“Do not say any more,” she implored; “do you think my own heart does not tell me all that, but I will not go back yet; the flaming sword of conscience still bars my way to my Paradise. Fern, do you know why I have told you my story? It is because I am going away, and I want you to promise me something, and there is no one else I can ask; no, not your mother,” as Fern looked surprised at this, “she has enough to trouble her.”
“What is it?” asked Fern, rather timidly.
“I am going away,” returned Crystal, “and one never knows what may happen. I am young, but life is uncertain. If I never come back, if anything befalls me, will you with your own hands give this to Raby,” and as she spoke, she drew from her bosom a thick white envelope sealed and directed, and placed it in Fern’s lap. As it lay there Fern could read the inscription: “To be given to the Rev. Raby Ferrers, after my death.”
“Oh, Crystal,” she exclaimed, with a shiver, “what could happen to you. You are young—not one-and-twenty yet—and your health is good, and—” but Crystal interrupted her with a strange smile.
“Yes, it is true; but the young and the strong have to die sometimes; when the call comes we must go. Do not look so frightened, Fern, I will not die if I can help it; but if it should be so, will you with your own hands give that to Raby; it will tell him what I have suffered, and—and it will comfort him a little.”
“Yes, dear, I will do it;” and Fern leaned forward and kissed her softly. The moon was shining brightly now, and in the clear white light Fern noticed for the first time how thin and pale Crystal looked; how her cheek, and even her slight supple figure, had lost their roundness. There were deep hollows in the temples, dark lines under the dark eyes, in spite of her beauty she was fearfully wan. The grief that preyed upon her would soon ravage her good looks. For the first time Fern felt a vague fear oppressing her, but she had no opportunity to say more, for at that moment Crystal rose quickly from her seat.
“You have promised,” she said, gratefully; “thank you for that. It is a great trust, Fern, but I know I can rely on you. Now I can talk no more. If your mother comes in, will you tell her about Miss Campion. I think she will be glad for many reasons. Now I will try and sleep, for there is much to be done to-morrow. Good night, my dear;” and the next moment Fern found herself alone in the moonlight.
When Mrs. Trafford returned, she heard the news very quietly.
“It will be better—much better,” she said, quickly. “You must not fret about it, my sunbeam. Crystal is beginning to look ill; change and movement will do her good. Our life is very quiet. She has too much time to feed upon herself. She will be obliged to rouse herself among strangers.” And when Fern told her tearfully of the promise she had made, Mrs. Trafford only listened with a grave smile.
“Put it away safely, my dear; you will never have to give it, I hope; only it is a relief to the poor child to know you have it. Hers is a strange morbid nature. She is not yet humbled sufficiently. When she is, she will go back, like the Prodigal, and take the forgiveness that is waiting for her. Now, my darling, all this sad talk has made you look pale. You must try and forget it, and go to sleep.” But, for the first time in her healthy girlhood, sleep refused to come at Fern’s bidding; and she lay restless and anxious, thinking of her friend’s tragical story until the gray dawn ushered in the new day.