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The following afternoon Fern stood by the window, looking out on the white, snowy road sparkling with wintery sunlight. Her little black bonnet lay on the table beside her, and the carriage that had brought her from Belgrave House had just driven away from the door. Erle had given special orders that it was to be at Miss Trafford’s service, and every morning the handsome bays and powdered footman drew a youthful crowd round the side door of Mrs. Watkins’s. Sometimes Fern entered the carriage alone, but very often her little sister was with her. Fluff reveled in those drives; her quaint remarks and ejaculations often brought a smile to Fern’s sad lips.
Those visits to Belgrave House were very trying to the girl. Mrs. Trafford used to sigh as she watched her changing color and absent looks. A door closing in the distance, the sound of a footstep in the corridor, made her falter and turn pale. But she need not have feared; Erle never once crossed her path. She would hear his voice sometimes, but they never once came face to face. Only one day Fern saw a shadow cross the hall window as she got into the carriage, and felt with a beating heart that Erle was watching her.
That very morning her mother had been speaking to her of Erle’s generosity; indeed the subject could not be avoided. “He wanted me to take half his fortune,” Mrs. Trafford had said, with some emotion; “he is bitterly disappointed at the smallness of the sum I named; do you think I am right to take anything, Fern? My darling, it is for your sake, and because I have no more strength for work, and I feel I can no longer endure privation for my children.”
“I think you are right, mother; it would not be kind to refuse,” Fern returned, quietly; and then she tried to feel some interest in the plans Mrs. Trafford was making for the future. They would go down to Hastings for the rest of the winter—Fern had never seen the sea—and then they would look out for some pretty cottage in the country where they could keep poultry and bees, and perhaps a cow, and Fern and she could teach in the village school, and make themselves very busy; and the mother’s pale face twitched as she drew this little picture, for there was no responsive light in the soft gray eyes, and the frank, beautiful mouth was silent.
“Yes, mother,” she at last answered, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck; “and I will spend my whole life in taking care of you.”
She was thinking over this conversation now, as she looked out at the snow, when her attention was attracted by a private brougham, with a coronet on the panel, that stopped before Mrs. Watkins’s, and the next moment a tall girl, very quietly dressed, entered the house.
Fern’s heart beat quickly. Was it possible that it could be Miss Selby? But before she could ask herself the question, there was a light tap at the door, and the girl had entered, and was holding out both her hands to Fern.
“Miss Trafford, will you forgive this intrusion? But I feel as though we knew each other without any introduction. I am Evelyn Selby; I dare say you have heard my name from”—with a pause—“Mr. Huntingdon.”
“Oh, yes, I have heard of you,” returned Fern, with a sudden blush. This was Erle’s future wife, then—this girl with the tall graceful figure and pale high-bred face that, in spite of its unusual paleness, looked very beautiful in Fern’s eyes. Ah, no wonder he loved her! Those clear brown eyes were very candid and true. There could be no comparison between them—none!