“Married!” he repeated, in the same dull, hard voice, and there was something in his face that made Fern throw her arms round his neck.
“Oh, it is hard,” she sobbed; “I know how hard it is for you to hear me say this, but it has to be faced. She never deceived you, dear—she never let you hope for a single moment; she was always true to herself and you. Try to bear it, Percy; try to be glad that her unhappiness is over, and that she is married to the man she loves. It is the only thing that will help you.”
“Nothing will help me,” he returned, in the same muffled voice; but she would not be repulsed. She swept back the dark hair from his forehead and kissed him. Did she not share his sufferings? Could any one sympathize with him as she could? “Oh, if mother were only here,” she sighed, feeling her inability to comfort him. “Mother is so sorry for you, she cried about it the other night.”
“Yes,” he answered, “mothers are like that;” and then was silent again. What was there he could say?—he was in no mood for sympathy. The touch of Fern’s soft arms, her little attempt at consolation, were torture to him. His idol was gone in another man’s possession. He should never see again the dark southern loveliness that had so inthralled his imagination; and the idea was maddening to him.
In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. A wall of ice seemed to be built up across his path, and he could see no outlet. “I can not stay now,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Will you give my love to my mother, Fern?”
“Oh, do not go,” she pleaded, and now the tears were running down her face. “Do stay with me, Percy.”
“Not now; I will come again,” he answered, releasing himself impatiently; but as he mounted his horse, some impulse made him look up and wave his hand. And then he rode out into the gloom.
It was too early to go home; besides, he did not care to face people. The fog seemed lifting a little. His mare was fresh, and she might take her own road, and follow her own pace—a few miles more or less would not matter to him in this mood.
Black care was sitting behind him on the saddle, and had taken the reins from his hands; and a worse gloom than the murky atmosphere was closing round him.
She had told him that his life was before him—that he could carve out his own future; but as he looked back on his past life—on the short tale of his four-and-twenty years—his heart was sick within him.