Wee Wifie Part 19

A troubled look came to the mother's face, and involuntarily she pressed her child closer to her, as though to defend her from some threatened danger, and her voice was not quite so clear as usual as she 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; but I should not care for my little daughter to see too much of him. Erle Huntingdon is not the friend I would choose for you, Fern."

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

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

"You see, Fern," she answered, with a.s.sumed lightness, "we are poor people--very poor people; we have to work for our bread, and to be content with simple fare; but my young cousin Erle is rich--he will be his 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 round him and choose, like the prince in a fairy story. You may be sure there is some gay young princess waiting for him somewhere. Are you cold, my darling?" for Fern shivered a little.

"We have let the fire get rather low," returned Fern, jumping up to replenish it; but somehow her voice was not quite under her control, and her hand was a little unsteady. "Oh, yes, her mother and Crystal were right; these foolish dreams of hers could never come true; she would have to see her prince ride away some day in quest of some dark-haired princess. And yet, in the fairy stories, the real princess was often poor, and wore a shabby dress, and had golden hair, and--"

but here Fern banished these thoughts resolutely, and came back to her footstool a little pale and drooping.

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

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

"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, very angry with him."

Mrs. Trafford's face darkened--she looked exceedingly displeased. Was this how Percy protected his sister? leaving her alone with Erle Huntingdon while he carried out his own selfish purposes. This was worse than she had imagined; but Fern misunderstood the reason of her mother's vexation.

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

"Crystal will never care for any one; at least"--checking herself as though she had stated a fact erroneously--"she will never care for Percy. I have told him so, and begged him not to persecute her with his attentions, as, if he persisted, she had made up her mind to seek another home. Percy was dreadfully angry when I told him this, and refused to believe me; and then he turned round on me, and accused me of want of prudence in taking a stranger under our roof, and asked me how 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 to make you uncomfortable. He is too fond of Crystal to doubt her for a moment. I hope you told him that you were acquainted with her whole history?"

"Yes; and I informed him at the same time that you were ignorant of it, 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 good parentage; that she had influential friends and protectors if she chose 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 of hers," he said, with a sneer; "but I could see he was surprised and not altogether pleased; but I wished him to know that she was not without protectors if he drove her from our roof."

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

"That is because she will not take my advice," returned her mother quickly. "Crystal is a dear girl, and I am very fond of her, but I think most of her troubles come from her own undisciplined nature; she is the object of the tenderest love, the most divine forgiveness; there are kind hearts waiting for her if she would only generously respond 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 her so vainly. No"--rising as if to close the subject--"I am very sorry for Crystal, but I do not pity her as you do. I have known what it is to sin, but I have not been too proud to acknowledge my error. Crystal acknowledges hers with bitter tears and most true penitence, but she will not be forgiven. 'Let me expiate my sin a little longer,' that is all she says."

"Yes, I know," whispered Fern, "she is always telling me that she does not deserve to be happy; is that true, mother?"

"My child, do any of us deserve it? Happiness is a free gift like the sunshine that rises alike 'on the evil and the good.' Do you remember your 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 with trembling lips Nea turned away. Her punishment had been great, she told herself: she had deserted her earthly father, and now her son had deserted 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 G.o.d ordains: G.o.d 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's morning 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 lake was a sheet of blue ice, and the sunshine broke on its crisp surface in sparkles of light.

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

Fay in her dark ruby dress looked almost as brilliant as the morning itself as she sat by the fire talking to her husband's cousin Erle Huntingdon, who had come down to while away an idle week or two at the old Hall.

He had been there for ten days now, and he and Fay had become very intimate. Erle had been much struck by the singular beauty of Hugh's child-wife, and he very soon felt almost a brotherly fondness for the gentle little creature, with her soft vivacity and innocent mirth.

It had been a very pleasant ten days to both of them, to Fay especially, who led rather a lonely life.

Erle was such a pleasant companion; he was never too tired or too busy to talk to her. He was so good-natured, so frank and affectionate, so eager to wait on her and do her any little service, that Fay wondered what she would do without him.

Hugh smiled at them indulgently. It always pleased him to see his Wee Wifie happy and amused; but he thought they were like two children together, and secretly marveled at the sc.r.a.ps of conversation that reached his ears. He thought it was a good thing that Fay should have a companion for her rides and drives when he was too busy to go with her himself, and somehow Hugh was always too busy now.

So Fay and Erle scoured the country together, and when Frost came they skated for hours on the little lake.

Sir Hugh stood and watched them once, and they came skimming across the ice to meet him, hand in hand, Fay looking like a bright-eyed bird in her furs.

It was delicious, Fay said, and would not Hugh join them? but her husband shook his head. When other people came to skate too, and Fay poured out tea for her friends in the damask drawing-room, he always kept near her, as in duty bound; but he took no active part in the festivities, and people wondered why Sir Hugh seemed so grave and unlike himself, and then they glanced at Fay's happy face and seemed mystified.

Erle in his heart was mystified too. He had always liked his cousin and had looked up to him, thinking him a fine fellow; but he noticed a great change in him when he came down to the old Hall to pay his respects to the little bride. He thought Hugh looked moody and ill; that he was often irritable about trifles. He had never noticed that sharp tone in his voice before. His cheerfulness, too, seemed forced, and he had grown strangely unsociable in his habits. Of course he was very busy, with his own estate and his wife's to look after; but he wondered why Fay did not accompany him when he rode to some distant farm, 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 hearty laugh and a fund of humor; but he had never heard him laugh once in all these ten days.

Erle felt vaguely troubled in his kind-hearted way when he watched Hugh and his little wife together. Hugh's manners did not satisfy Erle's chivalrous enthusiasm. He thought he treated Fay too much like a child. He was gentle with her, he humored her, and petted her; but he 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 paced his comfortable room rather indignantly. "He is not a bit in love with her--one sees that in a moment, and yet the poor little thing adores him. It makes one feel miserable to see her gazing at him as though she were worshiping him; and he hardly looks at her, and yet she is the prettiest little creature I have seen for a long time. How Percy would rave about her if he saw her; but I forgot, Percy's idol is a dark-eyed G.o.ddess."

"All the same," went on Erle, restlessly; "no man has any right to treat his wife as a child. Hugh never seems to want to know what Fay wishes about anything. He settles everything off-hand, and expects her to be satisfied with what he has done; and she is such a dear, gentle thing that she never objects. It is 'Yes, dear Hugh,' or 'certainly, if you wish it, Hugh,' from morning to night; somehow that sickens a fellow. 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 a little nun; but she is sensible in her way. Hugh had no idea that she was reading the paper for an hour yesterday, that she might talk to him about that case in which he is so interested, or he would hardly have snubbed her as he did, by telling her she knew nothing about it.

She looked so disappointed, poor little thing, there were tears in her eyes; but Hugh never saw them, he never does see if she is a little tired or dull, and I don't call that treating a wife well."

Erle was working himself up into quite a virtuous fit of indignation on Fay's behalf; but presently he became secretly anxious. Before the end of his visit he grew afraid that more was amiss with Hugh than he at first guessed. He had often stayed with him before, and Hugh had visited them at Belgrave House, but he had never noticed any sign of self-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 was reckless of his health too, and worked often far into the night, and when Erle remonstrated with him, he only said he could not sleep, and he might as well occupy himself.

But in reality he never guessed, except in a vague way, the real reason for this change in his cousin. He would have been shocked and startled if he had known the strange morbid fever that was robbing Hugh of all rest.

He was hungering and thirsting for the sight of a face that he said to himself he had better never look on again; his very nearness to Margaret kept him restless, and made his life intolerable.

What a fool he had been to marry, he told himself; to let that child bind him down to this sort of life. If he could only break away for a time--if he could travel and try what change would do for him; but this quiet existence was maddening.