Raby himself had been much mystified—he had known nothing of his host’s past history; he had thought that the child was only paying an impromptu visit until she mentioned her name. Erle had told him that Mrs. Trafford was Mr. Huntingdon’s daughter, and that he had never seen her since her marriage. This clew guided him to the meaning of the sternness in Mr. Huntingdon’s voice; but he had hardly understood in what way Erle was implicated, or why the child should receive so little notice from her brother. When Raby had finished his account, which was annotated in a rambling and far from lucid manner by Fluff, Fern sent the child away to change her frock and make herself tidy, and whispered in her ear that she might stay with Mrs. Watkins for a little; and when Fluff had left them she began to speak of Crystal, and to answer the many questions he put to her without stint or reserve; she even told him that Crystal had left them on account of Percy’s mad infatuation.
“It was very wrong of Percy to take advantage of her unprotected situation, and I am sure she went to put a stop to it, and because it was so awkward for us. Crystal is not like other girls—she does not care for admiration; people turn round and look after her in the street because she is so beautiful, but she never seems to notice it.”
“No; you are right,” he returned, with evident emotion.
As Fern spoke, a scene rose to his memory—a fresh young voice behind his chair seemed to whisper in his ear, “Oh, king, live forever!” and there she stood, his dark-eyed Esther, in her girlish loveliness, her white neck and arms gleaming through lace, a ruby pendant on the slender round throat, the small head looking so queenly with its coils of smooth black hair; and he had turned coldly from her, and she never knew that his was the soul of a lover. “No; you are right,” he answered, gently; “she was as guileless and innocent as a child.”
Fern looked at him wistfully; all her heart seemed to go out to this sad, noble-looking man. Crystal had not said too much in his praise; but he looked older than she had imagined—for pain and the knowledge of his shorn and wasted powers had aged him, and there was certainly no youth in his aspect.
“Oh,” she said, eagerly, for she longed to say something that would comfort him, “I think sometimes that there is no one so good as Crystal—we have all grown to love her so. She has such high-spirited, troublesome pupils; but she is so patient with them when they are ill, she nurses them, and she has more influence over them than the mother; and she is always so kind and thoughtful, and no one ever sees her cross. She is angry with Percy sometimes; but then he deserves it; and she will not take any pleasure, but all she thinks about is to do little kindnesses for people; and though she is so unhappy that she has grown quite thin with fretting, she tries not to let us see it.”
“Has she told you all about herself?” he asked, in a very low voice.
“Yes, and it is that that makes her so unhappy. Oh, she told me all about it, and I thought she would never, never stop crying—it preys upon her mind, and her remorse will not let her be happy: she seems to dread even forgiveness. ‘I go back to him, when I have blighted his life and darkened his days?’ oh! you should have heard the despair in her voice when she said that, Mr. Ferrers,” and here Fern’s sweet tones trembled. “Mother and I sometimes think that it will kill her in time, unless she has help and comfort.”
“Do not fear, Miss Trafford, she shall have both soon; it will not be long before I find her.”
“But she is in America—at least, she is on her way there.”