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 October
binds in her sheaf, the richest and rarest of the year's harvest, had
been followed by chill fogs--dull sullen days--during which flaring
gas-lights burned in Mrs. Watkins's shop even at noonday, and Fern's
busy fingers, never willingly idle, worked by the light of a lamp long
before the muffin boy and milkman made their afternoon rounds in the
Elysian Fields.
Anything further removed from the typical idea of the Elysian Fields
could scarcely be imagined than on such an afternoon. It was
difficult, even for a light-hearted person, to maintain a uniform
cheerfulness where damp exuded everywhere, and the moist thick air
seemed to close round one in vaporous folds. Somewhere, no doubt, the
sun was shining, and might possibly shine again; but it was hard to
realize it--hard to maintain outward or inward geniality under such
depressing circumstances.
Fern had turned from the window with an involuntary shudder. Then she
lighted her lamp, stirred the fire, and sat down to her embroidery. As
her needle flew through the canvas her lips seemed to close with an
expression of patient sadness. There were sorrowful curves that no one
ever saw, for Fern kept all her thoughts to herself.
Never since the night when she had sobbed out her grief on her
mother's bosom, when the utterance of her girlish despair and longing
had filled that mother's heart with dismay, never since then had Fern
spoken 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 had
sorrowfully acquiesced.
Mrs. Trafford knew that only time, that beneficent healer, could
deaden her child's pain. Fern's gentle nature was capable of quiet but
intense feeling. Nea's faithful and ardent affections were reproduced
in her child. It was not only the loss of her girlish dreams over
which Fern mourned. Her woman's love had unconsciously rooted itself,
and could not be torn up without suffering. An unerring instinct told
her that Erle had not always been indifferent to her; that once, not
so very long ago, his friendship had been true and deep. Well, she had
forgiven his fickleness. No bitterness rankled in her heart against
him. He had been very kind to her; he would not wish her to be
unhappy.
But she was very brave. She would not look at the future. The cold
blankness, the narrow groove, would have chilled her heart. She only
took each day as it came, and tried to do her best with it.
With her usual unselfishness she determined that no one else should
suffer through her unhappiness. Her mother's brief hours of rest
should be unshadowed. It was a pale little sunbeam whose smiles
greeted her of an evening; but it was still a sunbeam. The sweet looks
and words and loving attention were still always ready. As Nea watched
her child her heart would swell with pride and reverence. She
recognized the innate strength and power of self-sacrifice that
Maurice had left her as his legacy. "Of all my children, Fern is most
like her father," Mrs. Trafford would say; "she is stronger than she
looks--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 she
had her mother to love her. She was taking herself to task this
afternoon as she sat alone--for Fluff had escaped as usual to Mrs.
Watkins's--and was blaming herself for her discontent; and then she
sung 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 by
her brother's abrupt entrance.
"Percy! oh, I did not hear you," she faltered, and she turned a little
pale, and her heart began to beat more quickly. It was foolish of her,
but she never heard Percy's step without listening involuntarily for
the 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 heard
from Miss Davenport lately, Fern?"
"Yes," she stammered, raising her soft eyes to his face with a pitying
expression; "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 there
she stopped, and looked at him very piteously. "How I wish mother
would come; she will not be very long, and--and I would rather that
you 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 any
hope for you--you know she always told you so; and now Crystal is
married."
"Married!" he almost shouted, and his handsome young face seemed to
grow sharp and pale. "Married! Pshaw! you are jesting, Fern."
"Dear Percy," she answered, gently, "do you think I would jest with
you on such a subject? Indeed--indeed it is true. She was married some
ten days ago to Mr. Ferrers, the blind clergyman, who was staying at
Belgrave House. He had come there to look for her. He had known her
from a child, and they had long loved each other."
"Married!" he repeated, in the same dull, hard voice, and there was
something 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 hear
me say this, but it has to be faced. She never deceived you, dear--she
never let you hope for a single moment; she was always true to herself
and you. Try to bear it, Percy; try to be glad that her unhappiness is
over, and that she is married to the man she loves. It is the only
thing that will help you."
"Nothing will help me," he returned, in the same muffled voice; but
she would not be repulsed. She swept back the dark hair from his
forehead and kissed him. Did she not share his sufferings? Could any
one sympathize with him as she could? "Oh, if mother were only here,"
she sighed, feeling her inability to comfort him. "Mother is so sorry
for you, she cried about it the other night."
"Yes," he answered, "mothers are like that;" and then was silent
again. 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, were
torture to him. His idol was gone in another man's possession. He
should never see again the dark southern loveliness that had so
inthralled his imagination; and the idea was maddening to him.
In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. A
wall of ice seemed to be built up across his path, and he could see no
outlet. "I can not stay now," he said, and his voice sounded strange
to 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 her
face. "Do stay with me, Percy."
"Not now; I will come again," he answered, releasing himself
impatiently; but as he mounted his horse, some impulse made him look
up 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 might
take her own road, and follow her own pace--a few miles more or less
would not matter to him in this mood.
Black care was sitting behind him on the saddle, and had taken the
reins from his hands; and a worse gloom than the murky atmosphere was
closing round him.
She had told him that his life was before him--that he could carve out
his own future; but as he looked back on his past life--on the short
tale 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 woman
as Crystal could ever have loved him? Had not his cowardly desertion
of his mother only won her silent contempt? and now it was too late to
redeem himself in her eyes.
His fate was frowning on him. His position at Belgrave House had long
been irksome to him. His grandfather loved him, but not as he loved
Erle; and in his heart he was secretly jealous of Erle--if it had been
possible he would have supplanted him. Only he himself knew how he had
tempted him, and the subterfuges to which he had stooped. He had
encouraged Erle's visits to Beulah Place from motives of
self-interest, and had been foiled by Erle's engagement to Evelyn
Selby.
How he loathed himself as he thought of it all. Oh! if he could only
undo the past. Young as he was, ruin seemed staring him in the face.
He had squandered his handsome allowance; his debts were heavy. He had
heard his grandfather say that of all things he abhorred gambling; and
yet he knew he was a gambler. Only the preceding night he had staked a
large sum and had lost; and that very morning he had appealed to Erle
to save him from the consequences of his own rashness.
As he rode on, his thoughts seemed to grow tangled and confused. His
life was a failure; how was he to go on living? All these years he had
fed on husks, and the taste was bitter in his mouth. Oh! if he could
make a clean breast of it all. And then he repeated drearily that it
was too late.
His reins were hanging loosely on his horse's neck. His high-spirited
little 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 he
was. He found himself on a bridge with the river on either side of
him. He was miles away from Belgrave House; and for the moment he was
perplexed, and drew up to ask a boy who was loitering on the footpath
what bridge it was.
There was a steamer passing; and a little lad had clambered on the
parapet 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 moment
the child had disappeared.
In an instant Percy was off his horse, and, with the agility of a
practiced athlete, had swung himself on the parapet. Yes, he could see
the eddy where the child had sunk; and in another moment he had dived
into the dark water.
"It was a plucky thing to do, sir," observed a navvy who had seen the
whole proceeding, and who afterward retailed it to Erle Huntingdon; "I
don't know as ever I saw a pluckier thing in my life. Ay, and the poor
young gentleman would have done it too, for any one could see he knew
what 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 are
strong--what must it do but back to pick up the child; and the poor
fellow, he must have struck his head against it, for he went down
again. Oh, yes, the child was all right, and the young gentleman would
have been all right too, but for that nasty blow; it stunned him, you
see."
Yes, it had stunned him; the young ill-spent life was over. Did he
call 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 was
engraved on the tomb of a notorious ill-liver speaks quaintly of hope
in 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 of
her unhappy lover.
"His last act was to try and save another; God only knows how far this
would go to redeem a faulty past--God only knows. Do not cry so
bitterly, darling. Let us trust him to the All Merciful; and, as the
good bishop said to the mother of Saint Augustine, 'the child of so
many prayers can not be lost.'"
* * * * *
Erle Huntingdon had passed an anxious, uncomfortable day. Percy's
confession of his gambling debts had made him seriously uneasy. It was
in his power to help him this once, he had said, with unusual
sternness, but he would soon be a married man, and then Percy must
look to himself; and Percy, nettled at his tone, had answered somewhat
shortly, and in spite of Erle's generosity they had not parted
friends.
But this was not all. After luncheon Mr. Huntingdon had called Erle
into his study, and had shown him a letter that he had just received
from some anonymous correspondent. Some unknown friend and well-wisher
had thought it advisable to warn Mr. Huntingdon of his grandson's
reckless doings. Erle looked dreadfully shocked as he read it; and the
expression of concentrated anger on Mr. Huntingdon's face frightened
him still more.
"Perhaps it is not true," he stammered, and then the remembrance of
his conversation with Percy silenced him.
"True," returned Mr. Huntingdon, in his hard rasping voice; "do you
not see that the writer says he can prove every word? And this is my
grandson, whom I have taken out of poverty. Well, well, I might have
known the son of Maurice Trafford would never be worth anything."
Strangely unjust words to be spoken of Nea's idolized Maurice, whose
pure soul would have revolted against his boy's sins. Erle felt the
cruelty of the speech; but he dare not contradict his uncle. What were
the Traffords to him now?
There was to be a large gentlemen's dinner-party at Belgrave House
that evening. Some East Indian director was to be fêted, and several
city magnates were to honor it by their presence. Erle wondered that
Percy did not make his appearance, for he was always punctual on such
occasions; but Mr. Huntingdon did not seem to notice his absence. The
guests thought their host looked grayer and more bowed than usual, and
that his step was feebler. He was getting an old man now, they said to
themselves; and it would not be long before there would be a new
master at Belgrave House. Any one could see he was breaking fast, and
would not last long. Well, he had done well for himself; and his heir
was to be envied, for he would be a rich man, and scarcely needed the
splendid dowry that Evelyn Selby would bring him.
The banquet was just drawing to its close when there were signs of
some disturbance in the household. The butler whispered to Erle, who
immediately left the room, and a few minutes later a message was
brought to Mr. Huntingdon.
Something had happened--something dreadful had happened, they told
him, and he must come with them at once; and he had shuddered and
turned pale.
He was growing old, and his nerves were not as strong as they used to
be, and he supported himself with some difficulty as he bowed to his
guests with old-fashioned politeness, and, excusing himself, begged
his old friend Sir Frederick Drummond to take his place. But as the
door closed behind him, and he found himself surrounded by frightened
servants, he tottered and his face grew gray.
"You will kill me among you," he muttered. "Where is my nephew? Will
none of you fools tell me what is the matter?"
"He's in there," returned the butler, who was looking very scared, and
pointing to the library; and the next moment Erle came out with a face
as white as death.
"Oh! uncle, uncle, don't go in till they have told you. Percy is
there, and--" but Mr. Huntingdon only motioned him aside with his old
peremptoriness, and then closed the door upon them.
He knew what he should find there--he knew it when they whispered into
his ear that something had happened; and then he walked feebly across
the room to the couch, where something lay with strange rigid lines
under a satin coverlid that had been flung over it; and as he drew it
down and looked at the face of his dead grandson, he knew that the
hand of death had struck him also, that he would never get over
this--never!