“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, very uncourteous, but your words have given me a shock; you have touched accidentally on a deep trouble. Now, will you be good and kind enough to sit down and tell me all you can about Miss Davenport, as you call her.”
“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Ferrers.” And, with very few interruptions from either the brother or sister, Erle gave a full and graphic description of Crystal’s present home and surroundings—all the more willingly that his listeners seemed to hang breathlessly on his words.
He described eloquently that shabby room over Mrs. Watkins’s, that was yet so pleasant and home-like; the mother with her worn, beautiful face, who moved like a duchess about her poor rooms, and was only the head teacher in a girls’ school. He dismissed the subject of the gentle, fair-haired Fern in a few forcible words; but he spoke of little Florence, and then of Percy, and of the curious way in which all their lives were involved.
Only once Mr. Ferrers stopped him. “And Miss Davenport teaches, you say?”
“Yes, both she and Miss Trafford have morning engagements. I think Miss Martingale, where Mrs. Trafford is, has recommended both the young ladies. There are not many gentle people living there; the Elysian Fields and Beulah Place are not exactly aristocratic neighborhoods. But Miss Trafford goes to the vicarage; there are young children there; and by good luck the senior curate, Mr. Norton, wanted some 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 trifling questions, Mr. Huntingdon”—with a sad smile—“but you are speaking of one 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 am sure, that they do a good deal of needle-work in their spare time—embroidery for shops; they are very poor, you see. There is always work about; sometimes they are making their gowns. They are never ashamed of anything they do, they are such thorough gentlewomen. I do not think you could find a prouder woman than Mrs. Trafford anywhere, 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’s account most fully indorses hers.”
“Yes,” he returned, quietly, “she is in good hands; our prayers have been answered, Maggie. But now dear, if we have heard all that Mr. Huntingdon can tell us about our poor child, will you leave me with him a little, for I want to take him into our confidence; when he knows all, he may be willing to help us.” And Margaret rose without a word; but her beautiful eyes rested on Erle a moment, wistfully, as though to bid him to be patient.
And then, as the twilight crept over the room; while the girls were laughing and chatting round Fay’s couch, and wondering—Dora especially—what could have happened to detain Mr. Huntingdon so late; and while the blazing pine knots threw a ruddy glow over Raby’s pale face, Erle sat listening to one of the saddest stories he had ever heard.