"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 much
refreshed by her brief nap. When the cab stopped before the side door
of Mrs. Watkins's, and she caught sight of Fern standing on the
threshold, as though she had been waiting there some time, she gave a
little cry, and literally jumped into her sister's arms.
"Oh, Fluff, Fluff! what does this mean?" exclaimed poor Fern, who had
passed a most miserable afternoon, picturing Fluff being borne in a
policeman's arms to the nearest hospital; but Fluff silenced her by an
embrace so vehement that it nearly produced strangulation.
"It is all right, Fern, so don't scold me. Grandpapa was not so very
angry--at least, only just at first; but he sent me in the
beautifulest supper, such nice things on a big gold plate--really
gold, you know, like Princess Dove's; and Mr. Erle was there, and
Percy--and oh! I forgot the poor man in the cab, who is blind--quite
blind, 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 she
afterward expressed it to her mother, "with the very nicest face she
had ever seen."
"I do not know if you have ever heard my name; I am Mr. Ferrers, and
your friend Miss Davenport, as she calls herself, is my sister's
cousin."
"Oh, yes, I know," and Fern's voice grew pitiful all at once; "and you
have come just as Crystal has left us; did Florence tell you? Oh, I am
so sorry, so very sorry."
"Yes, the child told me; but there is much that I want to ask you. May
I come in? The cab will wait for me." And then, as Fern guided him up
the narrow staircase, she told him that her mother was out--an evening
class had detained her; and she had been thankful that this had been
the case, and that she should have been spared the anxiety about
Fluff. Mrs. Watkins's boy was scouring the neighborhood, making
inquiries of every one he met; and she had just made up her mind to
send for her mother when the cab drove up.
"And she really found her way to Belgrave House?" asked Fern, in a
voice between laughing and crying; "oh, what will mother say," and she
listened with eagerness to Mr. Ferrers's account of how the child had
accosted him, and of her meeting with Mr. Huntingdon.
Raby himself had been much mystified--he had known nothing of his
host's past history; he had thought that the child was only paying an
impromptu visit until she mentioned her name. Erle had told him that
Mrs. Trafford was Mr. Huntingdon's daughter, and that he had never
seen her since her marriage. This clew guided him to the meaning of
the sternness in Mr. Huntingdon's voice; but he had hardly understood
in what way Erle was implicated, or why the child should receive so
little 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 a
little; and when Fluff had left them she began to speak of Crystal,
and to answer the many questions he put to her without stint or
reserve; she even told him that Crystal had left them on account of
Percy's mad infatuation.
"It was very wrong of Percy to take advantage of her unprotected
situation, and I am sure she went to put a stop to it, and because it
was so awkward for us. Crystal is not like other girls--she does not
care for admiration; people turn round and look after her in the
street 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 behind
his chair seemed to whisper in his ear, "Oh, king, live forever!" and
there she stood, his dark-eyed Esther, in her girlish loveliness, her
white neck and arms gleaming through lace, a ruby pendant on the
slender round throat, the small head looking so queenly with its coils
of smooth black hair; and he had turned coldly from her, and she never
knew that his was the soul of a lover. "No; you are right," he
answered, gently; "she was as guileless and innocent as a child."
Fern looked at him wistfully; all her heart seemed to go out to this
sad, noble-looking man. Crystal had not said too much in his praise;
but he looked older than she had imagined--for pain and the knowledge
of his shorn and wasted powers had aged him, and there was certainly
no youth in his aspect.
"Oh," she said, eagerly, for she longed to say something that would
comfort him, "I think sometimes that there is no one so good as
Crystal--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 her
cross. She is angry with Percy sometimes; but then he deserves it; and
she will not take any pleasure, but all she thinks about is to do
little kindnesses for people; and though she is so unhappy that she
has 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 all
about it, and I thought she would never, never stop crying--it preys
upon her mind, and her remorse will not let her be happy: she seems to
dread even forgiveness. 'I go back to him, when I have blighted his
life and darkened his days?' oh! you should have heard the despair in
her voice when she said that, Mr. Ferrers," and here Fern's sweet
tones trembled. "Mother and I sometimes think that it will kill her in
time, unless she has help and comfort."
"Do not fear, Miss Trafford, she shall have both soon; it will not be
long 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 long
letters, and of course Mrs. Norton will hear from Miss Campion; do you
really 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 last
night; did she leave cheerfully?"
"Well, no, Crystal puzzled us all night," returned Fern, quickly; "she
went out to bid good-bye to her pupils, and Percy waylaid her, as
usual, 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 eyes
were swelled, and she had a dreadful headache, and yet she said Percy
had 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--she
was all in brown, I think;" but she did not understand why Mr. Ferrers
seemed 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 have
been she; it must have been her little hand that guided him so gently;
oh, his miserable blindness. Of course she had seen this Percy
Trafford, and he had told her all about the guest they expected, and
she 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 be
kept by him; he would hide these sweet proofs of her love and devotion
in his own breast. Fern wondered why the miserable, harassed look left
his face. He looked quite young--a different man--as he bade her
good-bye; his shoulders were no longer stooping, his head was erect.
"Good-bye, Miss Trafford," he said. "I shall come and see you and your
mother 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 a
moment that she will offer to accompany me. I shall not come back
until I bring Crystal with me." And Fern quite believed him. There
were restless sleepers that night in Belgrave House. Raby was
revolving his plans and wondering what Margaret would say; and on the
other side of the wall Erle tossed, wakeful and wretched, knowing that
his fate was sealed, and that Evelyn Selby and not Fern Trafford was
to be his future wife. And now, as he lay in the darkness, he told
himself that in spite of her goodness and beauty he could never love
her as he loved Fern. He knew it at the moment he asked her to marry
him, and when she put her hand in his and told him frankly that he had
long won her heart.
"You are too much a gentleman to treat a woman badly," Mr. Huntingdon
had said to him, well knowing the softness and generosity of Erle's
nature; and yet, was he not treating Fern badly?
He had thought over it all until his head was dizzy; but his
conscience had told him that his sin against Fern had been light in
comparison with that against Evelyn. What were those few evenings in
Beulah 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 her
to treat him as a son of the house. He had ridden with Evelyn in the
Row; she had been his favorite partner in the ball-room. When they had
gone 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 from
him; their names had long been coupled together, and Erle's weakness
and love of pretty faces had drawn the net round him. And there were
other considerations that had moved him--his dread of poverty; the
luxurious habits that had become a second nature; and above all,
reluctance to disappoint the old man who, in his own way, had been
good to him. Erle knew that in spite of his hardness and severity, his
uncle clung to him as the Benjamin of his old age.
No, he could not help himself, he thought bitterly. And yet how dreary
the prospect seemed. He had given up the first young love of his life,
and now the barren splendors of Belgrave House seemed to oppress
him--the walls closed round him like the walls of a prison.
And yet other men would envy him, and wonder at his luck. Evelyn had
many admirers--many a one nobly born and nobly gifted would grudge him
his prize; though he knew, and hated himself for the knowledge, that
they 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 secret
trouble. His slight gravity spoke well for him, she thought; most
likely a greater sense of responsibility oppressed him. She was too
much in love herself to notice how often he lapsed into silence.
Every one thought him a most devoted lover; he was always at his
post--always ready to escort them to picture-galleries and
flower-shows, or to stand sentinel at the back of Lady Maltravers's
box. His uncle's generosity enabled him to load his betrothed with
gifts. Evelyn used to remonstrate with him for his lavishness, not
knowing that Mr. Huntingdon had prompted the gift.
"Of course I love you to bring me things," she would say, looking up
in his face with her clear, candid eyes; "but indeed, dear Erle, I do
not 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 always
thinking how I am to please you;" and as he clasped the diamond
bracelet on the slender wrist he suddenly remembered what a pretty
hand Fern had, so white and dimpled, and a vivid longing came over
him, 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 see
him; but he never yielded to the temptation.
On the contrary, he had put all such visits out of his power; for he
had written to Mrs. Trafford within a few days of his engagement,
telling her that his uncle had interdicted them, and that he dared not
risk his displeasure, deeply as he regretted such a break in their
intercourse; and he told her that he and Miss Selby were engaged, and
would probably be married in the autumn; and then he sent his kind
remembrances to her daughter.
Mrs. Trafford thought it a very manly and straightforward letter. He
had not acted so very badly after all, she thought; her father's
strong will had evidently coerced him, and she knew how strong that
will could be. He had meant no harm; he had only said pleasant things
because it was his nature to say them; if only it had not gone very
deep with Fern.
"I have had a letter from Mr. Erle, my darling," she said, quietly, as
she noticed the girl had turned a shade paler, as though she had
recognized the handwriting; but she had not spoken, only bent lower
over her work.
"Yes, mother," in a very low voice; "and I suppose he has told you the
news."
"What news, my pet?"
"That he and Miss Selby are engaged. Oh, yes, I knew it directly I saw
the letter. It is good of him to tell us so soon. I am glad; you must
tell 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 unsteady
answer. "If he loves her, of course he must want to marry her. Crystal
says that she is very handsome and looks so nice. You must write a
very 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 he
has not looked quite happy lately." And Fern folded up her work in her
old business-like manner, and then went about the room, putting little
touches here and there; and if she were a little pale, the dusk soon
hid it. Mrs. Trafford had no fault to find with her daughter that
evening; nevertheless she did not feel easy; she thought girlish pride
was bidding her conceal the wound, and that in reality her child was
unhappy.
If any one had asked Fern what were her feelings when she saw that
letter in her mother's hands she would have answered most truly that
she did not know. When a long-dreaded trouble that one knows to be
inevitable at last reaches one, the mind seems to collapse and become
utterly blank; there is a painless void, into which the mental vision
refuses to look. Presently--there is plenty of time; life is overlong
for suffering--we will sit down for a little while by the side of the
abyss which has just swallowed up our dearest hopes.
Numbness, which was in reality death in life, blunted Fern's feelings
as she worked, and talked, and fulfilled her little duties. When she
went up to her room and looked at Crystal's empty bed, she thought the
room had never looked so desolate. She undressed slowly, with long
pauses, during which she tried to find out what had happened to her;
but no real consciousness came until she laid her head on the pillow
and tried to sleep, and then found her thoughts active. And the
darkness seemed to take her into its black arms, and there seemed no
rest anywhere. They were all over--those beautiful dreams that had
glorified her life. No bright-faced young prince would ride out of the
mist and carry her away; there would be no more kind looks full of
deep, wonderful meanings for her to remember over her work; in the
morning she would not wake and say, "Perhaps he will come to-day;" no
footstep would make her heart beat more quickly; that springy tread
would 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, and
that pleasant sympathy that was always ready for her.
Fern had never imagined that such sad possibilities could wither up
the sweet bloom of youthful promise; she had never felt really
miserable except when her father died, and then she had been only a
child. She wondered in a dreary, incredulous way if this was all life
meant to bring her--every day a little teaching, a little work, quiet
evenings with her mother, long streets that seem to lead nowhere; no
meadows, 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 restlessly
on her hot pillow.
"Are you awake still, my darling?" asked her mother, tenderly. Some
instinctive sympathy had led her to her child's door, and she had
heard that impatient little speech. "What is the matter, dearest; you
will tell your mother, will you not?"
"Oh, mother, why have you come? I never meant you to know." But here
she broke down, and clasped her mother's neck convulsively. "I am
glad--I will be glad that he is so happy; but oh, mother, I want him
so--I want him so." And then Mrs. Trafford knew that the wound was
deep--very deep indeed.