“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 how Lady Redmond’s ankle was; it was only the accident that made him speak of them at all. How interested you seem in those Ferrers, Crystal.”
“Yes,” was the quick response; but something in her voice made Fern look at her inquiringly. “Did you—did you know them, Crystal?” she asked, in some surprise.
“Yes,” was again the brief answer; but after a moment’s silence she said, “Fern, you have been very good, very patient all this time, you have never asked me any questions about my past life. I think as I am going away from you, and as one can not tell what may happen, that I should like you to know my miserable story. Oh, it will be safe with you; I do not fear that for a moment; I have only hesitated all these months because of the pain of telling it, and for fear you should cease to love me if you knew of the faults I am so bitterly expiating.”
“Faults,” incredulously; “I have never seen them, Crystal, you always seem so good and brave and patient.”
“My dear,” she answered, mournfully, “appearances are deceitful sometimes. Do you remember the story of the poor demoniac whose name was Legion, and how he sat clothed and saved and in his right mind: to me it is one of the most touching and beautiful instances of the Redeemer’s power. He was so galled by his chains, he was so torn and wasted by those evil spirits among the Galilean tombs. Fern,” with a deep pathetic look in her eyes, “sometimes it seems to me that, thank God, the evil spirit is exorcised in me too—that there is nothing in my 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 your mother—oh, how good she was to me, how she tried to comfort me, and she had suffered so much herself. Of course, you have always known that my name is not really Davenport, but you have never guessed that it is Crystal Ferrers.”
“Ferrers! Do you mean that you belong to Mr. Erle’s friends, the blind clergyman who lives with his sister at the Grange?”
“Yes, I am Margaret Ferrers’s cousin, the young cousin whom they adopted as their own child, and who lived with them from childhood. Well, I will tell you from the beginning, for you will never understand 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 moon will rise presently, so we shall have light enough.”