely reticent abouthis own affairs, and spoke little of his _fiancée_ and his approachingmarriage. He knew in his heart that Fay had read him truly, and knewthat his warmest affections had been given to Fern, and he had anuneasy consciousness that she condemned his conduct. 

Fay never told him so; she congratulated him very prettily, and madeone of her old mischievous speeches about "the young lady with the goin her"--but somehow it seemed to fall flat; and she asked him a fewquestions, as in duty bound, about his prospects, and how often he sawMiss Selby, and if he would bring her down to Redmond Hall, one day;"for I mean to be very fond of your wife, Erle, whoever she may be, "she continued; "and I hear from the Trelawneys that Miss Selby--but Imust call her Evelyn now--is very nice indeed, and that you are to becongratulated. "

"She is far too good for me, " returned Erle, with a touch of realfeeling, for his _fiancée's_ unselfish devotion was a daily reproachto him. Could any girl be sweeter or more loving, he thought. 

Fay sighed as she watched him. Erle had changed too, she said toherself; he was nicer, but he had lost his old careless merriment; helooked graver, and a little thin, and there was not always a happylook in his eyes. Fay sometimes feared that the other girl with thefair hair had not been forgotten; she wanted to tell him that shehoped Evelyn knew all about her, but she lacked the courage, andsomehow it was not so easy to talk to Erle this time. 

But there was one subject on which he dilated without reserve, andthat was on Mr. Ferrers's search for Crystal. He was in New York now, he told Fay, with his sister, and he was waiting for furtherintelligence before he followed Miss Davenport. "Miss Traffordcorresponds with him, " he continued, with an effort; "but it seems thetravelers have little time for writing. " But he wondered, as he talkedabout the Ferrers, why Fay changed color so often--he had heard it wasa sign of delicacy. 

"I am tiring you, " he said, hastily; "you are looking quite pale; youwant a change sadly yourself, my Fairy Queen. " And Hugh, entering theroom at that moment, caught at the word and came up quickly to thecouch. 

"Don't you feel so well to-day, pet?" he asked, kindly; "why are youtalking about a change?"

"It was only Erle's nonsense, dear, " she said, hurriedly. She nevercould speak to him without a painful blush, and it always deepened ifhe looked at her long, as he did now. 

"I never saw you look better than you do to-day, " returned herhusband; "she is quite rosy, is she not, Erle? But you are right, anda change will do her and the boy good. I was thinking how you wouldlike to go down to Devonshire, Fay, while I am away?"

"Away?" she said, very quietly; "where are you going, Hugh?"--butthere was no surprise in her face. 

"Oh, you can not forget, " returned Hugh, impatiently, "unless thatbaby puts everything out of your head. Do you not remember that I toldyou that Fitzclarence was coming down this week to arrange about ourtrip to Cairo. "

"No, " she replied, "you never said anything about it, Hugh;" which wasthe truth, for he had never taken the trouble to inform her, thoughMrs. Heron had had orders to prepare a room for the expected guest. 

"Well, well, " rather irritably, "I meant to tell you, but one's memoryis treacherous sometimes. He will be down here about Wednesday orThursday, for in another week we hope to start. "

"Indeed, " returned Fay, in a tired voice, pulling off her baby's shoe;but, to Erle's astonishment, she manifested no emotion. As for SirHugh, he was relieved to find his Wee Wifie was becoming such areasonable woman. Why, he could talk to her quite comfortably withoutfear of a scene. 

"What will you do with yourself, dear, " he continued, briskly. "Don'tyou think it would be the best thing to go down to Daintree and showyour baby to Aunt Griselda?"

"Just as you like, " was the indifferent answer. But Erle interruptedher. 

"How long do you mean to absent yourself from the bosom of yourfamily, Hugh?"

"Oh, two or three months; we can not follow out the route Fitzclarenceproposed under that time--about ten or eleven weeks, I should say. "

"Three months? Well, all I can say is, marriage is not the fetteredstate we bachelors imagine it to be. I had no idea one could get leaveof absence for half that time. I hope my wife will be as accommodatingas Fay. "

There was a concealed sarcasm in Erle's careless speech that jarredupon Hugh, and he answered, angrily:

"I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Erle. Fay has the sense toknow that my health requires complete change, and I shall not be theman I was without it. I ought to have had three months last time, onlyher illness recalled me. But now I can leave her more happily. "

"And you expect to do the trip in eleven weeks with Fitzclarence asthe leader of the expedition. Fitzclarence, so renowned for hispunctuality--so celebrated for never altering a given route at aminute's notice. "

Erle was going too far, and Sir Hugh answered him with decidedimpatience. 

"I did not know Fitzclarence was a friend of yours, Erle; but I neverlisten to the idle gossip one picks up at one's club. I am perfectlysatisfied with his arrangements, and so are the other men--we havetwo other fellows going with us. Fay, my dear, I should like you towrite at once to your aunt, and ask her if she can have you and theboy. The cottage is rather small; do you think you could do withoutJanet, and only take nurse?"

"Oh, yes, " replied Fay, in the same constrained voice; but Erle sawthat she had become very pale. But just then Ellerton entered and toldhis master that some one was waiting to speak to him on business; sothe subject was dropped. 

Erle looked rather wistfully at Fay when they were left alonetogether. "I am afraid you will be very lonely when Hugh goes away, "he said, kindly. "Why need you go to Daintree; you will be dreadfullydull there with only your aunt. I do not see why you should not cometo Belgrave house first, while Mrs. Montague is there. She is a verypleasant woman, Fay; and you could do just as you like, and you wouldsee Evelyn, and I am sure you two would soon be great friends. Docome, Fay; and you can go to Daintree afterward. "

Fay shook her head with a faint, dissenting smile; but she was touchedby his kind thought for her. 

"No, Erle, " she said, decidedly, "it would not do at all. Hugh wouldnot like it. He wishes me to go to Aunt Griselda. "

"What does it matter to him where you go, so long as he is enjoyinghimself, " burst from Erle's impatient lips; her meekness reallyprovoked him. But he regretted the rash speech as soon as it wasuttered, especially when a soft little hand touched his. 

"Hush! Erle, " she said, gently, "you should not speak like that; notto me at least. Do you not know that I have no greater pleasure in theworld than to obey my husband's wishes. No, " she continued, and hereyes grew misty, "I have no other happiness but that--no otherhappiness but that. "

"But Fay, " interrupted Erle, eagerly, "what possible objection couldHugh have to your staying at our house while Mrs. Montague is there?We would wait on you, and watch over you, as though you were a queen. "

"Yes, yes! I know that--you are always so kind to me, Erle; but itwould never do for me to come to Belgrave House. Hugh does not likeMr. Huntingdon. "

"Very few people do, " muttered Erle; "but he has always been a goodfriend to my mother and to me. "

"Yes, I know; and he is your uncle, so of course you make allowancesfor him. But Hugh has told me the story of poor Nea Huntingdon; and, somehow, I feel as though I could never visit at Belgrave House untilyou are master there. "

Erle smiled. "When that day comes, Mrs. Trafford shall reap a goldenharvest after all her hard work. You do not know how I long to helpher, and make life easier for them all. Think of such women living ina place like the Elysian Fields--over that shop too; and yet, if Iwere to take up their cause now, I should only forfeit my own chances, and do no good. So you mean to be obdurate, my Fairy Queen, and notcome to us. "

"No, dear, " she said, quietly, "I could not come. " But she never toldhim that one of her reasons was that she might possibly meet theFerrers there, if they were coming back from America; and she feltjust now as though she could not have borne such an encounter. 

Erle had to go up to London the next day, but the Hon. AlgernonFitzclarence took his place the following evening, and after that Fayhad a miserable time; for all day long Hugh and his guest wereplanning the route for their trip, or talking over previous tours. 

Either Fay's knowledge of geography was very limited or her head gotconfused; but as she listened to them, she felt as though Egypt werethousands of miles away, and as though Hugh would certainly get lostin those trackless deserts, and die of thirst like the poor travelersof whom she had read. It was cruel to leave her for such dangers, shethought. And sometimes she got so nervous that she would make anexcuse and leave the room, that she might not hear any more. And thenshe would wander about the grounds in an aimless way, trying to throwoff the oppression that was growing greater as the days went on. Itwas not that she did not want her husband to leave her. Her lonelinesscould not be greater if he went away--so she believed in herwretchedness; but she was so terrified for him. And she had taken adislike to the Hon. Algernon Fitzclarence. He might be a greattraveler, as Hugh told her, and a very amusing companion, but hismanners were not to her taste. Fay's innocence instinctively tookalarm at the covert admiration conveyed in her guest's looks andwords. He was too much a man of the world to pay her open compliments;and indeed her gentle dignity repelled him; but he made her understandthat he thought his hostess very charming. 

Hugh noticed nothing; he was rather pleased than otherwise that afastidious man like Fitzclarence should admire his little wife. Faywas certainly very pretty, even in her husband's eyes, and she was somuch improved--not half so childish. But it was a relief to Fay whenthe Hon. Algernon departed. Hugh was to join him in town for a day ortwo to procure his outfit, and then come back to the Hall to bid Faygood-bye. It was on the second day after their guest had left RedmondHall that Fay went into her husband's study to dust and arrange hispapers as usual. 

It was a duty she had taken upon herself from the first. Sir Hugh hada masculine horror of what he called servants' interference--he neverallowed them to touch the papers on his writing-table or bureau; andhis strictures on the feminine duster were so severe that no one butMrs. Heron ever ventured even to remove the overflowing wastepaperbaskets. 

But when Fay came to the Hall she assumed the duty as her right, andtook a great pride and pleasure in her task; and Hugh's first maritalpraise was bestowed on the clever little fingers that tidied withoutdisarranging his cherished papers, and after that the work became herdaily pleasure. But this morning there was an unusual amount ofdisorder and confusion. Sir Hugh had sat up late the previous nightsorting and destroying his letters; and not only the baskets but thefloor was heaped with a profusion of torn paper. Fay felt weak andtired, and she went about her work slowly; but she would not ring fora servant to help her; it would be a long time before she tidiedHugh's papers again, she thought. And then her attention was attractedby an unfinished letter lying at the bottom of the _débris_ which shefirst believed had been thrown away by mistake--but on a closerinspection she found it was torn across. But it was in her husband'shandwriting. Fay never knew why the temptation came to her to readthat letter. A sentence had caught her eye, and an intense wishsuddenly seized her to read the whole and know what it meant. Afterward she owned that her fault had been a great one; but she wasto pay dearly for her girlish curiosity. 

It was a mere fragment, and was apparently the concluding portion of along explanatory letter. 

"--And now I have told you all frankly, and however much you maycondemn me, at least you will be sorry for me. 

"For, indeed, I have done all that a man can do, or at least the bestthat is in me, and have only been beaten and humiliated at every turn. I can do no more. My illness has exhausted me, and taken away allstrength of resistance; and though it may seem cowardly to you, I amforced to run away, for my present life is unendurable. Just putyourself in my place, and think what I must suffer. 

"So you must not blame me, dear, if I have come to the conclusion thatthe same place can not hold us both--at least, not for a time. One orother of us must leave; and of course it must be I. The misery of itis too great for my endurance, until I can learn to forget the past;and, as I have told you before, Margaret"--the word lightly scratchedthrough and "I" substituted, only Fay never noticed this--"I think itright to go; and time and absence will help us both. She is so goodand gentle; if she knew all, she would own that this is my duty;but--" here the letter was torn across, and Fay read no more. But asshe stood there her fingers stiffened over the paper, and an icy chillseemed to rob her of all feeling. She thought that letter was writtento Margaret, and now her despair had reached its climax. 

Poor, unhappy Wee Wifie; it was a most fatal mistake. That letter hadbeen written by Hugh one night when he could not sleep, and it wasaddressed to his wife. He had come to the conclusion that he had livedthe life of a hypocrite long enough, and that it would be wiser andmore honest if he unburdened himself of his unhappy secret and toldFay why he thought it better to go way. He had tried to speak to heronce, but she did not seem to understand, and he had grown irritableand impatient; it would be easier to make excuses for himself onpaper. He could tell her truly that he was very fond of her, and thathe wanted to make her happy. "I mean to make you a good husband, " hehad said in a previous portion; "one of these days, if you are patientwith me, you shall be the happiest little woman in the world. "

Hugh never finished this letter; something happened to distract hisattention, and he never found an opportunity of completing it. Thenight before he had read it over, and the beginning had not pleasedhim. "I will write another when I am away, " he said to himself; "I amafraid she will feel herself hurt if she reads this, poor littlething. I have not been sufficiently considerate. " Unfortunately, Fayhad come to a different conclusion. She thought the letter had beenwritten to Margaret, and that the "she" who was mentioned was Hugh'swife. Yes, it was his wife of whom Hugh spoke, when he said the sameplace could not hold them both, and for "place" the unhappy girlsubstituted "house. " Hugh could not remain in the same house with her. "She was good and gentle; if she knew all"--ah! and she did knowall--"she would own that it was his duty; his present life wasunendurable, " and therefore--therefore he was going to Egypt with thatdreadful man who would lead him into danger. "One or other of us mustleave, and of course it must be I. "

"No, no, my bonny Hugh, " she said at last, with a dim smile, as shelifted up her eyes to his portrait; "if one must be sacrificed itshall not be you--no, my dearest, it shall not be you. " And then, inher childish ignorance, she made up her mind that Hugh should not goto Egypt. 

"You are very unhappy, darling, " she went on, pressing the letter inher hands; "you are terribly unhappy because you can not love me andcare for your boy; but you shall not be troubled with us any longer;and, indeed, I could not stop--" and here a flush of shame came to hersweet face--"knowing what I know now. No, baby and I will go, and youshall not leave your beautiful home and get lost in those horribledeserts; you shall stay here and learn to forget all your troubles, and presently you will be happy; and it is I who will go, my dearest. "

And it was for this that she had come back to him through "the Valleyof the Shadow of Death, " bringing her baby with her. 

Some strange feverish power seemed to enter into her and give her afitful strength. She sat down at her husband's desk and began writingrapidly, and as the thoughts came to her; and when she had finished, she inclosed her letter with the torn fragment, and, after addressingit, sealed it carefully. As she did so she heard footsteps approachingthe library, and slipped it hurriedly into the open drawer, and thenext moment Sir Hugh entered with a telegram in his hand. 

"I have been looking all over the place for you, Fay, " he began, hurriedly; "and not a soul seemed to know where you were. Look here; Ihave just had this telegram from Fitz. He wants me to come up to townat once. I believe we have to start earlier than we intended. "

And as Fay seemed to have no answer ready, he went on "I am so vexedabout it, my pet, for I meant to have driven you over to Pierrepointafter luncheon; you looked so pale this morning, and I had to arrangeabout so many things. Well, it can not be helped; Saville is packingmy 'Gladstone, ' and I have not a moment to lose. "

"Do you mean you are going off to Egypt now?" asked Fay, hardly ableto articulate--her lips had grown quite white. What if she should betoo late after all!

"Egypt indeed! What a child you are, Fay; one can never make youunderstand things. No, I am going up to London to get what I want, andmeet Egerton and Powis, the other fellows who are to join us. I shallsleep at the club to-night, and you may expect me to be down to dinnerto-morrow. The next day--" here he hesitated; "well, there is timeenough to talk of saying good-bye then. "

"Yes, yes, I understand now. Go and get ready; and, Hugh, don't forgetto kiss baby. "

"All right, " he laughed good-humoredly; and then Fay stood quitestill, holding the table, till he came back. 

"My traps are in the hall; I must say good-bye quickly, darling. " Howhandsome, how well he looked, as he stooped over her with his plaidover his arm. 

He need not be fearful of her detaining him; there was no clinging, noagony of weeping this time. She put her two hands round his neck andheld him for a moment, as her cold lips touched his, and then stoodquite still and waved to him--sadly, quietly--from the window as hedrove past, and that was all. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

"GOOD-BYE--GOOD-BYE. "

 I never will look more into your face Till God says, "Look!" I charge you, seek me not, Nor vex yourself with lamentable thoughts That peradventure I have come to grief. Be sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at ease, But such a long way, long way, long way off, I think you'll find me sooner in my grave, And that's my choice--observe. 

 E. B. BROWNING. 

Fay had made up her mind to be lost. 

Could any one imagine anything so utterly ignorant and childish, andyet so pathetic? She was going to lay down her wifely rights and stealaway, friendless and unprotected, into the great lonely world, so thatHugh might come back to his old home in peace. 

With the rash impulse of despair--of a despair that hoped nothing andfeared nothing--she was taking the most terrible step that a youngcreature could take. She was doing evil that good might come; she wasgiving up herself in complete renunciation and self-sacrifice inobedience to a miserable and mistaken idea. If she had been older; ifher simplicity of character had been less childish, and her worldlyknowledge greater, she must surely have hesitated before taking a stepthat must anger as well as grieve her husband. How would Sir Hugh'shaughty spirit brook the disgrace of publicity and the nine-days'wonder of the world when they knew that his wife, Lady Redmond--thesuccessor of all the starched and spotless dames who hung in the oldguest-chambers--should so forget herself and him as to tarnish hisreputation by an act so improper and incredible. 

He might forgive his spoiled trip, and all the trouble that awaitedhim in his empty home; but how will he ever bring himself to forgivethat?

But Fay, poor mistaken child, thought of none of these things. Sheonly felt that she must go and take her baby with her. There was notime to be lost, and she must make all her plans very quickly. 

Fay's will was a strong one--there was no fear that she would falterin her purpose; but she never remembered afterward how she carried itout, or from whence came the strange feverish energy that supportedher. She was working in a dream, in a nightmare, in a horribleimpatience to be gone--to be gone--where? But even this question wasanswered before many hours were over, for she was to make her poorlittle plans with the utmost precision. In the quiet evening time, asshe paced restlessly through the empty rooms, she thought of a placeof refuge where she might rest safely for a little. The moment thecarriage had turned the corner, and she could see it no longer, shehad taken the letter from the drawer and laid it on the table. 

Such an innocent, pitiful little letter it was. 

 "Darling Hugh, " it began, "do not be angry with me when you come back to-morrow and find your Wee Wifie has gone. What could I do--how could I stay any longer after reading your own words? Indeed, I think I could have borne anything but this. No, this one thing I could not bear--that you should leave your home and country to free yourself and me. 

 "'You must go, ' you say; 'of course it must be you. ' Darling, do you not know me better than that?

 "I felt you could not love me, Hugh; but have I ever blamed you in my heart? I was too childish and young for such a man as you. Why did you marry me, dear?--that was a great mistake. But perhaps you saw I liked you. 

 "I tried so hard to please you, but somehow I always failed. And then the baby came--our baby--and you did not care for him; and then, indeed, I thought my heart would break. I wonder if you know how I have loved you? I was not too young for that, though you thought I was. I never lay down to sleep without praying God to bless my dear husband, and sometimes--was it very childish of me, I wonder?--I put baby's hands together and made believe he was praying too. 

 "I think if you knew what I suffered, when they thought I was dying, and the angels would not come for me; I think--yes, I do think, Hugh--you would have been sorry for me then. 

 "Good-bye, my darling--I shall never call you that again, for I am going away forever. You must not trouble about me, for I shall take great care of myself, and after a time I shall not fret so much. I shall take my baby--he can not do without me, and I love him so. When he is older I will send him back to you. He is so like you, dear--a Redmond all over--and his eyes will remind me of you. 

 "I shall say good-bye to you very quietly. When I try to speak there is a dreadful lump in my throat that seems to choke me; and I feel as though I could blush with shame for being so little and insignificant in your eyes. You are like a king to me, Hugh; so grand, and noble, and proud. Oh, what made you marry me? You did wrong there, darling, did you not?

 "Good-bye, good-bye. I shall be quite lost. Do not look for me; only give me a thought now and then--one kind and gentle thought of your Wee Wifie. "

She read through the letter dry-eyed, and kissed it, and laid it onthe table. It would touch his hands, she thought. Later on sheunsealed it, and added a short postscript. "Do not be anxious, " itsaid; "I am going to some kind people who will be good to me and theboy. "

She had placed the letter where Hugh would see it at once, and thenshe went upstairs. She wanted to have her baby in her arms, that itstouch might lull the deadly faintness at her heart; and when she felta little better she sent for Mrs. Heron and Janet. 

Sir Hugh had gone off to London, she told them; they had telegraphedfor him, and she was to follow him immediately. She would take herluggage with her, of course, for she did not intend to return to theHall before going down into Devonshire; but they would see Sir Hughagain for a few hours--he would probably run up the following eveningto give his final orders. 

And would she be long away? asked Mrs. Heron. She thought my ladylooked very ill, and required a thorough change. 

"Yes, " returned Fay, quickly; but she turned away as she spoke. Sheshould most certainly be away all the time Sir Hugh was in Egypt. Janet must set to work at once, for they would have to start early. And then she explained that the cottage at Daintree was very small, and that Sir Hugh had begged her to dispense with Janet's services, and only take nurse. 

Janet looked very disappointed when Fay said this, for she adored hergentle little mistress. "I don't know what master is thinking about, "she grumbled, in confidence, to Mrs. Heron. "This new nurse has onlybeen here six weeks, and does not know my lady's ways. And who willwait upon her, I should like to know, if I am to be left behind? butit is all of a piece with his selfishness. " But she worked with a willfor all that, and all the time her boxes were being packed, Faywandered about with her baby on her arm collecting her littletreasures, and dropping them in the boxes as she passed. Now it was abook Hugh had given her, or a picture, or the withered flower he hadworn in his button-hole; an odd glove he had left on hisdressing-table, and which she clutched with the greediness of a miser;and even a silk handkerchief he had worn round his neck--she put themall in. Such a strange little assortment of odds and ends. Janetthought she was daft. 

And she would have none of her evening dresses packed up, or indeedany of her costly ones--she would not require them in the country, shesaid, quietly; but she would have all her jewels--not those Hugh hadgiven her, or the old family jewels that had been reset for her, butthose that had belonged to her mother, and were exceedingly valuable;there was a pearl necklace that was worth five hundred pounds. Hughhad drawn out a large sum of money that he had given in charge toher--he meant to have left it for domestic expenses while he was away. Fay wrote out a receipt, and put it with her letter. It would be noharm to keep it, she thought; Hugh could help himself to her money. There would be enough to keep her and the boy for more than a year, and after that she could sell her necklace. She was rich, but how wasshe to draw any more money without being traced to her hiding-place?

The last act before the daylight closed was to go to the stables andbid Bonnie Bess good-bye. The groom, who knew that he was to follow ina few days with Bonnie Bess and another horse--for Sir Hugh had beenvery mindful of his wife's comfort--was rather surprised to see herkissing the mare's glossy neck, as though she could not bear to partwith her; when she had left the stables, Nero, who had followed herabout all day with a dog's instinctive dread of some impending change, looked up in her face wistfully. 

"Do you want to come with me, Nero?" she asked, sadly; "poor fellow, you will fret yourself to death without me. Yes, you shall come withme; we will go to Rowan-Glen together. "

For all at once the thought had come to her of a beautiful spot in theHighlands where she and her father had stayed many years ago. If sheremained in England, Hugh would find her, and she had a dread of goingabroad. Besides, what could she do with baby, for of course she mustleave nurse behind; she would have to engage a stranger who did notknow she was Lady Redmond. And then she bethought herself that shewould call herself by her husband's second name, St. Clair--she wouldbe Mrs. St. Clair. 

Yes, she and her father had had a very happy time at Rowan-Glen. Theyhad been to Edinburgh, and to the Western Highlands, and had then madetheir way to Aberdeen, as Colonel Mordaunt had some old Indian friendsthere; and, as they had still some weeks to spare, they had come downto the Deeside, and had fallen in love with Rowan-Glen. 

But they could not obtain a lodging in one of the cottages, so theManse opened its hospitable doors to them. The minister, Mr. Duncan, was old, and so was his wife, and they had no children; so, as therewas room and to spare, and their income was somewhat scanty, the goodold people were quite willing to take in Colonel Mordaunt and hislittle daughter. Fay had forgotten their existence until now; but sheremembered how kind Mrs. Duncan had been to her; and she thought shewould go to her, and tell her that she was married, and very unhappy, and then she would let her and baby stop there quietly in the old grayhouse. 

Nobody ever came there, for they were quiet folk, and Mr. Duncan wasan invalid; and there was a dear old room, looking out on theold-fashioned garden, where her father had slept, that would just dofor her and baby. 

Fay had a vague sort of feeling that her strength would not last verylong, and that by and by she would want to be cared for as well asbaby. Her poor brain was getting confused, and she could notsleep--there was so much to plan before the next day. 

Ah, what a night that was. If it had not been for the soft breathingof her infant in the darkness, Fay must have screamed out in herhorror, as thoughts of the desolate future came over her; and yet itwas easier for her to go away than to stay on at the Hall an unlovedwife--a millstone round her husband's neck. 

When Janet called her at the proper time, she found her up and dressedand beginning her baby's toilet. 

"Here, Janet, " she said, with an unsteady laugh, "I don't think I amputting on baby's things very nicely, but I wanted to try, so nurselet me; but he cries so that he confused my head. " And then she gavehim up and went wandering through the rooms, saying a silent good-byeto everything; and last of all she went into her husband's library. 

Ellerton found her there when he summoned her to breakfast. She wouldcome in a minute, she said, quietly; she was only arranging Sir Hugh'spapers as he liked to have them. Yes, she knew the carriage would beround directly; but Ellerton need not fear that she would be late. Andthen, when the old servant had closed the door, she went up to herhusband's chair, leaning over it and embracing it with her two arms, while she rested her cheek against the carved ebony back. "This iswhere he will sit this evening, " she said. "Good-bye, God bless you, dear;" and then she left the room. 

But she would eat nothing, and only asked for her baby. But justbefore she got into the carriage she called Mrs. Heron to her, andbade her take care of the aged people at the Pierrepoint almshouses, and see they had their little packets of tea and grocery as usual; andthen she shook hands with her and Ellerton. 

"Good-bye to you all, " faltered the poor child, hurriedly. "You havebeen good friends to me, all of you. Good-bye--good-bye;" and then shedrew her veil over her face, and leaned back in the carriage, whileNero licked her little ungloved hand. 

Sir Hugh had sworn to love and cherish her until death, and yet he hadbrought her to this. 

The journey was a very short one; but nurse afterward remembered thatLady Redmond did not appear surprised, when they arrived at Euston, tofind that Sir Hugh was not waiting at the station. "What are we to do, my lady?" she asked, rather helplessly, for she was young and acountry woman, and the din and bustle were overwhelming to her; butFay was helping to identify her luggage, and did not answer. She toldnurse to go into the waiting-room with baby, and she would come to herpresently. And then she had her luggage put on to a cab. 

"Nurse, " she said, quickly, when she came back a few minutesafterward, "will you give me baby a moment, and go to therefreshment-room--it is just a little way down the station. I shouldlike some sandwiches and sponge-cakes, and perhaps you had better getsomething for yourself, there is plenty of time;" and the woman obeyedher at once. Her lady looked faint, she thought; most likely she wasdisappointed that Sir Hugh was not there. 

As soon as she had left the waiting-room, Fay went up to the person incharge, and asked her to give a sealed note to her nurse when she cameback. "You remember her--the young woman with reddish hair who heldbaby just now; tell her I have gone to look after the luggage, and askher to read it. " And though the woman thought the request a littlestrange, she took the sealed packet without demur. 

As Fay and Nero went outside the station, the porter who had loadedthe cab was standing a little way off, Fay told the cabman hastily todrive off to King's Cross, as she wanted to take the Scotch express;and as the porter came up to claim his gratuity he found the cabdriving off, but Fay flung him a shilling. By a strange fatality thecabman who drove them met with an accident that very day, from theconsequences of which he died in two or three weeks' time; and thisone thing checked all clew. When the inquiries were set afloat, theporter certainly remembered the little lady and baby and the big blackdog, but he had not heard her instructions to the cabman. 

Fay only took her ticket to York; she dared not go straight to herdestination. When she arrived there she would not put up at thestation hotel, but had herself driven to a quiet little hotel for thenight. It was an unpretending place, kept by very honest folk; but Fayfound herself very comfortable. She made some excuse about notbringing her nurse, and the chamber-maid helped her undress baby. Shewas almost too stupefied with grief and fatigue by this time to doanything but sleep helplessly; but she made the girl promise to callher early, and ordered a fly to the station; and when the morning cameshe got into it without telling any one where she was going, and tookthe midday train for Edinburgh. It would be impossible to describe thenurse's feelings when she opened the packet in the waiting-room andread her mistress's note. "Dear nurse, " it said, "I am really verysorry to treat you so badly, but I can not help it. I have gone awaywith baby, and I could not take you. Please go back to Singleton bythe next train; you will find your box on the platform, and the porterwill help you. Sir Hugh will tell you what to do when he arrives thisevening. --Your affectionate mistress, F. Redmond. " And inclosed weretwo months' wages. In spite of her youth, Fay had excellent businesscapabilities, only her husband had never found them out. 

But unfortunately for the bewildered household at Redmond Hall, SirHugh never arrived that evening. First came a hazy telegram, informingthem of a change of programme, and later on a special messenger camedown from him bringing a letter from Sir Hugh--a very affectionatefarewell letter. 

Fitzclarence had acted on impulse as usual, and he and Sir Hugh hadstarted that very night, leaving Powis and Egerton to follow them. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE MANSE AT ROWAN-GLEN. 

 Weary I am, and all so fair, Longing to clasp a hand; For thou art very far, sweet love, From my mountain land. 

 Dear are the clouds yon giant bens Fold o'er their rugged breasts, Grandly their straggling skirts lift up Over the snow-flecked crests. 

 Dear are the hill-side glooms and gleams, Their varied purple hue, This opal sky, with distant peak Catching its tender blue. 

 Dear are the thousand streams that sing Down to the sunny sea, But dearer to my longing heart Were one bright hour with thee. 

 HELEN MARION BURNSIDE. 

It was toward evening, at the close of a lovely September day, that arough equipage laden with luggage, with a black retriever gambolingjoyously beside it, crept rather slowly down the long lovely road bythe Deeside leading to Rowan-Glen, one of those rare gems of Highlandscenery that are set so ruggedly in the Cairngorm Mountains. 

Fay had just sheltered her sleeping baby from the rays of the settingsun; and sat wearily in the jolting carriage, trying to recall all thefamiliar landmarks that greeted her eyes. 

There were the grounds and preserves of Moncrieff, with their lovelyfringes of dark pine-trees and silvery birches, and a little furtheron the wicket gate that led down to the falls or linn of Rowan-Glen. 

By and by came a few low cottages built of graystone, and thatchedwith heather fastened down with a rough network of ropes. One or twoof them were covered with honeysuckle and clematis, and had tinygardens filled with vegetables and flowers, pinks and roses minglingin friendly confusion with gooseberry bushes and cabbages. 

A narrow planked passage ran through the cottages, with a door at theother end opening on to a small field, with the usual cow-house, peatand straw stacks, and a little shed inhabited by a few scraggy cocksand hens which, with "ta coo" herself, are the household property ofall, even the poorest, of the Highland peasants. 

Fay looked eagerly past them, and for a moment forgot her trouble andweariness; for there, in the distance, as they turned the corner, stretched the long irregular range of the Cairngorm Mountains, withthe dark shadow of the Forest of Mar at their base; while to theright, far above the lesser and more fertile hills, rose the snowyheads of those stately patriarchs--Ben-muich-dhui and Ben-na-bourd. Oh, those glorious Highland mountains, with their rugged peaks, against which the fretted clouds "get wrecked and go to pieces. " Whata glory, what a miracle they are! On sunny mornings with theirinfinity of wondrous color so softly, so harmoniously blended; nowchanging like an opal with every cloud that sails over them, and nowwith deep violet shadows haunting their hollows, sunny breaks andnecks, and long glowing stretches of heather. Well has Jean Ingelowsung of them:

 ". . . White raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder rents and scars, And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them;"

for surely there could not be a grander or fairer scene on God's earththan this. 

A moment later the vehicle stopped before a white gate set in a hedgeof tall laurels and arbutus, and the driver got down and came round tothe window. "Yonder's t' Manse. Will I carry in the boxes for theleddy?"

"No, no, wait a moment, " replied Fay, hurriedly. "I must see if Mrs. Duncan be at home. Will you help me out?" for her limbs were tremblingunder her, and the weight of the baby was too much for her exhaustedstrength. She felt as though she could never get to the end of thesteep little garden, or reach the stone porch. Yes; it was the sameold gray house she remembered, with the small diamond-paned windowstwinkling in the sunshine; and as she toiled up the narrow path, withNero barking delightedly round her, the door opened, and a little oldlady with a white hood drawn over her white curls, and a gardeningbasket on her arm, stepped out into the porch. 

Fay gave a little cry when she saw her. "Oh, Mrs. Duncan, " she said;and she and the baby together seemed to totter and collapse in thelittle old lady's arms. 

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed the startled woman; then, as her basketand scissors rolled to the ground, "Jean, lass, where are you? hereare two bairns, and one of them looks fit to faint--ay, why, it isnever our dear little Miss Mordaunt? Why, my bairn--" But at thismoment a red-haired, freckled woman, with a pleasant, weather-beatenface, quietly lifted the mother and child, and carried them into adusky little parlor; and in another minute Fay found herself lying ona couch, and her baby crying lustily in Jean's arms, while the littleold lady was bathing her face with some cold, fragrant water, with thetears rolling down her cheeks. 

"Ay, my bonnie woman, " she said, "you have given Jean and me a turn;and there's the big doggie, too, that would be after licking yourface--and for all he knows you are better now--like a Christian. Runaway, Jean, and warm a sup of milk for the bairn, and may be hismother would like a cup of tea and a freshly baked scone. There giveme the baby, and I'll hold him while you are gone. "

"There's Andrew bringing in a heap of boxes, " observed Jean, stolidly;"will he be setting them down in the porch? for we must not wake theminister. "

"Ay, ay, " returned Mrs. Duncan, in a bewildered tone; but she hardlytook in the sense of Jean's speech--she was rocking the baby in herold arms and looking at the pretty, white, sunken face that lay on thechintz cushion. Of course it was little Miss Mordaunt, but what did itmean--what could it all mean?

"Mrs. Duncan, " whispered Fay, as she raised herself on her pillow, "Ihave come to you because I am so unhappy, and I have no other friend. I am married, and this is my baby, and my husband does not want me, and indeed it would have killed me to stop with him, and I have cometo you, and he must not find me, and you must take care of baby andme, " and here her tears burst out, and she clung round the old lady'sneck. "I have money, and I can pay the minister; and I am so fond ofyou both--do let me stay. "

"Whisht, whisht, my dearie, " returned Mrs. Duncan, wiping her own eyesand Fay's. "Of course you shall bide with me; would either Donald or Iturn out the shorn lamb to face the tempest? Married, my bairn; why, you look only fit for a cot yourself; and with a bairn of your own, too. And to think that any man could ill-use a creature like that, "half to herself; but Fay drooped her head as she heard her. Mrs. Duncan thought Hugh was cruel to her, and that she had fled from hisill-treatment, and she dare not contradict this notion. 

"You must never speak to me of my husband, " continued Fay, with anagitation that still further misled Mrs. Duncan. "I should have diedif I had stopped with him; but I ran away, and I knew he would neverfind me here. I have money enough--ah, plenty--so you will not be putto expense. You may take care of my purse; and I have more--a greatdeal more;" and Fay held out to the dazzled eyes of the old lady apurse full of bank-notes and glittering gold pieces, which seemedriches itself to her Highland simplicity. 

"Ay, and just look at the diamonds and emeralds on your fingers, mydearie; your man must have plenty of this world's goods. What do theycall him, my bairn, and where does he live?" But Fay skillfully fencedthese questions. She called herself Mrs. St. Clair, she said, and herhusband was a landed proprietor, and lived in one of the midlandcounties in England; and then she turned Mrs. Duncan's attention byasking if she and baby might have the room her father slept in. ThenJean brought in the tea and buttered scones, and the milk for thebaby; and while Mrs. Duncan fed him, she told Fay about her owntrouble. 

For the kind, white-headed minister, whom Fay remembered, was lyingnow in his last illness; he had had two strokes of paralysis, and thethird would carry him off, the doctor said. 

"One blessing is, my Donald does not suffer, " continued Mrs. Duncan, with a quiver of her lip; "he is quite helpless, poor man, and can notstir himself, and Jean lifts him up as though he were a baby; but hesleeps most of his time, and when he is awake he never troubles--hejust talks about the old time, when he brought me first to the Manse;and sometimes he fancies Robbie and Elsie are pulling flowers in thegarden--and no doubt they are, the darlings, only it is in the gardenof Paradise; and may be there are plenty of roses and lilies there, such as Solomon talked about in the Canticles. "

"And who takes the duty for Mr. Duncan?" asked Fay, who was muchdistressed to hear this account of her kind old friend. 

"Well, our nephew, Fergus, rides over from Corrie to take the servicesfor the Sabbath. He is to be wedded to Lilian Graham, down at the farmyonder, and sometimes he puts up at the Manse and sometimes at thefarm; and they do say, when my Donald has gone to the land of theleal, that Fergus will come to the Manse; for though he is young he isa powerful preacher, and even Saint Paul bids Timothy to 'let no onedespise his youth;' but I am wearying you, my bairn, and Jean haskindled a fire in the pink room, for the nights are chilly, and youand me will be going up, and leaving the big doggie to take care ofhimself. "

But "the big doggie" was of a different opinion; he quite approved ofhis hostess, but it was against his principles to allow his mistressto go out of his sight. Things were on a different footing now; and, ever since they had left Redmond Hall, Nero considered himselfresponsible for the safety of his two charges; so he quietly followedthem into the pleasant low-ceiled bedroom, with its window lookingover the old-fashioned garden and orchard, and laid himself down withhis nose between his paws, watching Jean fill the baby's bath, to theedification of the two women. 

Jean helped Fay unpack a few necessary articles, and then she wentdown to warm the porridge for her master's supper; but Mrs. Duncanpinned up her gray stuff gown, and sat down by the fire to undress thebaby, while Fay languidly got ready for bed. 

It was well that the mother and child had fallen into the hands ofthese good Samaritans. In spite of her wretchedness and the strangeweight that lay so heavy on her young heart, a sort of hazy comfortstole over Fay as she lay between the coarse lavender-scented sheets, and listened to her baby's cooes as he stretched his little limbs inthe warm fire-light. 

"Ay, he is as fine and hearty as our Robbie was, " observed Mrs. Duncan, with a sigh; and so she prattled on, now praising the baby'sbeauty, and now commenting on the fineness of his cambric shirts, andthe value of the lace that trimmed his night-dress, until Fay fellasleep, and thought she was listening to a little brook that hadoverflowed its banks, and was running down a stony hill-side. 

She hardly woke up when Mrs. Duncan placed the baby in her arms, andleft them with a murmured benediction, and went down for a gossip withJean. "And a lovelier sight my old eyes never saw, " she said, "thanthat young creature, who looks only a child herself, with the bonnieboy in her arms, and her golden-brown hair covering them both. 'Deed, Jean, the man must have an evil spirit in him to ill-treat a littleangel like that. But we will keep her safe, my woman, as sure as myname is Jeanie Duncan;" and to this Jean agreed. They were bothinnocent unsophisticated women who knew nothing of the world's ways, and as Mrs. Duncan had said, "they would as soon have turned a shornlamb away, and left it exposed to the tempest, " as shut their dooragainst Fay and her child. 

Fay was not able to rise from the bed the next day; indeed for morethan a week she was almost as helpless as a baby, and had to submit toa great deal of nursing. 

Mrs. Duncan was quite in her element--petting her guest, and orderingJean about; for she was a brisk, bustling little woman, and far moreactive than her three-score and ten years warranted. 

It was a delight to her motherly nature to dress and undress Fay'sbonny boy. She would prose for hours about Robbie and Elsie as she satbeside the homely cradle that had once held her own children, whileFay listened languidly. It was all she could do to lie there and sleepand eat. Perhaps it was bodily exhaustion, but a sort of lull had cometo her. She ceased to fret, and only wondered dreamily if Hugh werevery pleased to get rid of her, and what he was doing, and who dustedand arranged his papers for him now she was no longer there. But ofcourse Mrs. Heron would see to that. 

Jean had plenty of work on her hands, but she never grumbled. Therewas the baby's washing and extra cooking, and the care of her oldmaster. But in spite of her hard work, she often contrived to find herway to the pink room; for Jean worshiped babies, and it was a proudmoment when she could get the boy in her arms and carry him out for abreath of air. 

Mrs. Duncan told Fay that she had had great difficulty in making herhusband understand the facts of the case. "His brain was just a weebit clouded to every-day matters, " she said; but he knew that he hadguests at the Manse, and had charged his wife to show everyhospitality. 

"There is a deal said about the virtue of hospitality in the Bible, "he continued. "There was Abraham and the fatted calf; and the goodwidows in the apostles' time who washed the feet of strangers; andsome have entertained angels unaware; and it shall never be said ofus, Jeanie woman, that we turned anybody from the Manse. "

Fay went to see the old man when she was strong enough to leave herroom, which was not for a fortnight after her arrival. 

She found him lying on one side of the big bed with brown moreenhangings that she remembered so well, with his white head pillowedhigh, and his fine old face turned to the setting sun. 

He looked at her with a placid smile as she stood beside him--a smallgirlish figure, now sadly frail and drooping, with her boy in herarms--and held out his left hand--the right arm was helpless. 

"Mother and child, " he murmured; "it is always before our eyes, theDivine picture; and old and young, it touches the manhood within us. So you have come to bide a wee with Jeanie and me in the old Manse, mydear young lady; ay, and you are kindly welcome. And folks do say thatthere is no air so fine as ours, and no milk so pure as our brindledcow gives, and may be it will give you a little color into yourcheeks. "

"Don't you remember me, Mr. Duncan?" asked Fay, somewhat disappointedto find herself treated like an ordinary visitor. "Don't you rememberFay Mordaunt, the little girl who used to play with you in theorchard? but I am afraid I was older than I looked. "

"Elsie used to play with me in the orchard, " replied the old man, wistfully; "but Jeanie says she has gone to Heaven with wee Robbie. Nay, I never remember names, except Jeanie--and may be Jean comeshandy. And there is one I never forget--the name of my Lord Jesus;"and he bowed his old head reverently. 

"Come away, my bairn; Donald will have plenty to say to you anothertime, " said Mrs. Duncan, kindly. "He is a bit drowsy now, and he isapt to wander at such times. " But the minister heard her, and a sortof holy smile lit up his rugged face. 

"Ay, but He'll not let me wander far; I have always got a grip of Hishand, and if my old feet stumble a bit I'm just lifted up. No, I couldnot forget His name, which is just Love, and nothing else. But perhapsyou are right, Jennie, lass, and I am a bit sleepy. Take both thebairns away, and watch over them as though they were lambs of thefold--and so they are lambs of His fold, " finished the old man. "Andmay be the Shepherd found them straying, poor bit creatures, and sentthem here for you and me to mind, my woman. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

TRACKED AT LAST. 

 Thus it was granted me To know that he loved me to the depth and height Of such large natures; ever competent, With grand horizons by the sea or land, To love's grand sunrise. 

 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

It was at the close of a lovely September day that Raby Ferrers satalone in the piazza of a large fashionable boarding-house in W----. This favorite American watering-place was, as usual, thronged byvisitors, who came either to seek relief for various ailments from thefar-famed hot springs, or to enjoy the salubrious air and splendidscenery that made W---- so notorious. 

The piazza was always the favorite lounge at all hours of the day, butespecially toward evening. A handsome striped awning, and the naturalshade of the splendid tropical plants that twined round the slenderpillars, gave a pleasant shade even at noonday. Broad low steps led tothe gardens, and deck-chairs and cushioned rocking-chairs were placedinvitingly at intervals. 

A gay bevy of girls had just taken possession of these coveted seats, and were chattering with the young men who had just followed them outof the hot dining-room; but no one invaded the quiet corner where theEnglish clergyman had established himself, though many a pair oflaughing eyes grew a little sad and wistful when they rested on thegrave, abstracted face of the blind man. 

"He looks so dull, " observed one girl--a fair delicate blonde, who wasevidently the belle, for she was surrounded by at least half a dozenyoung men. "I have half a mind to go and speak to him myself, only youwould all be watching me. "

"Miss Bellagrove can not fail to be the cynosure of all eyes, "returned a beardless dapper young man with the unmistakable Yankeeaccent; but to this remark Miss Bellagrove merely turned a coldshoulder. 

"His sister has been away most of the afternoon, " she continued, addressing a good-looking young officer who held her fan. "It was soclever of you to find out that she was his sister, Captain Maudsley. Ihad quite made up my mind they were married; yes, of course, every onemust notice the likeness between them, but then they might have beencousins, and she does seem so devoted to him. " But here a whisperedadmonition in her ear made Miss Bellagrove break off her sentencerather abruptly, as at that moment Miss Ferrers's tall figure, in theusual gray gown, was seen crossing one of the little lawns toward thepiazza. 

"She is wonderfully distinguished looking, " was Miss Bellagrove's nextremark. "Most Englishwoman are tall, I do believe; don't you think herface beautiful, Captain Maudsley?" but the reply to this made MissBellagrove change color very prettily. Raby was profoundly obliviousof the interest he was exciting; he was wondering what had detainedMargaret all these hours, and if she would have any news to bring him. 

As yet their journey had been fruitless. They had reached New Yorkjust as Miss Campion and her companion had quitted it; they hadfollowed on their track--but had always arrived either a day or anhour too late. Now and then they had to wait until a letter from Ferngave them more decided particulars. Occasionally they made a mistake, and found that Miss Campion had changed her plans. Once they were inthe same train, and Margaret never found it out until she saw Crystalleave the carriage, and then there was no time to follow her. Margaretshed tears of disappointment, and blamed herself for her ownblindness; but Raby never reproached her. 

He was growing heart-sick and weary by this time. They had spent sixweeks in this search, and were as far from success as ever--no wonderRaby's face looked grave and overcast as he sat alone in the piazza. Even Margaret's protracted absence raised no sanguine expectation inhis mind; on the contrary, as his practiced ear recognized herfootstep, he breathed a short prayer for patience. 

"Dear Raby, " she said, softly, as she took a seat beside him andunfastened the clasps of her long cloak; "I have been away a longertime than usual; have you been wanting me?"

"Oh, no, " with a faint smile; "Fergusson took care of me at dinner, and I had a pleasant American widow on the other side, who amused mevery much--she told me some capital stories about the Canadiansettlers; so, on the whole, I did very well. I begin to like Fergussonimmensely; he is a little broad, but still very sensible in his views. He comes from Cumberland, he tells me, and has rather a large cure ofsouls. "

"Yes, dear"--but Margaret spoke absently--"but you do not ask me whatI have been doing, Raby. "

"No"--very slowly; and then, with a touch of sadness: "I begin tothink it is better not to ask. "

"Poor fellow"--laying her hand on his arm caressingly. "Yes, Iunderstand you are beginning to lose hope. What did I tell you lastnight--that it is always the darkest the hour before dawn. Do youremember how fond Crystal was of that song? Well, it is true, Raby; Ihave been stopping away for some purpose this afternoon. Crystal andMiss Campion are here. "

"Here!" and at Raby's exclamation more than one head turned in thedirection of the brother and sister. 

"Yes, in W----. Do not speak so loud, Raby; you are making people lookat us. Take my arm, and we will go into the shrubberies; no one willdisturb us there. " And as she guided him down the steps, and thencrossed a secluded lawn, Raby did not speak again until the scent ofthe flowering shrubs told him they had entered one of the quiet pathsleading away from the house. 

"Now, tell me, Maggie, " he said, quickly; and Margaret obeyed at once. 

"I was at the station, as we planned, and saw them arrive; so for oncethe information was correct. Crystal got out first, and went in searchof the luggage. I concealed myself behind a bale of goods--wool-packs, I believe--and she passed me quite closely; I could have touched herwith my hand. She looked very well, only thinner, and I think older;it struck me she had grown, too, for she certainly looked taller. "

"It is possible; and you really saw her face, Margaret?"

"Yes; she was looking away. She is as beautiful as ever, Raby. Nowonder people stare at her so. She is as much like your ideal Estheras she used to be, only there is a grander look about heraltogether--less like the girl, and more of the woman. "

"Ah, she has suffered so; we have all aged, Maggie. She will think usboth changed. "

Margaret suppressed a sigh--she was almost thankful that Raby's blindeyes could not see the difference in her. He was quite unconsciousthat her youthful bloom had faded, and that her fair face had asettled, matured look that seldom comes before middle age; and she wasglad that this was so. Neither of them spoke now of the strange blightthat had passed over her young life. Margaret had long ceased to weepover it; it was her cross, she said, and she had learned its weight bythis time. 

"Well, Margaret?" for she had paused for a moment. 

"I did not dare to leave my place of concealment until she had passed. I saw Miss Campion join her. She is a pleasant, brisk-looking womanwith gray hair, and rather a young face. I followed them out of thestation, and heard them order the driver to bring them here. "

"Here! To this house, Margaret?"

"Yes--wait a moment--but of course I knew what Mrs. O'Brien wouldsay--that there was no room; so I did not trouble to follow them veryclosely; in fact, I knew it would be useless; when I did arrive I wentstraight to Mrs. O'Brien's parlor, and asked if she had managed toaccommodate the two ladies. 

"'I did not know they were friends of yours, Miss Ferrers, ' she said, regretfully. 'But what could I do? There is not a vacant bed in thehouse, and I knew the hotel would be just as full; so I sent them downto Mrs. Maddox, at the corner house, down yonder--it is only astone's-throw from here. And, as I told the ladies, they can join usat luncheon and dinner, and make use of the drawing-room. I knew Mrs. Maddox had her two best bedrooms and the front parlor empty. ' Ofcourse I thanked Mrs. O'Brien, and said no doubt this would doexcellently for our friends; and then I walked past the corner houseand found they were carrying in the luggage, and Miss Campion wasstanding at the door talking to a colored servant. "

"You actually passed the house? Oh, Margaret, how imprudent. SupposingCrystal had seen you from the window?"

"Oh, my cloak and veil disguised me; besides, there is a long strip ofgarden between the house and the road. I could hardly distinguishCrystal, though I could see there was some one in the parlor. And now, what are we to do, Raby? It will never do to risk a meeting at _tabled'hôte_; in a crowded room, Crystal might see us, and make her escapebefore I could manage to intercept her; and yet, how are we to intrudeon Miss Campion? it will be dreadfully awkward for us all. "

"I must think over it, " he answered, quickly. "It is growing dark now, Margaret, is it not?"

"Yes, dear, do you feel chilly--shall we go in?"

"No, I want you to take me further; there is a gate leading to theroad, is there not? I should like to go past the house; it will makeit seem more real, Maggie, and you shall describe exactly how it issituated. "

Margaret complied at once--not for worlds would she have hinted thatshe was already nearly spent with fatigue and want of food. Cathy, thebright little mulatto chamber-maid, would get her a cup of tea and asandwich presently. Raby's lover-like wish must be indulged; he wantedto pass the house that held his treasure. 

It was bright moonlight by this time, and the piazza had been longdeserted. The shadows were dark under the avenue, for the road wasthickly planted with trees. Just as they were nearing the cornerhouse--a low, white building, with a veranda running roundit--Margaret drew Raby somewhat hastily behind a tall maple, for herkeen eyes had caught sight of two figures standing by the gate. As themoon emerged from behind a cloud, she saw Crystal plainly; MissCampion was beside her with a black veil thrown over her gray hair. 

Margaret's whispered "hush!" was a sufficient hint to Raby, and hestood motionless. The next moment the voice that was dearer to himthan any other sounded close beside him--at least it seemed so in theclear, resonant atmosphere. 

"What a delicious night; how white that patch of moonlighted roadlooks where the trees do not cast their shadows so heavily. I likethis quiet road. I am quite glad the boarding-house was full; I thinkthe cottage is much cozier. "

"Cozier, yes, " laughed the other; "but that is a speech that ought tohave come out of my middle-aged lips. What an odd girl you are, Crystal; you never seem to care for mixing with young people; and yetit is only natural at your age. You are a terrible misanthrope. I dobelieve you would rather not dine at the _table d'hôte_, only you areashamed to say so. "

"I have no right to inflict my misanthropy on you, dear Miss Campion;as it is, you are far too indulgent to my morose moods. "

"Morose fiddlesticks, " was the energetic reply. "But, there, I do likeyoung people to enjoy themselves like young people. Why, if I had youryouth and good looks; well"--with a change of tone sufficientlyexplicit--"it is no use trying to make you conceited; and yet thathandsome young American--wasn't he a colonel?--tried to make himselfas pleasant as he could. "

"Did he?" was the somewhat indifferent answer; at which Miss Campionshook her head in an exasperated way. 

"Oh, it is no use talking to you, " with good-natured impatience. "English or American, old, ugly, or handsome, they are all the same toyou; and of course, by the natural laws of contradiction, the absurdcreatures are all bent on making you fall in love with them. Now thatcolonel, Crystal, I can't think what fault you could find with him; hewas manly, gentlemanly, and as good-looking as a man ought to be. "

"I do not care for good-looking men. "

"Or for plain ones, either, my dear. I expect you are romantic, Crystal, and have an ideal of your own. "

"And if I answer, yes, " returned the girl, quickly, "will you leaveoff teasing me about all those stupid men? If you knew how I hateit--how I despise them all. "

"All but the ideal, " observed Miss Campion, archly; but she took thegirl's hand in hers, and her shrewd, clever face softened. "You mustforgive an impertinent old maid, my dear. Perhaps she had her storytoo, who knows. And so you have your ideal, my poor, dear child; andthe ideal has not made you a happy woman. It never does, " in a lowvoice. 

"Dear Miss Campion, " returned Crystal, with a blush; "if I am unhappy, it is only through my own fault; no one else is to blame, and--and--itis not as you think. It is true I once knew a good man, who has madeevery other man seem puny and insignificant beside him; but that isbecause he was so good and there was no other reason. "

"No other reason, except your love for him, " observed the elder woman, stroking her hand gently. "I have long suspected this, my dear. "

"Oh, you must not talk so, " answered Crystal, in a tone of poignantdistress; "you do not know; you can not understand. Oh, it is all sosad. I owe him everything. My ideal, oh, yes; whom have I ever seenwho could compare with him--so strong, so gentle, so forgiving? Oh, you must never let me talk of him; it breaks my heart. "

"Come away, Margaret, " whispered Raby, hoarsely, in her ear. "I haveno right to hear this; it is betraying my darling's confidence. Takeme away, for I can not trust myself another moment; and it islate--too late to speak to her to-night. "

"Hush! they are going in; we must wait a moment. Crystal is crying, and that kind creature is comforting her. We did not mean to listen, Raby; but it was not safe to move away from the trees. "

"You heard what she said, Margaret--her ideal. Heaven bless her sweetinnocence; she is as much a child as ever. Do I look like any woman'sideal now, Margaret. I always think of those lines in 'Aurora Leigh, 'when I imagine myself

 "'A mere bare blind stone in the blaze of day, A man, upon the outside of the earth, As dark as ten feet under, in the grave, -- Why that seemed hard. '

And yet, she really said it; her ideal. Ah, well! A woman's pitysometimes makes her mad. What do you say, Maggie?"

"That you are, and that you ever have been Crystal's ideal. " And afterthat they walked back in silence. 

"You and I will go again to-morrow morning, " Raby said to her as theyparted for the night; and Margaret assented. 

Raby had a wakeful night, and slept a little heavily toward morning. 

Margaret had already finished her breakfast when he entered the longdining-room, and one of the black waiters guided him to his place. Raby wondered that she did not join him as usual to read his lettersto him, and make plans for their visit; but a few minutes later shejoined him in walking dress, and sat down beside him. 

"Have you finished your breakfast, Raby?" And, as he answered in theaffirmative, she continued, with a little thrill of excitement in hersweet voice--"Miss Campion has gone down to the springs--I saw herpass alone. Crystal is writing letters in the parlor--I saw her. Shallwe come, my dear brother?"

Need she have put the question. Even Charles, the head-waiter, lookedat Mr. Ferrers as he walked down the long room with his head erect. Agrand-looking Englishman, he thought, and who would have imagined hewas blind. Margaret could hardly keep up with the long, even stridesthat brought them so quickly to the corner house; at the gate shechecked him gently. 

"We must be quiet, Raby--very quiet--or she will hear our footsteps. She is sitting with her back to the parlor door--I can see herplainly. Tread on this grassy border. "

And as Raby followed her directions implicitly, restraining hisimpatience with difficulty, they were soon standing in the porch. Thedoor stood open for coolness, and the little square hall, with itsIndian matting and rocking-chairs, looked very inviting. Margaretwhispered that the parlor-door was open, too, and that they must notstartle the girl too much; and then, still guiding him, she led himinto the parlor and quietly called Crystal. 

"We are here, dear Crystal. " And as Crystal turned her head and sawMargaret's sweet, loving face, and Raby standing a little behind her, she sprung from her chair with a half-stifled scream. But before shecould speak, or Margaret either, Raby was beside her; and in anothermoment his arms were round her, and his sightless face bent over her. "Hush, darling, I have you safely now; I will never let you go again, "Margaret heard him say as she left the room, quietly closing the doorbehind her. Her turn would come presently, she said to herself; butnow she must leave them together. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

RABY'S WIFE. 

 Yet, in one respect, Just one, beloved, I am in nowise changed; I love you, loved you, loved you first and last, And love you on forever, now I know I loved you always. 

 E. B. BROWNING. 

Crystal never moved as she heard the sound of the closing door. Onlyonce she tried to cower away from him, but he would not release hishold; and, as his strength and purpose made themselves felt, she stoodthere dumb and cold, until, suddenly overcome by his tenderness, shelaid her head on his breast with a sob that seemed to shake hergirlish frame. 

"Raby, Raby! oh, I can not bear this. " Then in a tone of anguish, "Ido not deserve it. "

"No, " he said, calmly, and trying to soothe her with grave kisses;"you have been a faithless child, and deserve to be punished. How doyou propose to make me amends for all the sorrow you have caused me?"

"Oh, if I could only die, " she answered, bitterly; "if my death couldonly do you good. Raby, the trouble of it has nearly killed me; youmust not, you must not speak so kindly to me. "

"Must I not, my darling; how does a man generally speak to his futurewife?" and as she trembled and shrunk from him, he went on in the samequiet voice, "if you are so ready to die for me, you will not surelyrefuse to live for me. Do you think you owe me nothing for all theseyears of desertion, Crystal; was there any reason that, because ofthat unhappy accident--a momentary childish passion, you should breakmy heart by your desertion?"

"I could not stay, " she answered, weeping bitterly; "I could not stayto see the ruin I had made. Oh, Raby, let me go, do not forgive me; Ihave been your curse, and Margaret's, too!"

"Then come back and be our blessing; come back in your beauty andyouth to be eyes to the blind man, and to be his darling and delight. Crystal, I am wiser now--I shall make no more mistakes; indeed, Ialways loved you, dear; poor Mona was no more to me than any otherwoman. "

"You loved me, Raby?"

"Yes, most truly and deeply; but you were so young, my sweet; and Idid not think it right to fetter your inexperienced youth--you were sounconscious of your own rare beauty; you had seen so few men. 'Let hergo out into the world, ' I said, and test her power and influence. Iwill not ask her to be my wife yet. How could I know you would neverchange, Crystal--that your heart was really mine?"

"It has always been yours, " she murmured; but, alas! those sweetblushes were lost on her blind lover. 

"Yes, I know it now; Margaret has helped me to understand things. Iknow now, you poor child, that you looked upon Mona as your rival;that you thought I was false to you; that in my ignorance I made youendure tortures. It is I who ought to ask your pardon, love, for all Imade you suffer. "

"No, no. "

"We must both be wiser for the future. Now put your hand in mine, Crystal, and tell me that you are content to take the blind man foryour husband, that the thought of a long life beside him does notfrighten you; that you really love me well enough to be my wife;" and, as he turned his sightless face toward her, Crystal raised herself andkissed his blind eyes softly. "'She loved much, '" she whispered, "'because much had been forgiven her. ' Oh, how true that is; I deserveonly to be hated, and you follow me across the world to ask me to beyour wife. Your love has conquered, Raby; from this day your willshall be mine. "

 * * * * *

Miss Campion had passed a long morning at the springs, wandering aboutthe pleasant grounds with an American friend. Crystal would havefinished her letter to Fern Trafford long ago, she thought, as shewalked quickly down the hot road, and would be waiting for luncheon. She was not a little surprised then when, on reaching the cottage, sheheard the sound of voices, and found herself confronting a very tallman in clerical dress, whose head seemed almost to touch the lowceiling, while a sweet-looking woman, in a long gray cloak andQuakerish bonnet, was standing holding Crystal's hand. 

"Dear Miss Campion, " exclaimed Crystal, with a vivid blush that seemedto give her new beauty, "some English friends of mine have justarrived. Mr. Ferrers and his sister. " But Raby's deep voiceinterrupted her. 

"Crystal is not introducing us properly; she does not mention the factthat she is engaged to me; and that my sister is her cousin; so it isnecessary for me to explain matters. "

"Is this true, child?" asked Miss Campion in a startled voice; and, asthough Crystal's face were sufficient answer, she continued archly, "Do you mean that this is 'he, ' Crystal--the ideal we were talkingabout last night in the moonlight?"

"Oh, hush!" returned Crystal, much confused at this, for she knew bythis time that there had been silent auditors to that girlishoutburst. But Raby's hand pressed hers meaningly. 

"I am afraid I must plead guilty to being that 'he, ' Miss Campion. Ibelieve, if the truth must be told, that Crystal has been engaged tome from a child. I know she was only nine years old when she made mean offer--at least she informed me in the presence of my father andsister that she meant to belong to me. "

"Oh, Margaret, do ask him to be quiet, " whispered Crystal; but herglowing, happy face showed no displeasure. Something like tearsglistened in Miss Campion's shrewd eyes as she kissed her and shookhands with Mr. Ferrers. 

"It is not often the ideal turns up at the right moment, " she said, bluntly; "but I am very glad you have come to make Crystal look likeother girls. Now, Miss Ferrers, as only lovers can feed on air, Ipropose that we go in search of luncheon, for the gong has soundedlong ago;" and as even Raby allowed that this was sensible advice, they all adjourned to the boarding-house. 

The occupants of the piazza were sorely puzzled that evening, and MissBellagrove was a trifle cross. Captain Maudsley had been raving aboutthe beauty of the wonderful brunette who was sitting opposite to himat dinner. "She must be an Italian, " he had said to Miss Bellagrove, who received his confidence somewhat sulkily; "one never sees thosewonderful eyes and that tint of hair out of Italy or Spain. Tanqueville, who is an artist, is wild about her, because he says hehas never seen a face with a purer oval. He wants to paint her for hisRebecca at the Well. It is rather hard lines she should be engaged toa blind clergyman, " finished Captain Maudsley, rather incautiously. Miss Bellagrove's fair face wore an uneasy expression. 

"How do you know they are engaged?" she said, impatiently; "I do notbelieve they are. Miss Ferrers does not wear any ring. "

"Nevertheless, I should not mind betting a few dozens of gloves thatthey are, " replied Captain Maudsley, with a keen, mischievous glancethat rather disconcerted Miss Bellagrove. He was quite aware that hewas teasing the poor little girl; but then she deserved punishment forflirting with that ass Rogers all last evening. Jack Maudsley washonestly in love with the fair-haired beauty, but he had plenty ofpluck and spirit, and would not be fooled if he could help it. PerhapsMiss Bellagrove, in common with the rest of her sex, liked a lover tobe a little masterful. It was certain that she was on her bestbehavior during the rest of the evening, and snubbed Mr. Rogers mostdecidedly when he invited her to take a turn in the shrubberies. 

Crystal attracted a great deal of notice in the boarding-house, butshe gave no one any opportunity of addressing her. Raby was alwaysbeside her, and she seemed completely engrossed with his attentions. As Miss Campion observed to Margaret, she might as well look foranother companion for all the good Crystal was to her. 

But one evening Margaret found Crystal sitting alone in a corner ofthe large drawing-room. Most of the company had gone into thetea-room, but one or two, Raby among them, were lingering in thegarden. Raby was talking rather earnestly to Miss Campion. 

"Alone, Crystal!" sitting down beside her with a smile. "Do you meanthat Raby has actually left you?" But Crystal's face wore no answeringsmile--she looked a little disturbed. 

"I asked him to go and let me think it over. I can not make up mymind, Margaret. Raby wants me to marry him at once, before we go backto England; he will have it that it will be better for me to go backto the Grange as his wife. "

"Yes, darling, I know Raby wishes this, and I hope you mean toconsent. "

"I--I do not know what to say--the idea somehow frightens me. It isall so quick and sudden--next week; will not people think it strange?A quiet English wedding in the dear little Sandycliffe church seems tome so much nicer. But Raby seems to dread the waiting so, Margaret, "and here her eyes filled with tears. "I think he does not trustme--that he is afraid I may leave him again; and the idea pains me. "

"No, dearest, " returned Margaret, soothingly; "I am sure such athought never entered Raby's head; but he has suffered so, and I thinkall the trouble, and his blindness, make him nervous; he was saying solast night, and accusing himself of selfishness, but he owned that hecould not control a nervous dread that something might happen toseparate you both, Crystal, " looking at her wistfully. "Is the idea ofan immediate marriage so repugnant; if not, I wish you would give wayin this. "

Crystal looked up, startled by her earnestness, and then she said, with sweet humility, "It is only that I feel so unworthy of all thishappiness; but if you and Raby think it best, I will be guided by you. Will you tell him so? but no, there he is alone; I will go to himmyself. "

Raby heard her coming, and held out his hand with a smile. 

"You see I never mistake your footsteps, " he said, in the tone he keptfor her ear; "I should distinguish them in a crowd. Well, darling?"waiting for the word he knew would follow. 

"Margaret has been talking to me, and I see she approves--it shall benext week if you wish it, Raby; that is, if Miss Campion will spareme. "

"She will gladly do so, especially as Margaret offers to keep hercompany for a fortnight; after that we will all go back in the samesteamer. Thanks, my darling, for consenting; you have made me veryhappy. I knew you would not refuse, " lifting the little hand to haslips. 

"I feel as though I have no power to refuse you anything, " was herloving answer; "but I know it is all your thought for me, Raby, "pressing closer to him in the empty dusk, for there were no curiouseyes upon them--only night-moths wheeling round them. "Are you neverafraid of what you are doing; do you not fear that I may disappointyou?"

"No, " he answered, calmly, "I fear nothing. "

"Not my unhappy temper?" she whispered; and he could feel the slightfigure trembling as she put the question. 

"No, " in the same quiet tones that always soothed her agitation, "forI believe the evil spirit is exorcised by much prayer and fasting;and, darling, even if it should not be so, I should not be afraidthen, for I know better how to deal with it and you; no angry spiritcould live in my arms, and I would exorcise it thus"--touching herlips. "No, have faith in me, as I have faith in you, and all will bewell. " And so he comforted her. 

There was a great sensation in the boarding-house at W---- when newsof the approaching wedding was made known. Captain Maudsley triumphedopenly over Miss Bellagrove. "I told you the Italian beauty wasengaged to the blind Englishman, " he said to her; "but after all, sheis only half an Italian--her mother was a Florentine, and her fatherwas English. Fergusson told me all about it--he is to marry them; andold Doctor Egan is to give her away. There is some romantic storybelonging to them. I think he has been in love with her from a child. Well, Heaven gives nuts to those who have no teeth, " grumbled theyoung officer, thinking of the bridegroom's blindness. 

Crystal remained very quietly in the corner house during the rest ofthe week. Raby spent most of his time with her. On the eve of herwedding she wrote a little note to Fern, telling her of her intendedmarriage. 

 "I am very happy, " she wrote; "but there are some kinds of happiness too deep for utterance. When I think of the new life that awaits me to-morrow, an overwhelming sense of unworthiness seems to crush me to the ground; to think that I shall be Raby's wife--that I shall be permitted to dedicate my whole life to his dear service. I have told you a little about him, but you will never know what he is really; I sometimes pray that my love may not be idolatry. When he brings me to the Grange--that dear home of my childhood, you must come to me, and your mother also. Raby says he loves you both for your goodness to me; he has promised that you shall be our first guests. 

 "Do you know our dear Margaret will not be long with us? She intends to join a community in the East End of London, and to devote herself for the remainder of her life to the service of the poor. I could not help crying a little when she told me this; but she only smiled and said that she was not unhappy. And yet she loved Hugh Redmond. I talked to Raby afterward, and he comforted me a little. He said that though Hugh loved her with the whole strength of his nature, that he could never really have satisfied a woman like Margaret--that in time she must have found out that he was no true mate for her. 'A woman should never be superior to her husband, ' he said. 'Margaret's grand intellect and powers of influence would have been wasted if she had become Hugh Redmond's wife. Oh, yes, he would have been good to her--probably he would have worshiped her; but one side of her nature would have been a mystery to him. You must not grieve for her, my child, for she has ceased to grieve for herself; the Divine Providence has withheld from her a woman's natural joys of wifehood and maternity, but a noble work is to be given to her; our Margaret, please God, will be a mother in Israel. ' And, indeed, I feel Raby is right, and that Margaret is one of God's dear saints. "

It was on a golden September day that Crystal became Raby Ferrers'swife; the company that had grouped themselves in the long drawing-roomof the boarding-house owned that they had never seen a grander bride. 

The creamy Indian silk fell in graceful folds on the tall supplefigure; the beautiful head, with its coils of dark glossy hair, wasbent in girlish timidity. Margaret had clasped round her white throatthe pearl necklace and diamond cross that had belonged to her mother, and which she was to have worn at her own bridal. "I shall not needit; it is for Raby's wife, " she said, as Crystal protested with tearsin her eyes; "it must be your only ornament. Oh, if Raby could onlysee how lovely you look. "

But the calm tranquil content on the sightless face silenced even thiswish. Crystal ceased to tremble when the deep vibrating voice, vowingto love and cherish her to her life's end, sounded in her ears; butRaby felt the coldness of the hand he held. 

When they had received the congratulations of their friends, andMargaret had tenderly embraced her new sister, and they were leftalone for a little, Raby drew his young bride closer to him. 

"You are not afraid now, my darling?"

"No, " she answered, unsteadily; "but it is all so like a dream. Afortnight ago--only a fortnight--I was the most desolate creature inGod's earth; and now--"

"And now, " echoing her words with a kiss, "you are my wife. Ah, do youremember your childish speech--it used to ring in my ears; 'I am goingto belong to Raby all my life long; I will never leave him, never. 'Well, it has come true, love; you are mine now. "

"Yes, " she whispered, leaning her forehead against him, "you willnever be able to got rid of me; and oh"--her voice trembling--"therest of knowing that it will never be my duty to leave you. "

He laughed at that, but something glistened in his eyes too. "No, mywild bird; no more flights for you--I have you safely now; you arebound to me by this"--touching the little circlet of gold upon theslender finger. "Now, my darling--my wife of an hour, I want you tomake me a promise; I ask it of your love, Crystal. If a shadow--eventhe very faintest shadow, cross your spirit; if one accusing thoughtseems to stand between your soul and mine; one doubt or fear that, like the cloud no bigger than a man's hand, might rise and spread intothe blackness of tempest, will you come and tell it to me?"

"Oh, Raby, do not ask me. "

"But I do ask it, love, and I ask it in my twofold character of priestand husband, and it is the first request your husband makes you. Come, do not hesitate. You have given me yourself; now, with sweetgenerosity, promise me this, that you will share with me every doubtand fear that disturbs you?"

"Will you not let me try to conquer the feeling alone first, and thencome to you?"

"No, I would not undertake the responsibility; I know you too well, darling. Come, I thought you promised something that sounded likeobedience just now. "

"Ah, you are laughing at me. But this is no light matter, Raby; itmeans that I am to burden you with all my foolish doubts andfancies--that I am never to keep my wrong feelings to myself. "

"Promise!" was his only answer, in a very persuasive voice. 

"Yes, I will promise, " hiding her face on his shoulder; "but it willbe your own fault if I am ever a trouble to you. Oh, Raby, may Ialways tell you everything; will you help me to be good, and to fightagainst myself?"

"We will help each other, " he answered, stroking her soft hair; "thereshall never be a shadow on the one that the other will not share--halfthe shadow and half the sunshine; and always the Divine goodness overus. That shall be our married life, Crystal. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SIR HUGH'S REPENTANCE. 

 And by comparison I see The majesty of matron grace, And learn how pure, how fair can be My own wife's face:

 Pure with all faithful passion, fair With tender smiles that come and go, And comforting as April air After the snow. 

 JEAN INGELOW. 

Sir Hugh began to wish that he had never gone to Egypt, or that he hadgone with any one but Fitzclarence--he was growing weary of hisvagaries and unpunctuality. They had deviated already four times fromthe proposed route, and the consequence was, he had missed all hisletters; and the absence of home news was making him seriously uneasy. He was the only married man; the rest of the party consisted of gay, young bachelors--good enough fellows in their way, but utterlycareless. They laughed at Sir Hugh's anxious scruples, and secretlyvoted that a married man was rather a bore in this kind of thing. Whatwas the use of bothering about letters, they said, so long as theremittances came to hand safely. 

Sir Hugh thought of Fay's loving little letters lying neglected at thedifferent postal towns, and sighed; either he was not so indifferentto her as he supposed himself to be, or absence was making his hearttender; but he had never been so full of care and thought for his WeeWifie as he was then. He wished he had bidden her good-bye. Heremembered the last time he had seen her, when he had gone into hisstudy with the telegram in his hand; and then he recalled the strangewistful look she had given him. He could not tell why the fancy shouldhaunt him, but he wished so much that he had seen her again and takena kinder leave of her. It had not been his fault, he told himself ahundred times over; but still one never knew what might happen. Hewished now that he had taken her in his arms and had said God blessher; she was such a child, and he was leaving her for a long time. 

Sir Hugh was becoming a wiser man, and was beginning to acknowledgehis faults, and, what was better still, to try and make amends forthem. 

It was too late to undo the effects of Fitzclarence's reckless mode oftraveling, but he would do all he could; so in his leisure moments, when the other men were smoking and chatting in their tent, he satdown in a quiet corner and wrote several letters, full of descriptionsof their journey, to amuse Fay in her solitude; and one Sunday, whenthe others had started on an expedition to see some ruin, he wrote theexplanation that he had deferred so long. Hugh was an honest, well-meaning man, in spite of his moral weakness; if that letter hadonly reached the young wife's eyes it would have healed her sore heartand kept her beside him. 

For he told her everything; and he told it in such a frank, manly way, that no woman could have lost confidence in him, though she read whatFay was to have read in the first few lines--that he had not marriedher for love. Hugh owned his unhappy passion for Margaret, and pleadedhis great trouble as the excuse for his restlessness. He had goneaway, he said, that he might fight a battle with himself, and returnhome a better man; it would all be different when he came back, for hemeant to be a good husband to her, and to live for her and the boy, and to make her happy, and by and by he would be happy too. And heended his letter as he never ended one yet, by assuring her that hewas her loving husband. But, alas, when that tardy explanation reachedthe cottage at Daintree, Aunt Griselda only wrung her thin white handsand cried, for no one knew what had become of Fay, and Erle wasrushing about and sending telegrams in all directions, and Fay, withthe shadow always on her sweet face, was sitting in the orchard of theManse, under the shade of the mossy old apple-trees, and baby Hugh layon her lap, gurgling to the birds and the white clouds that sailedover their heads. When Sir Hugh had written that letter, he felt asthough a very heavy weight were off his mind, and he began to enjoyhimself. Not for long, however, for presently they reached Cairo, andthere he found a budget awaiting him. Every one seemed to have writtento him but Fay; and when he saw that, he began to tear open theletters rather wildly, for he feared she must be ill. But by and by hecame to her letter. 

He read Erle Huntingdon's first--an indignant letter, evidentlywritten under strong excitement--"Why had he not come home when theyhad sent for him? He must know that their search had been useless;they had no news of either Fay or the child. Miss Mordaunt was veryill with worry, and her old servant was much alarmed about her. Theyhad written to him over and over again, and directed their letters toevery possible place he could not have missed. If he had any affectionfor his wife and child, and cared to know what had become of them, hehad better leave Fitzclarence and the other fellows and return atonce, " and so on. 

Hugh dropped the letter--he was pale to the lips withapprehension--and turned to the others. 

They were from Miss Mordaunt, and Mrs. Heron, and Ellerton, and thelawyer, but they only reiterated the same thing--that all efforts hadbeen in vain, and that they could hear nothing of either Lady Redmondor the boy; and then they urged him to come home at once. Lastly, directed by Mrs. Heron, as though by an afterthought, was the letterFay had left for him upon the study-table; but, in reality, it hadbeen forwarded before the alarm had been given, for the seal was stillunbroken. Mrs. Heron, on learning from the messenger that Sir Hugh hadstarted for Egypt, had redirected it, and it had only just been postedwhen the distracted nurse made her appearance at the Hall and told herstory. When Hugh read that poor little letter, his first feeling wasintense anger--all his Redmond blood was at fever-heat. She had sinnedbeyond all mercy; she had compromised his name and his reputation, andhe would never forgive her. 

He had confided his honor to a child, and she had played with it, andcast it aside; she had dared to leave him and her home, and with hischild, too, and to bring the voice of scandal about them; she--LadyRedmond, his wife--wandering like a vagabond at the world's mercy! Hisfeelings were intolerable. He must get back to England; he must findher and hush it up, or his life would be worth nothing to him. Ah, itwas well for Fay that she was safely hidden in the old Manse, for, ifhe had found her while this mood was on him, his anger would havekilled her. 

When his passion had cooled a little, he went to Fitzclarence and toldhim abruptly that he must return home at once--affairs of the utmostimportance recalled him. 

Fitzclarence thought he looked very strange, but something in hismanner forbade all questioning. Two hours afterward he was on his wayto England. 

There is an old proverb, often lightly quoted, and yet full of a wiseand solemn meaning, "_L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose_. " Poor, angryHugh, traveling night and day, and cursing the tardy railways andsteamers, was soon to test the truth of the saying. 

He had reached Marseilles, and was hurrying to the post-office totelegraph some order to Mrs. Heron, when he suddenly missed hisfooting, and found himself at the bottom of a steep, dark cellar, withhis leg doubled up under him; and when two passers-by who saw theaccident tried to move him, they discovered that his leg was broken;and then he heard that he fainted. 

And so fate, or rather Providence, took the reins from the weak, passionate hands that were so unfit to hold them, and threw him back, helpless and baffled, on his bed of pain; there to learn, week byweek, through weary sickness and still more weary convalescence, thelesson that only suffering could teach him--that it were well toforgive others their sins, even as he hoped his might be forgiven. 

And yet he learned another thing, as his anger slowly burned itselfout and only profound wretchedness and intolerable suspense remainedas to his wife's fate--something that startled him with a sense ofsweetness, and yet stung him with infinite pain; when the hauntingpresence of his lost wife seemed ever with him, and would not let himrest; when his remorse was terrible; and when he would have given upall he had in the world just to hear her say in her low, fond voice, that she forgave him all. 

For he knew now that he had wronged her, and that his neglect andcoldness had driven her from her home. 

The uncertainty of her fate sometimes nearly drove him wild. How couldshe have laid her plans so accurately that no traces of her or thechild could be found? Could evil have befallen them? God help him if ahair of those innocent heads had been touched. In his weakness hecould not always control the horrible imaginations that beset him. Often he would wake from some ghastly dream and lie till dawn, unableto shake off his deadly terror. Then all of a sudden he would rememberthat hasty postscript, "Do not be anxious about me. I am going to somekind people who will be good to me and the boy;" and he would fallasleep again while vainly trying to recall if he had ever heard Fayspeak of any friends of her childhood. But though Erle and MissMordaunt tried to help him, no name occurred to any of them. 

It was an added burden that Erle could not come to him; but there wastrouble at Belgrave House, and the shadows were closing round it. Erlecould not leave his uncle, but he wrote very kindly to poorconscience-stricken Hugh, and said all he could to comfort him. 

It was in those hours of dreary helplessness that Hugh learned to misshis Wee Wifie. In those long summer afternoons, while his foreignnurse nodded drowsily before him, and the hot air crept sluggishly inat the open window, how he longed for the small cool hand that used tobe laid so softly on his temples, or put the drink to his parched lipsbefore they could frame their want. He remembered the hours she hadsat beside him, fanning the flies from his pillow or bathing hisaching head. She had never left him--never seemed tired or impatient, though her face had grown so pale with watching. Others would havespared her; others told him that she was spent and weary, but he hadnever noticed it. "And, brute that I was, " he thought, "I left heralone in her trouble with only strangers and hirelings about her, tofight her way through the very Valley of the Shadow of Death. " He tookout her letter and smoothed it out--it was a trick of his when hethought no one would see him. He had read it over until he knew everyword by heart. Ah! if Heaven would but spare him this once and givehim back the strength he had misused, that he might find her, poorchild, and bring her home, and comfort her as only he could comforther. He would love her now, he thought; yes, if she would only bearwith him and give him time, he knew from the deep pity and tendernesswhich he felt that he would love her yet, for the merciful Providencethat had laid the erring man low was teaching him lessons that noother discipline could have inculcated. 

The cold December wind was whirling through the bare branches of theoaks and beeches in the Redmond avenue when Sir Hugh came home, achanged and saddened man. 

Yes, changed outwardly as well as inwardly. Good Mrs. Heron cried whenshe saw him enter the hall on Saville's arm, looking so thin and worn, and leaning on his stick. 

His youth seemed to have passed away; his smooth forehead was alreadyfurrowed like that of a middle-aged man, and his fair hair had wornoff it slightly, making him look ten years older; and yet there wasthat in Hugh Redmond's face, if Margaret could have seen it, thatwould have filled her pure heart with exceeding thankfulness. 

For though the pallor caused by suffering was still there, and thosewho saw him said Sir Hugh was a broken man, yet there was a noblerexpression than it had ever worn in happier days. The old fretfullines round the mouth were gone; and, though the eyes looked sadlyround at the old familiar faces, as though missing the truest andbest, still, there was a chastened gravity about his whole mien thatspoke of a new and earnest purpose; of a heart so humbled at last thatit had fled to its best refuge, and had found strength in the time ofneed. 

Many years afterward he owned, to one who was ever his closest friend, that a whole life-time of suffering had been compressed into those fewshort years that had followed his father's death. The whole plan andpurpose of his youth had been marred; his heart wasted by a passionthat was denied satisfaction; and lastly, just as he was beginning toturn to his neglected wife with a sympathy and interest that promisedwell for her future happiness, suddenly he found his name outraged andhis home forsaken, and the load and terror of an unbearable remorselaid heavily upon him. 

That was a strange winter to Hugh Redmond--the strangest and saddesthe had ever passed; when he spent long, solitary days in the old Hall;and only Erle--generous, kind-hearted Erle--came now and then to breakhis solitude. 

Ah! he missed her then. 

Sometimes, as he wandered disconsolately through the empty rooms, orsat by his lonely fireside in the twilight, the fancy would haunt himthat she would come back to him yet--that the door would open, and alittle figure come stealing through the darkness and run into his armswith a low, glad cry. And sometimes, when he stood in her room and sawthe empty cot over which she used to hang so fondly, a longing wouldseize him for the boy whom he had never held in his arms. 

By and by, when the spring returned, some of his old strength andvigor came back, and he was able to join personally in the search, when a new zest and excitement seemed added to his life; and in theardor of the chase he learned to forget Margaret and the shadows of atoo sorrowful past. 

When the sweet face of his Wee Wifie seemed to lure him on with thesad Undine eyes that he remembered so well; when, with the contrarietyof man ever eager for the unattainable, he began to long more and moreto see her; when his anger revived, and impatience with it. And, though he hardly owned it to himself, both anger and impatience wereborn of love. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

VANITAS VANITATIS. 

 And is there in God's world so drear a place, Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain; Where tears of penance come too late for grace, As on the uprooted flower the genial rain. 

 KEBLE. 

St. Luke's little summer was over, the ripe golden days that Octoberbinds in her sheaf, the richest and rarest of the year's harvest, hadbeen followed by chill fogs--dull sullen days--during which flaringgas-lights burned in Mrs. Watkins's shop even at noonday, and Fern'sbusy fingers, never willingly idle, worked by the light of a lamp longbefore the muffin boy and milkman made their afternoon rounds in theElysian Fields. 

Anything further removed from the typical idea of the Elysian Fieldscould scarcely be imagined than on such an afternoon. It wasdifficult, even for a light-hearted person, to maintain a uniformcheerfulness where damp exuded everywhere, and the moist thick airseemed to close round one in vaporous folds. Somewhere, no doubt, thesun was shining, and might possibly shine again; but it was hard torealize it--hard to maintain outward or inward geniality under suchdepressing circumstances. 

Fern had turned from the window with an involuntary shudder. Then shelighted her lamp, stirred the fire, and sat down to her embroidery. Asher needle flew through the canvas her lips seemed to close with anexpression of patient sadness. There were sorrowful curves that no oneever saw, for Fern kept all her thoughts to herself. 

Never since the night when she had sobbed out her grief on hermother's bosom, when the utterance of her girlish despair and longinghad filled that mother's heart with dismay, never since then had Fernspoken of her trouble. "We will never talk of it again, " she had said, when the outburst was over; "it will do no good;" and her mother hadsorrowfully acquiesced. 

Mrs. Trafford knew that only time, that beneficent healer, coulddeaden her child's pain. Fern's gentle nature was capable of quiet butintense feeling. Nea's faithful and ardent affections were reproducedin her child. It was not only the loss of her girlish dreams overwhich Fern mourned. Her woman's love had unconsciously rooted itself, and could not be torn up without suffering. An unerring instinct toldher that Erle had not always been indifferent to her; that once, notso very long ago, his friendship had been true and deep. Well, she hadforgiven his fickleness. No bitterness rankled in her heart againsthim. He had been very kind to her; he would not wish her to beunhappy. 

But she was very brave. She would not look at the future. The coldblankness, the narrow groove, would have chilled her heart. She onlytook each day as it came, and tried to do her best with it. 

With her usual unselfishness she determined that no one else shouldsuffer through her unhappiness. Her mother's brief hours of restshould be unshadowed. It was a pale little sunbeam whose smilesgreeted her of an evening; but it was still a sunbeam. The sweet looksand words and loving attention were still always ready. As Nea watchedher child her heart would swell with pride and reverence. Sherecognized the innate strength and power of self-sacrifice thatMaurice had left her as his legacy. "Of all my children, Fern is mostlike her father, " Mrs. Trafford would say; "she is stronger than shelooks--she would rather die than tell me again that she is unhappy. "

But Fern would not have owned that her life was unhappy as long as shehad her mother to love her. She was taking herself to task thisafternoon as she sat alone--for Fluff had escaped as usual to Mrs. Watkins's--and was blaming herself for her discontent; and then shesung very softly a verse of her favorite hymn--

 "He that thou blessest is our good, And unblest good is ill, And all is right that seems most wrong If it be Thy sweet will. "

But almost before she had finished the last line, she was startled byher brother's abrupt entrance. 

"Percy! oh, I did not hear you, " she faltered, and she turned a littlepale, and her heart began to beat more quickly. It was foolish of her, but she never heard Percy's step without listening involuntarily forthe quick light tread that used to follow it, but that never came now. 

"You are alone, " he said, quickly, with a keen glance round the room. "Well, it is best because I wanted to speak to you. Have you heardfrom Miss Davenport lately, Fern?"

"Yes, " she stammered, raising her soft eyes to his face with a pityingexpression; "I had a letter the other day. "

"Well, " impatiently, "does she say when they are coming back?"

"In another fortnight--at least they mean to start then;" and thereshe stopped, and looked at him very piteously. "How I wish motherwould come; she will not be very long, and--and I would rather thatyou heard it from her. "

"Do you mean that you have anything special to tell me?" he asked, struck by her manner. 

"Oh, I wish you had not asked me, " she returned, clasping her hands;"you are so fond of Crystal, and it will make you terribly unhappy;but mother said we ought to tell you, Percy, dear. There was never anyhope for you--you know she always told you so; and now Crystal ismarried. "

"Married!" he almost shouted, and his handsome young face seemed togrow sharp and pale. "Married! Pshaw! you are jesting, Fern. "

"Dear Percy, " she answered, gently, "do you think I would jest withyou on such a subject? Indeed--indeed it is true. She was married someten days ago to Mr. Ferrers, the blind clergyman, who was staying atBelgrave House. He had come there to look for her. He had known herfrom a child, and they had long loved each other. "

"Married!" he repeated, in the same dull, hard voice, and there wassomething in his face that made Fern throw her arms round his neck. 

"Oh, it is hard, " she sobbed; "I know how hard it is for you to hearme say this, but it has to be faced. She never deceived you, dear--shenever let you hope for a single moment; she was always true to herselfand you. Try to bear it, Percy; try to be glad that her unhappiness isover, and that she is married to the man she loves. It is the onlything that will help you. "

"Nothing will help me, " he returned, in the same muffled voice; butshe would not be repulsed. She swept back the dark hair from hisforehead and kissed him. Did she not share his sufferings? Could anyone sympathize with him as she could? "Oh, if mother were only here, "she sighed, feeling her inability to comfort him. "Mother is so sorryfor you, she cried about it the other night. "

"Yes, " he answered, "mothers are like that;" and then was silentagain. What was there he could say?--he was in no mood for sympathy. The touch of Fern's soft arms, her little attempt at consolation, weretorture to him. His idol was gone in another man's possession. Heshould never see again the dark southern loveliness that had sointhralled his imagination; and the idea was maddening to him. 

In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. Awall of ice seemed to be built up across his path, and he could see nooutlet. "I can not stay now, " he said, and his voice sounded strangeto his own ears. "Will you give my love to my mother, Fern?"

"Oh, do not go, " she pleaded, and now the tears were running down herface. "Do stay with me, Percy. "

"Not now; I will come again, " he answered, releasing himselfimpatiently; but as he mounted his horse, some impulse made him lookup and wave his hand. And then he rode out into the gloom. 

It was too early to go home; besides, he did not care to face people. The fog seemed lifting a little. His mare was fresh, and she mighttake her own road, and follow her own pace--a few miles more or lesswould not matter to him in this mood. 

Black care was sitting behind him on the saddle, and had taken thereins from his hands; and a worse gloom than the murky atmosphere wasclosing round him. 

She had told him that his life was before him--that he could carve outhis own future; but as he looked back on his past life--on the shorttale of his four-and-twenty years--his heart was sick within him. 

What a pitiable part he had played. Was it possible that such a womanas Crystal could ever have loved him? Had not his cowardly desertionof his mother only won her silent contempt? and now it was too late toredeem himself in her eyes. 

His fate was frowning on him. His position at Belgrave House had longbeen irksome to him. His grandfather loved him, but not as he lovedErle; and in his heart he was secretly jealous of Erle--if it had beenpossible he would have supplanted him. Only he himself knew how he hadtempted him, and the subterfuges to which he had stooped. He hadencouraged Erle's visits to Beulah Place from motives ofself-interest, and had been foiled by Erle's engagement to EvelynSelby. 

How he loathed himself as he thought of it all. Oh! if he could onlyundo the past. Young as he was, ruin seemed staring him in the face. He had squandered his handsome allowance; his debts were heavy. He hadheard his grandfather say that of all things he abhorred gambling; andyet he knew he was a gambler. Only the preceding night he had staked alarge sum and had lost; and that very morning he had appealed to Erleto save him from the consequences of his own rashness. 

As he rode on, his thoughts seemed to grow tangled and confused. Hislife was a failure; how was he to go on living? All these years he hadfed on husks, and the taste was bitter in his mouth. Oh! if he couldmake a clean breast of it all. And then he repeated drearily that itwas too late. 

His reins were hanging loosely on his horse's neck. His high-spiritedlittle mare had been following her own will for more than an hour now, and had relapsed into a walk, as Percy roused himself to see where hewas. He found himself on a bridge with the river on either side ofhim. He was miles away from Belgrave House; and for the moment he wasperplexed, and drew up to ask a boy who was loitering on the footpathwhat bridge it was. 

There was a steamer passing; and a little lad had clambered on theparapet to see it go by. Either he overbalanced himself or grew giddy, but, to Percy's horror, there was a sharp scream, and the next momentthe child had disappeared. 

In an instant Percy was off his horse, and, with the agility of apracticed athlete, had swung himself on the parapet. Yes, he could seethe eddy where the child had sunk; and in another moment he had divedinto the dark water. 

"It was a plucky thing to do, sir, " observed a navvy who had seen thewhole proceeding, and who afterward retailed it to Erle Huntingdon; "Idon't know as ever I saw a pluckier thing in my life. Ay, and the pooryoung gentleman would have done it too, for any one could see he knewwhat he was about; for he dived in straight after the child; and then, that dratted steamer--you will excuse me, sir, but one's feelings arestrong--what must it do but back to pick up the child; and the poorfellow, he must have struck his head against it, for he went downagain. Oh, yes, the child was all right, and the young gentleman wouldhave been all right too, but for that nasty blow; it stunned him, yousee. "

Yes, it had stunned him; the young ill-spent life was over. Did hecall upon his God for succor as he went down into his watery grave?Who knows what cry went up to heaven? The old epitaph that wasengraved on the tomb of a notorious ill-liver speaks quaintly of hopein such cases, "Betwixt the saddle and the ground He mercy sought and mercy found. "

and Raby quoted them softly to Crystal as she wept over the fate ofher unhappy lover. 

"His last act was to try and save another; God only knows how far thiswould go to redeem a faulty past--God only knows. Do not cry sobitterly, darling. Let us trust him to the All Merciful; and, as thegood bishop said to the mother of Saint Augustine, 'the child of somany prayers can not be lost. '"

 * * * * *

Erle Huntingdon had passed an anxious, uncomfortable day. Percy'sconfession of his gambling debts had made him seriously uneasy. It wasin his power to help him this once, he had said, with unusualsternness, but he would soon be a married man, and then Percy mustlook to himself; and Percy, nettled at his tone, had answered somewhatshortly, and in spite of Erle's generosity they had not partedfriends. 

But this was not all. After luncheon Mr. Huntingdon had called Erleinto his study, and had shown him a letter that he had just receivedfrom some anonymous correspondent. Some unknown friend and well-wisherhad thought it advisable to warn Mr. Huntingdon of his grandson'sreckless doings. Erle looked dreadfully shocked as he read it; and theexpression of concentrated anger on Mr. Huntingdon's face frightenedhim still more. 

"Perhaps it is not true, " he stammered, and then the remembrance ofhis conversation with Percy silenced him. 

"True, " returned Mr. Huntingdon, in his hard rasping voice; "do younot see that the writer says he can prove every word? And this is mygrandson, whom I have taken out of poverty. Well, well, I might haveknown the son of Maurice Trafford would never be worth anything. "

Strangely unjust words to be spoken of Nea's idolized Maurice, whosepure soul would have revolted against his boy's sins. Erle felt thecruelty of the speech; but he dare not contradict his uncle. What werethe Traffords to him now?

There was to be a large gentlemen's dinner-party at Belgrave Housethat evening. Some East Indian director was to be fêted, and severalcity magnates were to honor it by their presence. Erle wondered thatPercy did not make his appearance, for he was always punctual on suchoccasions; but Mr. Huntingdon did not seem to notice his absence. Theguests thought their host looked grayer and more bowed than usual, andthat his step was feebler. He was getting an old man now, they said tothemselves; and it would not be long before there would be a newmaster at Belgrave House. Any one could see he was breaking fast, andwould not last long. Well, he had done well for himself; and his heirwas to be envied, for he would be a rich man, and scarcely needed thesplendid dowry that Evelyn Selby would bring him. 

The banquet was just drawing to its close when there were signs ofsome disturbance in the household. The butler whispered to Erle, whoimmediately left the room, and a few minutes later a message wasbrought to Mr. Huntingdon. 

Something had happened--something dreadful had happened, they toldhim, and he must come with them at once; and he had shuddered andturned pale. 

He was growing old, and his nerves were not as strong as they used tobe, and he supported himself with some difficulty as he bowed to hisguests with old-fashioned politeness, and, excusing himself, beggedhis old friend Sir Frederick Drummond to take his place. But as thedoor closed behind him, and he found himself surrounded by frightenedservants, he tottered and his face grew gray. 

"You will kill me among you, " he muttered. "Where is my nephew? Willnone of you fools tell me what is the matter?"

"He's in there, " returned the butler, who was looking very scared, andpointing to the library; and the next moment Erle came out with a faceas white as death. 

"Oh! uncle, uncle, don't go in till they have told you. Percy isthere, and--" but Mr. Huntingdon only motioned him aside with his oldperemptoriness, and then closed the door upon them. 

He knew what he should find there--he knew it when they whispered intohis ear that something had happened; and then he walked feebly acrossthe room to the couch, where something lay with strange rigid linesunder a satin coverlid that had been flung over it; and as he drew itdown and looked at the face of his dead grandson, he knew that thehand of death had struck him also, that he would never get overthis--never!

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

NEA AND HER FATHER MEET AGAIN. 

 Whence art thou sent from us? Whither thy goal? How art thou rent from us Thou that were whole? As with severing of eyelids and eyes, as with sundering of body and soul. Who shall raise thee From the house of the dead? Or what man shall praise thee, That thy praise may be said? Alas thy beauty! alas thy body! alas thy head! What wilt thou leave me Now this thing is done? A man wilt thou give me, A son for a son, For the light of my eyes, the desire of my life, the desirable one. 

 ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 

Erle had followed him into the room, but Mr. Huntingdon took no noticeof him. If he could, he would have spoken to him and implored him toleave him, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. He wished to be alone with his grandson, to hide from every one, if hecould, that he was stricken down at last. 

He had loved him, but not as he had loved Erle--the Benjamin of hisold age; his son of consolation. He had been stern with him, and hadnever sought to win his confidence; and now the blood of the unhappyboy seemed crying to him from the ground. And it was for this that hehad taken him from his mother, that he should lie there in the primeof his youth with all the measure of his sins filled to the brim. Howhad he died--but he dared not ask, and no one told him. Erle hadindeed said something about a child; but he had not understood anymore than he understood that they had sent to tell the mother. Erle'svoice, broken with emotion, had certainly vibrated in his ears, but nosense of the words had reached him. If he had known that that motherwas already on her way to claim the dead body of her son, he wouldhave hidden himself and his gray hairs. 

What a beautiful face it was, he thought; all that had marred it inlife was softened now; the sneers, the hard bitter lines, weresmoothed away, and something like a smile rested on the young lips. Ah, surely he was at rest now! Some stray hairs clung damply to histemples, and Mr. Huntingdon stooped over him and put them aside withalmost a woman's tenderness, and then he sat down on the chair besidehim and bowed his gray head in his hands. 

He was struck down at last! If his idolized Erle had lain there inPercy's place he could have borne it better. But Nea's boy! What ifshe should come and require him at his hands! "Come home with your ownNea, father"--had he ever ceased to hear those words?

Had he ever forgotten her standing there in the snow with her babyhidden under her shawl, and her sweet thin face raised to his? Had heever ceased to love her and yearn for her when his anger was mostbitter against her? Surely the demons must have leagued together tokeep possession of his soul, or he would never have so hardenedhimself against her! He had taken her boy from her; he had tempted hisyouthful weakness with the sight of his wealth, and then he had lefthim to his own devices. He had not taught him to "wash his hands ininnocency, or to take heed to the things that were right. " Day andnight that boy's dead face, with its likeness to his mother wouldhaunt his memory. Oh, Heaven! that he were indeed childless, that noneof these things might have come upon him. 

"Uncle Rolf, will you not come away with me?" implored Erle; "thehouse is quite quiet now, and all the people have gone;" but Mr. Huntingdon only shook his head--he had no strength to rise from hischair, and he could not tell Erle this. The poor boy was terriblyalarmed at his uncle's looks; he did not seem to understand anythinghe said; and what if Mrs. Trafford should take it in her head tocome--if only he could get his uncle away. 

But even as he framed the wish the door opened noiselessly, and Mr. Huntingdon raised his eyes. A tall woman with gray hair like his, anda pale, beautiful face with an expression on it that almost froze hisblood, looked at him for a moment, then silently passed up the room, and with her dress brushing him as he sat there motionless, pausedbeside the couch. And it was thus that Nea and her father met again. But she did not notice him; there was only one object for hereyes--the still, mute figure of her boy. Silently, and still with thatawful look of woe on her face, she drew the dark head into her arms, and laid the dead cheek against her breast; and as she felt theirresponsive weight, the chilled touch, her dried-up misery gave way, and the tears streamed from her eyes. 

She was calling him her darling--her only boy. 

She had forgotten his cowardly desertion of her; the faults andfollies of his youth. Living, he had been little to her, but sheclaimed the dead as her own. She had forgotten all; she was the youngmother again, as she smoothed the dark hair with her thin fingers andpressed the cold face closer to her bosom, as though she could warmthe deadly chill of death. 

"Nea, " exclaimed a feeble voice in her ear. "Nea, he was my boy too. "And looking up, she saw the tall bowed figure of her father, and twowrinkled hands stretched out to her. Ah, she was back in the presentagain. She laid her boy down on the pillow, and drew the quilttenderly over him; but all the beauty and softness seemed to die outof her face, as she turned to her father. 

"My boy, " she answered, "not yours; for you never loved him as I did. You tempted him from me, and made him despise his mother; but he ismine now; God took him from you who were ruining him soul and body, togive him back to me. "

"Nea, " returned the old man with a groan, "I have sinned--I know itnow. I have blighted your life; I have been a hard cruel father; butin the presence of the dead there should be peace. "

"My life, " she moaned; "my life. Ah, if that were all I could haveforgiven it long ago; but it was Maurice--Maurice whom you left to dieof a broken heart, though I prayed you to come with me. It was myhusband whom you killed; and now, but for you my boy would be living. "

"Nea, Nea, " he wailed again; "my only child, Nea;" but as she turned, moved by the concentrated agony of his voice, he fell with his facedownward on the couch, across the feet of his dead grandson. 

 * * * * *

The doctors who were summoned said that a paralytic seizure had longbeen impending; he might linger for a few weeks, but it was impossibleto say whether he would ever recover full consciousness again. 

Erle heard them sadly; he had been very fond of the old man in spiteof the tyrannical sway that had ruled him from boyhood. His uncle hadbeen his generous benefactor, and he could not hear of his dangerwithout emotion. 

Mrs. Trafford had not left the house from the moment of her father'salarming seizure; she had taken quiet possession of the sick-room, andhad only left it to follow her boy to the grave. Fern was there too, but Erle did not speak to her; the crape veil hid her face, and hecould only see the gleam of her fair hair shining in the winterysunlight. The two women had stood together, Fern holding her mother'shand; and when the service was over, Mrs. Trafford had gone back toBelgrave House, and some kindly neighbor had taken the girl home. Erlewould gladly have spoken some word of sympathy, but Mrs. Trafford gavehim no opportunity. Neither of them knew how sadly and wistfully thepoor girl looked after them. Erle's changed looks, his paleness anddepression made Fern's heart still heavier; she had not known that hehad loved Percy so. She had no idea that it was the sight of her ownslim young figure moving between the graves that made Erle look sosad. She was dearer to him than ever, he told himself, as they droveaway from the cemetery; and he hated himself as he said it. 

He had not seen Evelyn since Percy's death. She was staying at somecountry house with her aunt, Lady Maltravers, where he was to havejoined them; but of course this was impossible under thecircumstances; and though he did not like to own to himself that herabsence was a relief, he took the opportunity of begging her not tohurry back to London on his account, as his time was so fully occupiedwith necessary business and watching his poor uncle that he would notbe free to come to her. 

Evelyn sighed as she read the letter; it sounded a little cold to her. If she were in Erle's place she would have wanted him to come at once. Was it not her right, as his promised wife, to be beside him and tryto comfort him? How could she have the heart for these hollowgayeties, knowing that he was sad and troubled? If it had been left toher, she would not have postponed their marriage; she would have goneto church quietly with him, and then have returned with him toBelgrave House to nurse the invalid; but her aunt had seemed shockedat the notion, and Erle had never asked her to do so. 

Evelyn was as much in love as ever, but her engagement had notsatisfied her; every one told her what a perfect lover Erle was--sodevoted, so generous. Indeed, he was perfection in her eyes, but stillsomething was lacking. Outwardly she could find no fault with him, butthere were times when she feared that she did not make him happy; andyet, if she ever told him so, he would overwhelm her with kindaffectionate speeches. 

Yes, he was fond of her; but why was he so changed and quiet when theywere alone together? What had become of the frank sunshiny look, themerry laugh, the careless indolence that had always belonged to Erle?She never seemed to hear his laugh now; his light-hearted jokes, andqueer provoking speeches, were things of the past. He was older, graver; and sometimes she fancied there was a careworn look on hisface. He was always very indignant if she hinted at this--he alwaysrefuted such accusations with his old eagerness; but neverthelessEvelyn often felt oppressed by a sense of distance, as though the realErle were eluding her. The feeling was strong upon her when she readthat letter; and the weeks of separation that followed were scarcelyhappy ones. 

And still worse, their first meeting was utterly disappointing. He hadcome to the station to welcome them, and seen after their luggage, andhad questioned about their journey; his manner had been perfectlykind, but there had been no eager glow of welcome in his eyes. LadyMaltravers said he looked ill and wearied, and Evelyn felt wretched. But it was the few minutes during which her aunt had left themtogether that disappointed her most; he had not taken the seat by herat once, but had stood looking moodily into the fire; and though ather first word he had tried to rouse himself, the effort was painfullyevident. "He is not happy; there is something on his mind, " thoughtthe poor girl, watching him. "There is something that has come betweenus, and that he fears to tell me. "

Just then he looked up, and their eyes met. 

"I am afraid I am awfully stupid this evening, Eva, " he said, apologetically; "but I was up late with Uncle Rolf last night. "

"Yes, " she answered, gently; "I know you have had a terrible time; howI longed to be with you and help you. I did not enjoy myself at all. Poor Mr. Huntingdon; but as you told Aunt Adela, he is not reallyworse. "

"No, he is just the same; perhaps a trifle more conscious and weaker;that is all. "

"And there is no hope?"

"None; all the doctors agree in saying that. His health has beenbreaking for years, and the sudden shock was too much for him. No; itis no use deceiving ourselves; no change can happen but the worst. "

"Poor Mrs. Trafford. "

"Ah, you would say so if you could see her; Percy's death has utterlybroken her down; but she is very brave, and will not spare herself. Wethink Uncle Rolf knows her, and likes to have her near him; he alwaysseems restless and uneasy if she leaves the room. But indeed thedifficulty is to induce her to take needful rest. "

"You are looking ill yourself, dear Erle, " she returned, tenderly; butat that moment Lady Maltravers re-entered, and Erle looked at hiswatch. 

"I must go now, " he said, hastily; and though Evelyn followed him outinto the corridor there were no fond lingering words. "Good-bye, Eva;take care of yourself, " he said, kissing her; and then he went away, and Evelyn went back into the room with a heavy heart. He had beenvery kind, but he had not once said that he was glad to see her back;and again she told herself that something had come between them. 

But there was no opportunity for coming to any understanding, for theshadows were closing round Belgrave House, and the Angel of Death wasstanding before the threshold. 

Ah! the end was drawing near now. Mr. Huntingdon was dying. 

He had never recovered consciousness, or seemed to recognize the facesround him; not even his favorite Erle, or the daughter who fed andsoothed him like an infant; and yet in a dim sort of way he seemedconscious of her presence. He would wail after her if she left him, and his withered hands would grope upon the coverlet in a feeble, restless way, but never once did he articulate her name. 

He was dying fast, they told Erle, when he had returned home thatnight; and he had gone up at once to the sickroom and had not left itagain. 

Mrs. Trafford was sitting by the bed as usual. She was rubbing thecold wrinkled hands, and speaking to him in a low voice; she turnedher white, haggard face to Erle as he entered, and motioned him to bequiet, and then again her eyes were fixed on the face of the dyingman. Oh! if he would only speak to her one word, if she could onlymake him understand that she forgave him now!

"I have sinned, " he had said to her, "but in the presence of the deadthere should be peace;" but she had answered him with bitterness; andthen he had fallen across the feet of his dead grandson, with his grayhead stricken to the dust with late repentance. And yet he was herfather! She stooped over him now and wiped the death dews from hisbrow; and at that moment another scene rose unbidden to her mind. 

She was kneeling beside her husband; she was holding him in her arms, and he was panting out his life on her bosom. 

"Nea, " she heard him say again in his weak, gasping voice, "do not behard on your father. We have done wrong, and I am dying; but, thankGod, I believe in the forgiveness of sins;" and then he had asked herto kiss him; and as her lips touched his he died. 

"Father, " she whispered, as she thought of Maurice. "Father!"

The fast glazing eyes turned to her a moment and seemed to brighteninto consciousness. 

"He is looking at you--he knows you, Mrs. Trafford. "

Ah, he knows her at last; what is it he is saying?

"Come home with your own Nea, father--with your own Nea; your onlychild, Nea;" and as she bends over him to soothe him, the old man'shead drops heavily on her shoulder. Mr. Huntingdon was dead. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

EVELYN'S REVENGE. 

 Look deeper still. If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back While I have stalked a whole. Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. 

 Is there within thy heart a need That mine can not fulfill? One chord that any other hand Could better wake, or still? Speak now--lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. 

 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 

Evelyn Selby stood at the window, one afternoon about three weeksafter Mr. Huntingdon's death, looking out on the snowy gardens of thesquare, where two rosy-faced lads were pelting each other withsnow-balls. 

She was watching them, seemingly absorbed in their merry play; butevery now and then her eyes glanced wistfully toward the entrance ofthe square with the sober expectancy of one who has waited long, andis patient; but weary. 

Erle had once owned to Fay, in a fit of enthusiasm, that Evelyn Selbywas as good as she was beautiful; and it was true. Placed side by sidewith Fern Trafford, and deprived of all extraneous ornament of dressand fashion; most people would have owned that the young patricianbore the palm. Fern's sweet face would have suffered eclipse besideher rival's radiant bloom and graceful carriage; and yet a little ofthe bloom had been dimmed of late, and the brown eyes had lost theirbrightness. 

As a well-known figure crossed the square, she turned from the windowwith a sigh of relief; "at last, " she murmured, as she sat down andmade a pretense of busying herself with some fancy work; but it layunheeded on her lap as Erle entered and sat down beside her. 

"I am afraid I am very late this afternoon, Eva, " he said, taking herhand. "Mrs. Trafford wanted to speak to me, and so I went up to herroom; we had so much business to settle. She has given me a great dealof trouble, poor woman; but I think I shall have my way at last. "

"You mean about the money?"

"Yes; I think she will be induced to let me set aside a yearly sum forher maintenance. She says it is only for her children's sake if sheaccept it; but I fear the truth is that she feels her strength hasgone, and that she can not work for them any longer. "

"And she will not take the half?"

"No; not even a quarter; though I tell her that so much wealth will bea heavy burden to me. Eight hundred a year--that is all she willaccept, and it is to be settled on her children. Eight hundred; it isa mere pittance. "

"Yes; but she and her daughters will live very comfortably on that;think how poor they have been; indeed, dear, I think you may besatisfied that you have done the right thing; and after all, youruncle wished you to have the money. "

"I do not care about it, " with a stifled sigh. "We shall be awfullyrich, Eva; but I suppose women like that sort of thing. I shall beable to buy you that diamond pendant now that you so admired. "

"No, no; I do not want it; you give me too many presents. Tell me, Erle, does Miss Trafford come to see her mother, now she is ill?"

"Yes, of course; but I never see her, " he answered so quickly thatEvelyn looked at him in surprise. "I have not spoken to her once sinceUncle Rolf's death--the lawyers keep me so busy; and I never go intothe sick-room unless I am specially invited. "

"But poor Mrs. Trafford is better now. "

"Yes; and Doctor Connor says that it will be better for her to beanywhere than at Belgrave House. We want to persuade her to go down toHastings for the rest of the winter. When I see Miss Trafford, I meanto speak to her about it; but"--interrupting himself hurriedly--"nevermind all that now; you told me in your letter that you wanted to speakto me particularly. What is it, Eva?" looking at her very kindly. 

"Yes; I have long wanted to speak to you, " she returned, dropping hereyes, and he could see that she was much agitated. "Erle, you must notmisunderstand me; I am finding no fault with you. You are always goodto me--no one could be kinder; but you are not treating me withperfect frankness. "

"What do you mean?" he asked, astonished at this, for no suspicion ofher meaning dawned upon him. "You have no fault to find with me. Surely want of frankness is a fault?"

"Yes, but I think it is only your thought for me. You are so anxiousthat everything should be made smooth and bright for me, that you donot give me your full confidence, Erle"--pressing closer to him, andlooking up in his face with her clear, loving eyes. "Do you think thatI can love you so and not notice how changed you have been oflate--how pale and care-worn? though you have tried to hide from methat you were unhappy. "

He pulled his mustache nervously, but he could not answer her. 

"How often I have watched for you, " she continued, "when your pooruncle's illness has detained you, and have seen you cross the squarewith your head bent and such a sad look on your face; and yet, when wemeet, you have nothing for me but pleasant words, as though mypresence had dispelled the cloud. "

"And why not, Eva? do you think your bright face would not charm awayany melancholy mood?" But she turned away as though not noticing thelittle compliment. He was always making these pretty speeches to her, but just now they jarred on her. It was truth--his wholeconfidence--that she wanted; and no amount of soft words could satisfyher. 

"You are always good to me--always, " she went on; "but you do not tellme all that is in your heart. When no one is speaking to you, I oftensee such a tired, harassed look on your face, and yet you will nevertell me what is troubling you, dear; when we come together--when youmake me your wife, will our life be always unclouded; am I to sharenone of your cares and perplexities then?"

He was silent; how was he to answer her?

"It would not be a true marriage, " she continued, in a low, vehementtone, "if you did not think me worthy to share your thoughts. Erle, you are not treating me well; why do you not tell me frankly whatmakes you so unlike yourself. Can you look me in the face and tell methat you are perfectly happy and satisfied?"

"I am very fond of you; what makes you talk like this, Eva?" but hiseyelids drooped uneasily, How was he to meet those candid eyes andtell her that he was happy--surely the lie would choke him--when heknew that he was utterly miserable. 

"Erle, " she said in a low voice, and her face became very pale, "youdo not look at me, and somehow your manner frightens me; you are fondof me, you say--a few months ago you asked me to be your wife; can youtake my hand now and tell me, as I understood you to tell me then, that I am dearer to you than any one else in the world?"

"You have no right to put such a question, " he returned, angrily. "Youhave no right to doubt me. I have not deserved this, Eva. "

"No right!" and now her face grew paler. "I think I have the right, Erle. You do not wish to answer the question; that is because some onehas come between us. It is true, then, that there is some one dearerto you than I am?"

He hid his face in his hands. No, he could not lie to her. Was notFay's miserable exile a warning to him against marriage withoutconfidence. He would have spared her if he could, but her love was tookeen-eyed. He could not take her hand and perjure his soul with a lie;he loved her, but he could not tell her that she was the dearest thingin the world to him. 

It all came out presently. He never knew how he told it, but the sadlittle story of his love for Fern Trafford got itself told at last. Poor Erle, he whose heart was so pitiful that he forbore to tread onthe insect in his path, now found himself compelled to hurt--perhapswound fatally--the girl who had given him her heart. 

Evelyn heard him silently to the end. The small white hands werecrushed together in her lap, and her face grew white and set as shelistened; but when he had finished, and sat there looking so downcast, so ashamed, so unlike himself, her clear, unfaltering voice made himraise his eyes in astonishment. "I thank you for this confidence;if--if--" and here her lips quivered, "we had been married, and youhad told me then, I think it would have broken my heart; but now--itis better now. "

"And you can forgive me, dear; you can be sorry for me? Oh, Eva! ifyou will only trust me, all may yet be well. I shall be happier nowyou know the truth. "

"There is nothing to forgive, " she answered, quickly; "it is no faultof yours, my poor Erle, and you were always good to me--no, " as hetried to interrupt her, "we will not talk of it any more to-day; myhead aches, and of course it has upset me. I want to think over whatyou have said. It seems"--and here she caught her breath--"as though Ican hardly believe it. Will you go away now, dear, and come to meto-morrow? To-morrow we shall see how far we can trust each other. "

"I must go away if you send me, " he answered, humbly; and then he gotup and walked to the door. He had never felt more wretched in hislife. She had not reproached him, but all the color and life had goneout of her face. She had spoken so mildly, so gently to him. Would sheforgive him, and would everything be as though this had neverhappened? "Oh, Erle, will you not wish me good-bye?" and then for amoment the poor girl felt as though her heart were breaking. Was shenothing to him after all?

At her words Erle quickly retraced his steps. "Forgive me, Eva, " hesaid, and there were tears in his eyes; "I am not myself, you know;all this takes it out of a man. " And then he stooped over her asthough to take her in his arms. 

For an instant she shrunk from him; then she lifted up her face andkissed him. "Good-bye, Erle, " she said, "good-bye, my darling. No onewill ever love you as I have loved you. " And then, as he looked at herwistfully, she released herself and quietly left the room, and no onesaw Evelyn Selby again that night. 

 * * * * *

The following afternoon Fern stood by the window, looking out on thewhite, snowy road sparkling with wintery sunlight. Her little blackbonnet lay on the table beside her, and the carriage that had broughther from Belgrave House had just driven away from the door. Erle hadgiven special orders that it was to be at Miss Trafford's service, andevery morning the handsome bays and powdered footman drew a youthfulcrowd round the side door of Mrs. Watkins's. Sometimes Fern enteredthe carriage alone, but very often her little sister was with her. Fluff reveled in those drives; her quaint remarks and ejaculationsoften brought a smile to Fern's sad lips. 

Those visits to Belgrave House were very trying to the girl. Mrs. Trafford used to sigh as she watched her changing color and absentlooks. A door closing in the distance, the sound of a footstep in thecorridor, made her falter and turn pale. But she need not have feared;Erle never once crossed her path. She would hear his voice sometimes, but they never once came face to face. Only one day Fern saw a shadowcross the hall window as she got into the carriage, and felt with abeating heart that Erle was watching her. 

That very morning her mother had been speaking to her of Erle'sgenerosity; indeed the subject could not be avoided. "He wanted me totake half his fortune, " Mrs. Trafford had said, with some emotion; "heis bitterly disappointed at the smallness of the sum I named; do youthink I am right to take anything, Fern? My darling, it is for yoursake, and because I have no more strength for work, and I feel I canno longer endure privation for my children. "

"I think you are right, mother; it would not be kind to refuse, " Fernreturned, quietly; and then she tried to feel some interest in theplans Mrs. Trafford was making for the future. They would go down toHastings for the rest of the winter--Fern had never seen the sea--andthen they would look out for some pretty cottage in the country wherethey could keep poultry and bees, and perhaps a cow, and Fern and shecould teach in the village school, and make themselves very busy; andthe mother's pale face twitched as she drew this little picture, forthere was no responsive light in the soft gray eyes, and the frank, beautiful mouth was silent. 

"Yes, mother, " she at last answered, throwing her arms round hermother's neck; "and I will spend my whole life in taking care of you. "

She was thinking over this conversation now, as she looked out at thesnow, when her attention was attracted by a private brougham, with acoronet on the panel, that stopped before Mrs. Watkins's, and the nextmoment a tall girl, very quietly dressed, entered the house. 

Fern's heart beat quickly. Was it possible that it could be MissSelby? But before she could ask herself the question, there was alight tap at the door, and the girl had entered, and was holding outboth her hands to Fern. 

"Miss Trafford, will you forgive this intrusion? But I feel as thoughwe knew each other without any introduction. I am Evelyn Selby; I daresay you have heard my name from"--with a pause--"Mr. Huntingdon. "

"Oh, yes, I have heard of you, " returned Fern, with a sudden blush. This was Erle's future wife, then--this girl with the tall gracefulfigure and pale high-bred face that, in spite of its unusual paleness, looked very beautiful in Fern's eyes. Ah, no wonder he loved her!Those clear brown eyes were very candid and true. There could be nocomparison between them--none!

She had little idea that Evelyn was saying to herself, "What a sweetface! Erle never told me how lovely she was. Oh, my darling, how couldyou help it? but you shall not be unhappy any longer!"

"Of course I knew who it was, " went on Fern, gently; "you are the MissSelby whom Mr. Erle is to marry. It is very kind of you to come andsee me. "

Oh, the bitter flush that passed over Evelyn's face; but she onlysmiled faintly. "Do you know, it is you who have to do me a kindness. It is such a lovely afternoon, and you are alone. I want you to put onthat bonnet again and have a drive with me; the park is delicious, andwe could have our talk all the same. No, you must not refuse, " as Ferncolored and hesitated at this unexpected request; "do me this littlefavor--it is the first I have ever asked you. " And Fern yielded. 

That drive seemed like a dream to Fern. The setting sun was shiningbetween the bare trees in the park, and giving rosy flushes to thesnow. Now and then a golden aisle seemed to open; there was a gleam ofblue ice in the distance. Miss Selby talked very quietly, chiefly ofMr. Huntingdon's death and Mrs. Trafford's sudden failure of strength. But as the sunset tints faded and the gray light of evening began toveil everything, and the gas-lights twinkled, and the horses' feetrang out on the frozen road, Evelyn leaned back wearily in her placeand relapsed into silence. Either the task she had set herself washarder than she thought, or her courage was failing; but the bravelips were quivering sadly in the dusk. 

But as the carriage stopped, she suddenly roused herself. "Ah, are wehere?" she said, with a little shiver; "I did not think we should behome so soon. " Then turning to the perplexed Fern, she took her handgently. "You must have some tea with me, and then the brougham shalltake you back;" and, without listening to her frightened remonstrance, she conducted her through a large, brilliantly lighted hall and down anarrow corridor, while one of the servants preceded them and threwopen a door of a small room, bright with fire-light and lamp-light, where a pretty tea-table was already set. 

Fern did not hear the whispered order that Miss Selby gave to theservant, and both question and reply were equally lost on her. "Do notsay I have any one with me, " she said, as the man was about to leavethe room; and then she coaxed Fern to take off her bonnet, and pouredher out some tea, and told her that she looked pale and tired. "Butyou must have a long rest; and, as Aunt Adela is out, you need not beafraid that you will have to talk to strangers. This is my privatesanctum, and only my special friends come here. "

"I ought to be going home, " replied Fern, uneasily; for the thoughthad suddenly occurred to her that Erle might come and find her there, and then what would he think. As this doubt crossed her mind, she sawMiss Selby knit her brow with a sudden expression of pain; and thenext moment those light ringing footsteps, that Fern often heard inher dreams, sounded in the corridor. 

Fern put down her cup and rose; "I must go now, " she said, unsteadily. But as she stretched out her hand for her bonnet, Erle was already inthe room, and was looking from one pale face to the other inundisguised amazement. 

"Miss Trafford!" he exclaimed, as though he could not believe hiseyes; but Evelyn quietly went up to him and laid her hand on his arm. 

"Yes, I have brought her. I asked her to drive with me, and she neverguessed the reason; I could not have persuaded her to come if she had. Dear Erle, I know your sense of honor, and that you would never freeyourself; but now I give you back this"--drawing the diamond ring fromher finger; "it is Miss Trafford's, not mine. I can not keep anotherwoman's property. "

"Eva, " he remonstrated, following her to the door, for she seemedabout to leave them; "I will not accept this sacrifice; I refuse to beset free, " but she only smiled at him. 

"Go to her, Erle, " she whispered, "she is worthy even of you; I wouldnot marry you now even if she refused you, but"--with a look ofirrepressible tenderness--"she will not refuse you;" and before hecould answer her she was gone. 

And Fern, looking at them through a sudden mist, tried to followEvelyn, but either she stumbled or her strength forsook her. But allat once she found herself in Erle's arms, and pressed closely to him. 

"Did you hear her, my darling?" he said, as the fair head drooped onhis shoulder; "she has given us to each other--she has set me free tolove you. Oh, Fern, I tried so hard to do my duty to her; she was goodand true, and I was fond of her--I think she is the noblest woman onGod's earth--but it was you I loved, and she found out I wasmiserable, and now she refuses to marry me; and--and--will you not sayone word to me, my dearest?"

How was she to speak to him when her heart was breaking withhappiness--when her tears were falling so fast that Erle had to kissthem away. Could it be true that he was really beside her; that out ofthe mist and gloom her prince had come to her; that the words she hadpined to hear from his lips were now caressing her ear. 

But Evelyn went up to her room. 

It is not ordained in this life that saints and martyrs should walkthe earth with a visible halo round their heads; yet, when such womenas Margaret Ferrers and Evelyn Selby go on their weary way silentlyand uncomplaining, surely their guardian angel carries an unseennimbus with which to crown them in another world. 

CHAPTER XL. 

AUNT JEANIE'S GUEST. 

 The cooing babe a veil supplied, And if she listened none might know, Or if she sighed; Or if forecasting grief and care, Unconscious solace then she drew, And lulled her babe, and unaware Lulled sorrow too. 

 JEAN INGELOW. 

All the winter Fay remained quietly at the old Manse, tenderly watchedover by her kind old friend and faithful Jean. 

For many weeks, indeed months, her want of strength and wearylistlessness caused Mrs. Duncan great anxiety. She used to shake herhead and talk vaguely to Jean of young folk who had gone into a wastewith naught but fretting, and had been in their graves before theirfriends realized that they were ill; to which Jean would reply, "'Deedand it is the truth, mistress; and I am thinking it is time that Mrs. St. Clair had her few 'broth. '" For all Jean's sympathy foundexpression in deeds, not words. 

Jean seldom dealt largely in soft words; she was somewhat brisk andsharp of tongue--a bit biting, like her moorland breezes in wintertime. In spite of her reverential tenderness for Fay, she would chideher quite roughly for what she called her fretting ways. She almostsnatched the baby away from her one day when Fay was crying over him. 

"Ah, my bonny man, " she said, indignantly, "would your mither raintears down on your sweet face, and make you sair-hearted before yourtime? Whisht, then, my bairn, and Jean will catch the sunshine foryou;" and Jean danced him vigorously before the window, while Faypenitently dried her eyes. 

"Oh, Jean, give him back to me. I did not mean to make him cry; thetears will come sometimes, and I can not keep them back. I will try tobe good--I will, indeed. "

But baby Hugh had no wish to go back to his mother; he was crowing andpulling Jean's flaxen hair, and would not heed Fay's sad littleblandishments. 

"The bairns are like auld folks, " remarked Jean, triumphant at hersuccess, and eager to point a moral; "they can not bide what is notbright. There is a time for everything, as Solomon says, 'a time tomourn and a time to dance;' but there is never a time for a bairn tobe sair-hearted; neither nature nor Solomon would hold with that, asMaster Fergus would say. Ech, sirs! but he is a fine preacher, isMaster Fergus. "

Fay took Jean's reproof very humbly. She shed no more tears when herbaby was in her arms. It was touching to see how she strove to banishher grief, that the baby smiles might not be dimmed. Jean would nodher head with grim approval over her pile of finely ironed things asshe heard Fay singing in a low sweet voice, and the baby's delightedcoos answering her. A lump used to come in Jean's throat, and asuspicious moisture to her keen blue eyes, as she would open the doorin the twilight and see the child-mother kneeling down beside theold-fashioned cradle, singing him to sleep. "He likes the songs aboutthe angels best, " Fay would say, looking up wistfully in Jean's face. "I sing him all my pretty songs, only not the sad ones. I am sure heloves me to do it. "

"May be the bairn does not know his mither apart from the womenangels, " muttered Jean, in a gruff aside, as she laid down her pile ofdainty linen. Jean knew more than any one else; she could have toldher mistress, if she chose, that it was odd that all Mrs. St. Clair'slinen was marked "F. Redmond. " But she kept her own counsel. 

Jean would not have lifted a finger to restore Fay to her husband. Theblunt Scotch handmaiden could not abide men--"a puir-hearted, fecklesslot, " as she was wont to say. Of course the old master and Mr. Ferguswere exceptions to this. Jean worshiped her master; and though sheheld the doctrine of original sin, would never have owned that Mr. Fergus had a fault. But to the rest of mankind she was suspiciouslyuncharitable. "To think he drove her from him--the puir bit lammie, "she would say; "and yet the law can't have the hanging of him. Redmond, indeed! but he won't own to any such name. It is lucky theold mistress is not ower sharp-sighted--but there, such an idea wouldnever get into her head. "

Fay's secret was quite safe with Jean, and, as the weeks and monthswent on, a feeling of utter security came over her. She hardly knewhow time passed. There were hours when she did not always feelunhappy. The truth was, she was for a long time utterly benumbed bypain; a total collapse of mind and body had ensued on her flight fromher home. She had suffered too much for her age and strength. SirHugh's alarming illness, and her suspense and terror, had beenfollowed by the shock of hearing from his own lips of his love andengagement to Margaret; and, before she could rally her forces to bearthis new blow, her baby had been born. 

Fay used to wonder sometimes at her own languid indifference. "Am Ireally able to live without Hugh?" she would say to herself. "I thoughtit must have killed me long ago, knowing that he does not love me; butsomehow I do not feel able to think of it all; and when I go to bed Ifall asleep. "

Fay was mercifully unconscious of her own heart-break, though the lookin her eyes often made Mrs. Duncan weep. When she grew a littlestronger her old restlessness returned, and she went beyond the gardenand the orchard. She never wandered about the village, people seemedto stare at her so; but her favorite haunt was the falls. There was asteep little path by a wicket-gate that led to a covered rustic bench, where Fay could see the falls above her shooting down like a silverstreak from under the single graceful arch of the road-way; notfalling sheer down, but broken by many a ledge and bowlder of blackrock, where in summer-time the spray beat on the long delicate frondsof ferns. 

Fay remembered how she used to stroll through the under-wood andgather the slender blue and white harebells that came peeping out ofthe green moss, or hunted for the waxy blossoms of the bell-heather;how lovely the place had looked then, with the rowans or witchens, asthey called them--the mountain ash of the south, drooping over thewater, laden heavily with clusters of coral-like berries, sometimestinging the snowy foam with a faint rose-tint, and fringed in thebackground with larch and silver birch; the whole mass of luxuriantfoliage nearly shutting out the little strip of sky which gleamedpearly blue through a delicate network of leaves. 

It was an enchanting spot in summer or autumn, but even in winter Fayloved it; its solitude and peacefulness fascinated her. But one dayshe found its solitude invaded. She had been some months at the Manse, but she had not once spoken to the young minister during his briefvisits. She had kept to her room with a nervous shrinking fromstrangers; but she had watched him sometimes, between the services, pacing up and down the garden as though he were thinking deeply. 

He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a plain, strong-featured face as rugged as his own mountains; but his keen grayeyes could look soft enough at times, as pretty Lilian Graham knewwell; for the willful little beauty had been unable to say no to himas she did her other lovers. It was not easy to bid Fergus Duncan goabout his business when he had made up his mind to bide, and as theyoung minister had decidedly made up his mind that Lilian Grahamshould be his promised wife, he got his way in that; and Lilian grewso proud and fond of him that she never found out how completely heruled her, and how seldom she had her own will. 

Fay heard with some dismay that Mr. Fergus was coming to live at theManse after Christmas; she would have to see him at meals, and in theevening, and would have no excuse for retiring into her room. Now, ifany visitor came to the Manse, Lilian Graham, or one of hersisters--for there were seven strapping lasses at the farm, and notone of them wed yet, as Mrs. Duncan would say--Fay would take refugein the kitchen, or sit in the minister's room--anything to avoid thecurious eyes and questioning that would have awaited her in theparlor; but now if Mr. Fergus lived there, Lilian Graham would bealways there too. 

Mr. Fergus was rather curious about Aunt Jeanie's mysterious guest. Hehad caught sight of Mrs. St. Clair once or twice at the window, andhad been much struck with her appearance of youth; and his remark, after first seeing her in the little kirk, had been, "Why, AuntJeanie, Mrs. St. Clair looks quite a child; how could any one callinghimself a man ill-use a little creature like that;" for Mrs. Duncanhad carefully infused into her nephew's ear a little fabled account ofFay's escape from her husband, to which he listened with Scotchcaution and a good deal of incredulity. "Depend upon it, there arefaults on both sides, " he returned, obstinately. "We do not deal invillains now-a-days. You are so soft, Aunt Jeanie; you always believewhat people tell you. I should like to have a talk with Mrs. St. Clair; indeed, I think it my duty as a minister to remonstrate with ayoung wife when she has left her husband. "

"Oh, you will frighten the bit lassie, Fergus, if you speak and lookso stern, " replied his aunt in an alarmed voice. "You see you are onlya lad yourself, and may be Lilian wouldn't care to have you so readywith your havers with a pretty young thing like Mrs. St. Clair. Betterleave her to Jean and me. " But she might as well have spoken to thewind, for the young minister had made up his mind that it was his dutyto shepherd this stray lamb. 

He had already spoken out his mind to Lilian; the poor little girl hadbeen much overpowered by the sight of Fay in the kirk. Fay's beautyhad made a deep impression on her; and the knowledge that herbetrothed would be in daily contact with this dainty piece ofloveliness was decidedly unpalatable to her feelings. 

Lilian was quite aware of her own charms; her dimples and sweetyouthful bloom had already brought many a lover to her feet; but shewas a sensible little creature in spite of her vanity, and she knewthat she could not compare with Mrs. St. Clair any more than painteddelf could compare with porcelain. 

So first she pouted and gave herself airs when her lover came to thefarm, and then, when he coaxed her, she burst into a flood of honesttears, and bewailed herself because Fergus was to live up at theManse, when no one knew who Mrs. St. Clair might be, for all she had aface like a picture. 

"Oh, oh, I see now, " returned Fergus, with just the gleam of a smilelighting up his rugged face; "it is just a piece of jealousy, Lilian, because Mrs. St. Clair--to whom I have never spoken, mind you--happensto be a prettier girl than yourself"--which was wicked and impoliticof Fergus. 

"But you will be speaking to her, and at every meal-time too, and allthe evenings when Mrs. Duncan is up in the minister's room; and it isnot what I call fair, Fergus, with me down at the farm, and you alwaysup in arms if I venture to give more than a good-day to the lads. "

"Well, you see you belong to me, Lilian, and I am a careful man andlook after my belongings. Mrs. St. Clair is one of my flock now, and Imust take her in hand. Whisht, lassie, " as Lilian averted her face andwould not look at him, "have you such a mean opinion of me that youthink I am not to be trusted to look at any woman but yourself, and Ia minister with a cure of souls; that is a poor look-out for ourwedded life. " And here Fergus whispered something that brought thedimples into play again; and after a little more judicious coaxing, Lilian was made to understand that ministers were not just like othermen, and must be suffered to go their "ain gait. "

And the upshot of this conversation was that Fay found herselfconfronted at the wooden gate one day by a tall, broad-shoulderedyoung man, who she knew was the young minister. Of course he was goingto see the falls, and she was about to pass him with a slight bow, when he stopped her and offered his hand. "I think we know each other, Mrs. St. Clair, without any introduction. I am Fergus Duncan, and Ihave long wanted to be acquainted with Aunt Jeanie's guest;" and thenhe held open the gate and escorted her back to the Manse. 

Fay could not find fault with the young man's bluntness; she had noright to hold herself aloof from Mrs. Duncan's nephew. He must knowhow she had avoided him all these months, but he seemed toogood-humored to resent it. He talked to her very pleasantly about theweather and the falls and his uncle's health, and Fay answered himwith her usual gentleness. 

They parted in the porch mutually pleased with each other; but theyoung man drew a long breath when he found himself alone. 

"Ech, sirs! as Jean says, but this is the bonniest lass I have everset eyes on. Poor little Lilian! no wonder she felt herself a bitupset. Come, I must get to the bottom of this; Aunt Jeanie is too softfor anything. Why, the sables she wore were worth a fortune; and whenshe took off her gloves her diamond and emerald rings fairly blindedone. "

Fergus arrived at the Manse with all his traps about a fortnight afterthis; and when the first few days were over, Fay discovered that shehad no reason to dislike Mr. Fergus's company. 

He was always kind and good-natured, and took a great deal of noticeof the baby. Indeed, he never seemed more content than when baby Hughwas on his knee, pulling his coarse reddish hair, and gurglinggleefully over this new game. Fay began to like him very much when shehad seen him with her boy; and after that he found little trouble indrawing her into conversation. 

His first victory was inducing her to make friends with Lilian. Fay, who shrunk painfully from strangers, acceded very nervously to thisrequest. But when Lilian came, her shy, pretty manners won Fay'sheart, and the two became very fond of each other. 

Fergus used to have long puzzled talks with Aunt Jeanie about herprotégé. "What is to be done about Mrs. St. Clair when Lilian and Iare married?" he would ask; "the Manse can not hold us all. "

"Eh, lad, that is what Jean and me often say; but then the summer isnot here yet, and may be we can find a cottage in Rowan-Glen, andthere is Mrs. Dacre over at Corrie that would house them for a bit. Mrs. St. Clair was speaking to me about it yesterday. 'Where do theymean to live when they are married?' she says, quite sensible-like. 'Is there anywhere else I can go to make room for them?' And then shecried, poor bairn, and said she would like to stay in Rowan-Glen. "

"Mrs. St. Clair, " observed Fergus one day, looking up from hiswriting, "don't you think people will be talking if you stay away fromyour husband any longer?" for he had once before said a word to her onthe subject, only Fay had been hysterical and had begged him not to goon. 

"Oh, " she said, turning very pale, and dropping her work, "why willyou speak to me of my husband, Mr. Fergus?"

"Because I think you ought to go back to him, " he replied, in a quiet, business-like tone; "it is a wife's duty to forgive--and how do youknow that your husband has not bitterly repented driving you away fromhim. Would you harden your heart against a repentant man?"

"My husband does not want me, " she returned, and a spasm crossed herface. "Should I have left him if he wanted to keep me? 'One of us mustgo, ' that is what he said. "

"Are you sure you understood him?" asked Fergus, but he felt at themoment as though it would relieve his feelings to knock that fellowdown; "a man can say a thing when he is angry which he would be sorryto mean in his cooler moments. "

"I saw it written, " was the low answer; then, with an effort tosilence him, "Mr. Fergus, you do not know my husband--you can notjudge between us. I was right to leave him; I could not do otherwise. "

"Was his name St. Clair?" he asked, somewhat abruptly; and as Fayreddened under his scrutinizing glance, he continued, rather sternly, "please do not say 'Yes' if it be untrue; you do not look as thoughyou could deceive any one. "

"My husband's name is St. Clair, " replied Fay, with as muchdispleasure as she could assume. "I am not obliged to tell you or anyone else that it is only his second name. I have reasons why I wish tokeep the other to myself. "

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair, " answered Fergus, moved to admiration bythis frankness and show of spirit; "believe me, it is through nofeeling of idle curiosity I put this question, but because I want tohelp you. "

"Yes, I know you are very good, " replied Fay, more gently. 

"If you would only trust us, and give us your confidence, " hecontinued, earnestly. "Aunt Jeanie is not a woman of the world, butshe has plenty of common sense; and forgive me if I say you are veryyoung, and may need guidance. You can not hide from us that you arevery unhappy, and that the husband you have left is still dear toyou--" But Fay could hear no more; she rose with a low sob and leftthe room, and Fergus's little homily on wifely forbearance was notfinished. 

It was so each time that he reopened the subject. Fay would listen upto a certain point, and seem touched by the young minister's kindnessand sympathy, but he could not induce her to open her heart to him. She was unhappy--yes, she allowed that; she had no wish to leave herhusband, but circumstances had been too strong for her, and nothingwould induce her to admit that she had done wrong. 

"Who would have thought that little creature had so much tenacity andwill, " Fergus said to himself, with a sort of vexed admiration, afterone of these conversations; "why, Lilian is a big woman compared toMrs. St. Clair, and yet my lassie has not a tithe of her spirit. Well, I'll bide my time; but it will not be my fault if I fail to have agrip of her yet. "

But the spring sunshine touched the ragged tops of Ben-muich-dhui andBen-na-hourd before Fergus got his "grip. "

He was taking his porridge one morning, with an English paper lyingbeside his plate, when he suddenly started, and seemed all at oncevery much absorbed in what he was reading. A few minutes afterward, when Fay was stooping over her boy, who lay on the carpet beside her, sprawling in the sunshine, he raised his eyes, and looked at herkeenly from under his bent brows; but he said nothing, and shortlyafterward went off to his study; and when he was alone, he spread outthe paper before him, and again studied it intently. 

A paragraph in the second column had attracted his attention--

 "A reward of two hundred pounds is offered to any person who can give such information of Lady Redmond and her child as may lead to them being restored to their friends. All communications to be forwarded to Messrs. Green and Richardson, Lincoln's Inn. "

And just above--

 "Fay, your husband entreats you to return to your home, or at least relieve his anxiety with respect to you and the child. Only come back, and all will be well. 

 "HUGH. "

"And Hugh is the baby's name. Ay, my lady, I think I have the grip ofyou at last, " muttered Fergus, as he drew the inkstand nearer to him. 

The next morning, Messrs. Green and Richardson received a lettermarked "private, " in which the writer begged to be furnished withoutdelay with full particulars of the appearance of the missing LadyRedmond, and her age and the age of the child; and the letter wassigned, "Fergus Duncan, the Manse, Rowan-Glen. "

CHAPTER XLI. 

UNDER THE ROWANS. 

 My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so thro' those dark gates across the wild That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come, * * * * *

 Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me. 

 TENNYSON'S _Princess_. 

Fergus was not kept long in suspense; his letter was answered byreturn of post. Messrs. Green and Richardson had been evidently struckwith the concise, businesslike note they had received, and they tookgreat pains in furnishing him with full particulars, and begged that, if he had any special intelligence to impart, he would write direct totheir client, Sir Hugh Redmond, Redmond Hall, Singleton. 

After studying Messrs. Green and Richardson's letter with most carefulattention, Fergus came to the conclusion that it would be as well towrite to Sir Hugh Redmond. He was very careful to post this letterhimself, and, though he confided in no one, thinking a secret isseldom safe with a woman, he could not hide from Lilian and AuntJeanie that he was "a bit fashed" about something. 

"For it is not like our Fergus, " observed the old lady, tenderly, "tobe stalking about the rooms and passages like a sair-hearted ghost. "

Sir Hugh was sitting over his solitary breakfast, with Pierre besidehim, when, in listlessly turning over his pile of letters, the Scotchpostmark on one arrested his attention, and he opened it with someeagerness. It was headed, "The Manse, Rowan-Glen, " and was evidentlywritten by a stranger; yes, he had never heard the name Fergus Duncan. 

 "DEAR SIR, " it commenced, "two or three days ago I saw your advertisement in the 'Standard, ' and wrote at once to your solicitors, Messrs. Green and Richardson, begging them to furnish me with the necessary particulars for identifying the person of Lady Redmond. The answer I received from them yesterday has decided me to act on their advice, and correspond personally with yourself. My aunt, Mrs. Duncan, has had a young married lady and her child staying with her all the winter. She calls herself Mrs. St. Clair, though I may as well tell you that she has owned to me that this is only her husband's second name"--here Hugh started, and a sudden flush crossed his face. 

 "She arrived quite unexpectedly last September. She had been at the Manse as a child, with her father, Colonel Mordaunt;" here Hugh dropped the letter and hid his face in his hands. "My God, I have not deserved this goodness, " rose to his lips; and then he hastily finished the sentence, "and she begged my aunt to shelter her and the child, as she had been obliged to leave her husband; and as she appeared very ill and unhappy, my aunt could not do otherwise. 

 "The particulars I have gleaned from Messrs. Green and Richardson's letter have certainly led me to the conclusion that Mrs. St. Clair is really Lady Redmond. Mrs. St. Clair is certainly not nineteen, and her baby is eleven months old; she is very small in person--indeed, in stature almost a child; and every item in the lawyer's letter is fully corroborated. 

 "We have not been able to gain any information from Mrs. St. Clair herself; she declines to explain why she has left her home, and only appears agitated when questions are put to her. Her fixed idea seems to be that her husband does not want her. Her health has suffered much from ceaseless fretting, but she is better now, and the child thrives in our mountain air. 

 "As the sight of your handwriting would only excite Mrs. St. Clair's suspicions, it would be as well to put your answer under cover, or telegraph your reply. I need not tell you that you will be welcome at the Manse, if you should think it well to come to Rowan-Glen--I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully, "FERGUS DUNCAN. "

A few hours later a telegram reached the Manse. 

 "I am on my way; shall be at the Manse to-morrow afternoon. No doubt of identity; unmarried name Mordaunt. 

 "H. REDMOND. "

"Aunt Jeanie must be taken into counsel now, " was Fergus's firstthought as he read the telegram; his second was, "better sleep on itfirst; women are dreadful hands at keeping a secret. She would befondling her with tears in her dear old eyes all the evening, and Mrs. St. Clair is none so innocent, in spite of Jean and Lilian calling hera woman-angel. Ay, but she is a bonnie lassie, though, andbrave-hearted as well, " and the young minister's eyes grew misty as heshut himself up in the study to keep himself safe from the temptationof telling Aunt Jeanie. 

He had a sore wrestle for it, though; but he prided himself on hiswisdom, when, after breakfast the next morning, he led the old ladyinto the study, and, after bidding her prepare for a shock, informedher that Mrs. St. Clair's husband, Sir Hugh Redmond, would be downthat very afternoon. 

He might well call Aunt Jeanie soft, to see her white curls shaketremulously, and the tears running down her faded cheeks. 

"Eh, my lad--eh, Fergus, " she sobbed, "Mrs. St. Clair's husband--thefather of her bairn. Oh, whatever will Jean say? she will be forrunning away and hiding them both--she can not bide the thought ofthat man. "

"Aunt Jeanie, " broke in Fergus in his most masterful voice, "I hopeyou will not be so foolish as to tell Jean; remember I have trustedthis to you because I know you are wise and sensible, and will helpme. We have made ourselves responsible for this poor child, and shallhave to account to Sir Hugh if we let her give us the slip. I havesaid all along that no doubt there were faults on both sides, only youwomen will take each other's parts. Now, I am off to the farm to seeLilian. Just tell Jean that I am expecting a friend, and she hadbetter choose a fine plump pair of chicks for supper; she will be forguessing it is Lothian or Dan Ambleby, or one of the old lot, and shewill be so busy with her scones and pasties that one will hardlyventure to cross the kitchen. " And then, begging her to be carefulthat Mrs. St. Clair might not guess anything from her manner, Fergusstrode off to the farm to share his triumph and perplexities withLilian. 

It was well for Aunt Jeanie that Fay was extremely busy that day, finishing a frock for her baby; so she sat in her own room all themorning at the window overlooking the orchard, and baby Hugh, asusual, crawled at her feet. 

He was a beautiful boy now, with the fresh, fair complexion of theRedmonds, with rough golden curls running over his head, and large, solemn gray eyes. Fay had taught him to say "dada, " and would coverhim with passionate kisses when the baby lips fashioned the words. "Yes, my little boy shall go home to his father some day, when he canrun about and speak quite plain, " she would tell him; and at thethought of that day, when she should give him up to Hugh, she wouldbury her face in the fat creasy neck, and wet it with tears. "How wouldshe ever live without her little child?" she thought; but she knew, for all that, that she would give him up. 

When Fergus returned to luncheon, he found Aunt Jeanie had workedherself almost into a fever--her pretty old face was flushed andtremulous, her eyes were dim when Fay came into the room carrying herboy. 

"He is far too heavy for you, Mrs. St. Clair, " exclaimed Fergus, hastening to relieve her. "I know mothers' arms are generally strong, but still this big fellow is no light weight. What are you going to dowith yourself this afternoon? Aunt Jeanie always takes a nap in UncleDonald's room, but I suppose you have not come to the age fornapping. "

"No, " returned Fay with a smile; "but Jean has finished herpreparation for the strange gentleman, and she wants to take baby downto Logill; Mrs. Mackay has promised her some eggs. It will do the boygood, will it not, Mrs. Duncan?" turning to the old lady; "and as Ihave been working all the morning, and it is such a lovely afternoon, I think I will go down to the falls. "

"That is an excellent idea, " returned Fergus with alacrity before hisaunt could answer. He had to put down the carver to rub his hands, hewas so pleased with the way things were turning out--Mrs. St. Clairsafely at the falls, where they knew exactly where to find her; Jean, with the boy and her basket of eggs comfortably occupied all theafternoon; and Aunt Jeanie obliged to stay with Uncle Donald. Why, hewould have the coast clear and no mistake. Sir Hugh would have nodifficulty in making his explanations with the Manse parlor empty ofits womankind. 

He had received a second telegram, and knew that the expected visitormight be looked for in an hour's time; but it was long before thatthat he saw Jean with the boy in one arm, and the basket on the other, strike out bravely down the Innery Road, from which a cross lane ledin the direction of the village where the accommodating Mrs. Mackaylived. 

A few minutes later Mrs. St. Clair passed the parlor window. It was alovely May day, and she wore a dainty spring dress--a creamy silkyfabric--and a little brown velvet hat, which particularly suited her. As she saw Fergus, she looked up and smiled, and then called Nero toorder as he scampered amongst the flower beds. 

"Ay, my lady, I have my grip of you now, " he observed, with a gleam inhis eyes, as he turned away. 

About twenty minutes later he heard the click of the gate, and saw atall, fair-bearded man, in a tweed traveling suit, walking up thesteep little path, and casting anxious glances at the windows. Mrs. Duncan saw him too. 

"Ay, but he is a goodly man, " she said, half aloud. "I like a man towalk as though all the world belongs to him;" and for the first time adoubt crossed her mind, whether Fay's childishness may not have beento blame; for Hugh Redmond's handsome face and frank, careless manneralways found favor in women's eyes. 

Fergus felt himself impressed by Sir Hugh's lordly bearing; he felt anawkward, raw-boned Scotchman beside this grand-looking aristocraticman. As he went out into the porch, Sir Hugh put out his hand, andsaid, in a quick, agitated voice, "Mr. Duncan, you have made me yourdebtor for life, but we will talk of that presently. Will you take meto my wife, please?"

"Certainly, but Mrs. St. Clair--Lady Redmond, I mean--has gone down tothe Rowans--the falls over yonder; shall we walk there at once, orwill you come in and rest a little?" moved by the pale harassed lookof the face before him. "You have had a long journey, Sir Hugh, andperhaps you would like to get rid of the dust. "

"No, I can not rest until I have seen my wife; you will understand myfeelings, I am sure, Mr. Duncan;" and Fergus took down his hat fromthe peg, and said gravely that he could well understand them. "It isonly a step, " he continued, "and I will just walk with you to the gate. The Rowans is Lady Redmond's favorite haunt; she thinks there is noplace to compare with the falls. You will find no difficulty if youfollow the little path"--but with that rare intuition that belongs toa sympathetic character, Fergus said no more. He could see that SirHugh was much agitated at the thought of the impending meeting; anddirectly they reached the wicket-gate leading to the falls, he pointedto the path, and retraced his steps to the Manse. 

Hugh gave a sigh of relief as he found himself alone. His hand shook alittle as he unlatched the gate. As he passed the covered rustic seathe noticed a few sprays of withered heather that had been lying theresince last year. Perhaps Fay had gathered them. 

He hesitated a moment--should he wait for her here or seek herfurther? A trifle decided him. Among the raspberry bushes that tangledthe underwood was a little bunch of wild flowers caught on a bramble. The floral message seemed to lure him onward, and he followed thenarrow, winding path. By and by he came to a little green nook of aplace as full of moss and sunshine as a nest; there was a great poolnear it, where some silver trout were leaping and flashing in thelight. The whole spot seemed to come before him strangely. Had he seenit in a dream?

He crept along cautiously. He fancied he had caught a white gleambetween the trees that was neither sunshine nor water. He groped hisway through the underwood, putting the branches back that they mightnot crackle, and then all at once he stood still; for he saw a littlerunlet of a stream making dimples of eddies round a fallen tree, and agreat silver birch sweeping over it; and there, in her soft springdress, with the ripples of golden-brown hair shining under her hat, was his lost Wee Wifie. She had floated a rowan-branch on the streamand was watching it idly, and Nero, sitting up on his haunches besidehis little mistress, was watching it too. 

Hugh's heart beat faster as he looked at her. He had not admired hermuch in the old days, and yet how beautiful she was. Either his tastehad changed or these sad months had altered her; but a fairer and asweeter face he owned to himself that he had never seen, and all hisman's heart went out to her in in a deep and pitiful love. Just thenthere was a crackling in the bushes and Nero growled, and Fay, lookingup startled, saw her husband standing opposite to her. 

In life there are often strange meetings and partings; moments thatseem to hold the condensed joy or pain of years. One grows a littlestony--a little colorless. There are flushes perhaps, a weight andoppression of unshed tears, and a falter of questions never answered;but it is not until afterward that full consciousness comes, that oneknows that the concentrated essence of bitterness or pleasure has beenexperienced, the memory of which will last to our dying days. It wasso with Fay when she looked up from her mossy log and saw Hugh withhis fair-bearded face standing under the dark larches. She did notfaint or cry out, but she clasped her little hands, and saidpiteously, "Oh, Hugh, do not be angry with me. I tried so hard to belost, " and then stood and shivered in the long grass. 

"You tried so hard to be lost, " he said, in a choked voice. "Child, child, do you know what you have done; you have nearly broken my heartas well as your own. I have been very angry, Fay, but I have forgottenit now; but you must come back to me, darling, for I can not livewithout my Wee Wifie any more;" and as she hid her face in hertrembling hands, not daring to look at him, he suddenly lifted thelittle creature in his arms; and as Fay felt herself drawn to hisbreast, she knew that she was no longer an unloved wife. 

 * * * * *

She was calmer now. At his words and touch she had broken into anagony of weeping that had terrified him; but he had soothed her withfond words and kisses, and presently she was sitting beside him withher shy, sweet face radiant with happiness, and her hands claspedfirmly in his. He had been telling her about his accident, and his sadsolitary winter, and of the heart-sickness that he had suffered. 

"Oh, my darling, will you ever forgive me?" she whispered. "It was foryour sake I went. How could I know that you would miss me so--that youreally wanted me? it nearly killed me to leave you; and I do not thinkI should have lived long if you had not found me. "

"My child, " he said, very gravely and gently, "we have both donewrong, and must forgive each other; but my sin is the heavier. I wasolder and I knew the world, and I ought to have remembered that mychild-wife did not know it too. If you had not been so young you wouldnever have left me, but now my Wee Wifie will never desert me again. "

"No, never. Oh, " pressing nearer to him with a shudder, "to think howyou have suffered. I could not have borne it if I had known. "

"Yes, " he said, lightly, for her great, beautiful eyes were wide withtrouble at the recollection, and he wanted to see her smile, "it haschanged me into a middle-aged man. Look how my hair has worn off myforehead, and there are actually gray hairs in my beard. People willsay we look like father and daughter when they see us together. "

"Oh, " she returned, shyly, for it was not quite easy to look athim--Hugh was so different somehow--"I shall not mind what people say. Now I have my own husband back, it will not matter a bit to me howgray and old you are. " Then, as Hugh laughed and kissed her, she saidin a very low voice, "Do you really mean that you can be content withme, Hugh; that I shall not disappoint you any more?"

"Content, " he answered, fondly, "that is a poor word. Have I everreally deserved you, sweetheart; but I mean to make up for that. Youare very generous, Fay; you do not speak of Margaret--ah, I thoughtso, " as her head drooped against his shoulder--"she is in your mind, but you will not venture to speak of her. "

"I am so afraid you must regret her, Hugh. "

And Hugh, with a shade of sadness on his fine face, answered, slowly:

"If I regret her, it is as I regret my lost youth. She belongs to myold life; now I only reverence and cherish her memory. Darling, wemust understand each other very clearly on this point, for all ourunhappiness springs from that. We must have no secrets, noreservations in our future life; you must never fear to speak to me ofMargaret. She was very dear to me once, and in some sense she is dearto me still, but not now, thank God, so precious in my eyes as thewife He has given me. " Then, as she put her arms round his neck andthanked him with innocent, wifely kisses, he suddenly pressed her tohim passionately, and asked her to forgive him, for he could neverforgive himself. 

Then, as the evening shadows crept into the green nest, Fay proposedtimidly that they should go back to the Manse, for she wanted to showHugh their boy; and Hugh consented at once. And hand in hand they wentthrough the tangled underwood and past the shimmering falls; and asHugh looked down on his little wife and saw the new sweet womanlinessthat had grown on her with her motherhood, and the meek purity of herfair young face, he felt a proud happiness thrilling within him, andknew that it was God-given, and that its blessing would last himthroughout his whole life. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

KNITTING UP THE THREADS. 

 Day unto day her dainty hands Make life's soil'd temples clean, And there's a wake of glory where Her spirit pure hath been. At midnight through that shadow land Her living face doth gleam, The dying kiss her shadow, and The dead smile in her dream. 

 GERALD MASSEY. 

A little later, Jean, honest woman, suffered an electric shock. Shewas brushing out baby Hugh's curls, that had been disordered by thewalk, when she thought she heard Mrs. St. Clair's footsteps, only itwas over-quick like, as she remarked later, "like a bairn running upthe stairs, " but she fairly shook with surprise when the door opened, and a rosy, dimpled, smiling creature stood before her. 

"Give me the baby, Jean, quick--no, never mind his sash, he looksbeautiful. My husband has come, and he wants to see him. Yes, my boy!Father has come"--nearly smothering him with kisses, which baby Hughreturned by mischievous grabs at her hair. 

"Ech, sirs, " began Jean, turning very red; but before she could givevent to her surprise, a big, grand-looking man suddenly entered theold-fashioned room, and took mother and child in his arms before hervery eyes. 

Jean vanished precipitately, and Mrs. Duncan found her an hourafterward, basting the fowls with a skewer, while the iron ladle layat her feet, and with a stony, impassive expression on her face whichalways meant strong disapproval with Jean. 

"Well, Jean, " remarked her mistress cheerily, while her white curlsbobbed with excitement, "have you heard the news, my woman? Thatpretty creature has got her husband, and he is as fine a man as onecould ever set eyes on, and that is all a mistake about his notwanting her--a parcel of childish rubbish. 

"Hoots, lass, " as Jean remained glum and silent, and only picked upthe iron spoon with a toss of her head, "you do not look overpleased, and yet we are bidden to rejoice with them that do rejoice. Why, he isa baronet, Jean, and as rich as Croesus, and she is Lady Redmond, bless her dear heart! Why, I went into the nursery just now, and itwas just a lovely sight, as I told Fergus. The bairn had been pullingat her hair, and down it came, a tumbling golden-brown mass over hershoulders like the pictures of a woman-angel, and she just laughed inher sonsie way, and tried to gather it up, only Sir Hugh stopped her. 'Let it be, Fay, you look beautiful so, ' he says, worshiping her withhis eyes. Oh, it was good to hear him; and then he looks up and seesme, and such a smile comes to his face. Oh, we understood each other. "But to all this Jean apparently turned a deaf ear, only when hermistress had finished, but not a moment before, she answered, crossly, how was the tea-supper to be ready for the gentry if folks hinderedher with their clavers, at which hint Mrs. Duncan, judging which waythe wind blew, prudently withdrew. 

But the moment the door closed on her mistress, Jean sat down, andthrowing her rough apron over her head, had a good cry. 

"Woman-angel indeed, " she sobbed, "and how am I to bide without herand the bairn, and they the verra light of the house--as the sayingis?"

But Jean's grief did not hinder her long. The fowls were done to aturn, and the rashers of ham grilled to a delicate brown; thetea-supper, always an institution at the Manse, looked a most invitingmeal, with piles of oat-cake, freshly baked scones, and other breadstuff, the best silver tea-pot hooded in its satin cozy, and thekettle singing on its brass tripod. 

Sir Hugh looked on at the preparations with the zest of a hungrytraveler as he sat in the old minister's arm-chair talking to Fergus;but every moment his eyes turned expectantly to the door. The youngScotchman smiled as he patted Nero, for he knew their guest was onlygiving him scant attention. 

"I hope Aunt Jeanie is content with 'the brutal husband' now, " hethought, with a chuckle of amusement. "I wonder what my lady is doingall this time. "

My lady had been extremely busy. First she had put up the hair thatbaby Hugh's naughty little fingers had pulled down; then she had gonein quest of a certain dress that reposed at the top of one of thetrunks. Janet had insisted on packing it, but she had never found anopportunity of wearing it. It was one of those dainty, bewilderingcombinations of Indian muslin and embroidery and lace, that are socostly and seductive; and when Fay put it on, with a soft spray ofprimroses, she certainly looked what Fergus called her, "Titania, queen of all the fairies. "

Both the men absolutely started when this brilliant little visionappeared in the homely Manse parlor. Fergus clapped his big handssoftly together and said "Ech, sirs!" under his breath; but Sir Hugh, as he placed a chair for her, whispered in Fay's ear, "I am afraid Ihave fallen in love with my own wife"--and it was delicious to hearFay's low laugh in answer. 

What a happy evening that was; and when, some two or three hourslater, Fay stood in the moonlight watching Hugh go down the road onhis way to the inn, for there was no room for him in the Manse, theparting words were ringing in her ears, "Good-night, my dear one, anddream of me. "

Ah, they were happy tears that Jean's woman-angel shed by her boy'scot that night; what prayers, what vows for the future went up fromthat pure young heart, that at last tasted the joy of knowing itselfbeloved. As for Hugh, a waking dream seemed to banish sleep from hiseyes. He could see it all again--the green sunshiny hollow, and theshining pool--a little listless figure standing under the silverbirch. A tremulous voice breaks the silence--"oh, Hugh, I tried sohard to be lost, do not be angry with me"--No, no, he will not go backto that. Stay, he is in the Manse parlor--the door opens--there isTitania in her spring dress, all smiles and blushes; his Wee Wifie istransformed into the queen of all the fairies. "God bless her, andmake me worthy of her love, " he thinks, humbly, as he recalls hersweet looks and words; and with that brief prayer he slept. 

Fay would willingly have remained for a few days with her friends atthe Manse; she wanted to show Hugh all her favorite haunts, and tomake him better acquainted with the good Samaritans who had sogenerously sheltered her; but Hugh was anxious to have his wife tohimself and to get over the awkwardness of the return home. He wouldbring her back in the autumn he promised her; and with that Fayconsoled poor Jean. 

As for Fergus, he had reason to bless Aunt Jeanie's hospitality; forSir Hugh overwhelmed the inhabitants of the Manse with liberal tokensof his gratitude--Aunt Jeanie, Fergus, Jean, even pretty LilianGraham, reaped the effects of English munificence. Fay had _carteblanche_ to buy anything or everything she thought suitable. Silkdresses, furs, books, and a telescope--long the ambition of the youngminister--all found their way to the Manse; not to mention theprincely gift that made the young couple's path smooth for many a yearto come. Want of generosity had never been a Redmond failing. Hugh'sgreatest pleasure was to reward the people who had sheltered his lostdarling. 

It was a painful moment for Hugh's proud nature when he first crossedthe threshold of his old Hall, with Fay looking shy and downcastbeside him, but Fay's simplicity and childishness broke the briefawkwardness; for the moment she saw Mrs. Heron's comely face she threwher arms round her neck with a little sob, and there was not a dry eyeamong the assembled servants when she said in her clear youngvoice--"Oh, how glad I am to be amongst you all again. Was it not goodof my husband to bring me back? You must all help me to make up to himfor what he has suffered. "

"It was too much for the master, " observed Ellerton afterward, "hejust turned and bolted when my lady said that--a man does not care tomake a fool of himself before his servants; he would have stood by herif he could, but his feelings were too much for him, and you see heknew that he was to blame. "

But Fay would allow nothing of the kind, when she followed him intothe library, and saw him sitting with his face hidden on his foldedarms, and the evening sunshine streaming on his bowed figure. 

Fay stood looking at him for a moment, and then she quietly drew hishead to her shoulder--much as though he were baby Hugh, and wanted hermotherly consolation. 

"My darling husband, " she whispered, "I know it is all my fault, butyou have forgiven me--you must not let me make you unhappy. "

"Oh, " he said, bitterly, "to think I have brought my wife to this thatshe should need to apologize to her own servants. But then they allknow you are an angel. "

But she would not let him talk like this. What were his faults toher--was he not her husband? If he had ill-used her, would she notstill have clung to him? "Dear, it is only because of your goodnessand generosity that I am here now, " she said, kissing his hand; "youneed not have looked for me, you know;" and then she made him smile bytelling him of Ellerton's quaint speeches; and after that he lethimself be consoled. 

Years afterward he told her, that the days that followed their returnhome were their real honey-moon, and she believed him; for they werenever apart. 

Bonnie Bess hailed her mistress with delight, and Fay resumed her oldrides and drives; only her husband was always with her. Hugh foundout, too, that her clear intelligence enabled her to enter into allhis work, and after that he never carried out a plan withoutconsulting her; so that Fay called herself the busiest and happiestlittle woman in the world. 

 * * * * *

And what of Margaret?

In one of the most crowded courts of the East End of London there is asister who is known by the name of "Our Sister, " though many patient, high-souled women belonging to the same fraternity work there too. 

But "Our Sister" is, _par excellence_, the favorite, from the crippledlittle road-sweeper who was run over in Whitechapel Road to the oldIrishwoman who sold oranges by day, and indulged in free fights withothers of her sex at night. "And the heavens be her bed, for she is adarlint and an angel, " old Biddy would say; and it would be "tread onthe tail of my coat"--for it was an Irish quarter--if any man or boyjostled "Our Sister" ever so lightly. 

"Our Sister" used to smile at the fond credulity and blind worship ofthese poor creatures. She was quite unconscious that her pale, beautiful face, bending over them in sickness, was often mistaken forthe face of an angel. "Will there be more like you up yonder?"exclaimed one poor girl, a Magdalene dying, thank God, at the foot ofthe Cross; "if so, I'll be fine and glad to go. "

"What do they do without you up there, honey?" asked another, an oldnegro woman whose life had been as black as her skin; "they will bewanting you bery much, I'm thinking;" and little Tim, dying of hisbroken bones, whispered as "Our Sister" kissed him, "I am wishing youcould die first, Sister, and then it would be first-rate, seeing youalong with the gentry at the Gate;" for, to Tim's ignorant mind, thegentry of heaven were somewhat formidable. "And what must I say tothem, plase your honor? when they come up and says 'Good-morning, Tim;' but if Sister were along of them she would say, 'It is only Tim, and he never learned manners nohow. '"

Raby would come down sometimes, bringing his wife with him, and talkto Margaret about her work. 

"You are very happy, dear, " he said one day to her; "I have oftenlistened to your voice, and somehow it sounds satisfied. "

"Yes, " she returned, quietly, "quite satisfied. Does that soundstrange, Raby? Oh, how little we know what is good for us. Once Ithought Hugh's love was everything, but I see now I was wrong. Isuppose I should have been like other women if I had married him; butI should not have tasted the joy I know now. Oh, how I love mychildren--dirty, degraded, sinful as they are; how I love to spendmyself in their service. God has been good to us, and given us bothwhat He knew we wanted, " and Raby's low "Amen" was sufficient answer. 

There was one who would willingly have shared Margaret's work, andthat was Evelyn Selby; but her place was in the world's battle-field, and she kept to her post bravely. 

Fern, in her perfect happiness, often thought tenderly of the girl towhose noble generosity she owed it all; but for some years she andEvelyn saw little of each other. Fern often heard of her visits to thecottage where her mother and Fluff lived. She and Mrs. Trafford hadbecome great friends. When Evelyn could snatch an hour from hernumerous engagements, she liked to visit the orphanage where Mrs. Trafford worked. Some strange unspoken sympathy had grown up betweenthe girl and the elder woman. 

Evelyn's brave spirit and dauntless courage had carried her through atrial that would have crushed a weaker nature. Her life was anuncongenial one. Often she sickened of the hollow round of gayety inwhich Lady Maltravers passed her days; but she would not waste herstrength by complaint. But by and by, when she had lost the firstfreshness of her youth, and people had begun to say that Miss Selbywould never marry now, Hedley Power crossed her path, and Evelyn foundthat she could love again. 

Mr. Power was very unlike the bright-faced young lover of her youth. He was a gray-haired man in the prime of middle-age, with gravemanners, and a quiet thoughtful face--very reticent andundemonstrative; but Evelyn did well when she married him, for he madehis wife a happy woman. 

"Evelyn is absurdly proud of Hedley, " Lady Maltravers would say; "butthen he spoils her, and gives her her way in everything. " Every onethought it was a pity that they had no children; but Evelyn neverowned that she had a wish ungratified. She contented herself withlavishing her affection on Erle's two boys. To them Aunt Evelyn was amiracle of loveliness and kindness; and the children at the orphanagehad reason to bless the handsome lady who drove down often to seethem. 

"I do think Evelyn is happy now, " Fern said one day to Erle, when theyhad encountered Evelyn and her husband in the Row. 

"Of course she is, " he would answer; "much happier than if she hadmarried your humble servant. Hedley Power is just the man for her. Now, dear, I must go down to the House, for Hugh and I are oncommittee;" and the young M. P. Ran lightly down-stairs, whistling ashe went, after the fashion of Erle Huntingdon. 

Yes, Hugh Redmond represented his county now, and Fay had her house intown, where her little fair-haired sons and daughters played withErle's boys in the square gardens. 

The young Lady Redmond would have been the fashion, but Fay was tooshy for such notoriety, and was quite content with her husband'sadmiration. And well she might be, for the face that Hugh Redmondloved best on earth was the face of his Wee Wifie. 

THE END.