Wee Wifie

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

The young men were complete contrasts to each other. Percy Trafford was tall and slight, he had his mother’s fine profile and regular features, and was a singularly handsome young man; his face would have been almost perfect, except for the weak, irresolute mouth, hardly hidden by the dark mustache and a somewhat heavily molded chin that expressed sullenness and perhaps ill-governed passions.

The bright-faced boy, Nea’s first-born and darling, had sadly deteriorated during the years that he had lived under his grandfather’s roof. His selfishness had taken deeper root; he had become idle and self-indulgent; his one thought was how to amuse himself best. In his heart he had no love for the old man, who had given him the shelter of his roof, and loaded him with kindness; but all the same he was secretly jealous of his cousin Erle, who, as he told himself, bitterly, had supplanted him.

Percy’s conscience reproached him at times for his desertion of his widowed mother. He knew that it was a shabby thing for him to be living in luxury, while she worked for her daily bread; but after all, he thought it was more her fault than his. She would have none of his gifts; she would not bend her proud spirit to seek a reconciliation with her father, though Percy felt sure that the old man had long ago repented of his harshness; and yet, when he had hinted this to his mother, she had absolutely refused to listen to him.

“It is too late, Percy. I have no father now,” she had returned, in her firm, sad voice, and her face had looked like marble as she spoke.

Percy was rather in awe of his grandfather. Mr. Huntingdon had grown harder and more tyrannical as the years passed on. Neither of the young men ventured to oppose his iron will. He was fond of his grandson, proud of his good looks and aristocratic air, and not disposed to quarrel with him because he was a little wild. “Young men would be young men,” was a favorite saying of his; he had used it before in the case of Lord Ronald Gower.

But his nephew, Erle, was really dearer to the old man’s heart. But then every one liked Erle Huntingdon, he was so sweet-tempered and full of life, so honest and frank, and so thoroughly unselfish.

He was somewhat short, at least beside Percy, and his pleasant, boyish face had no special claims to good looks. He had the ruddy, youthful air of a young David, and there was something of the innocence of the sheep-fold about him.

All women liked Erle Huntingdon. He was so gentle and chivalrous in his manner to them; he never seemed to think of himself when he was talking to them; and his bonhomie and gay good-humor made him a charming companion.

Erle never understood himself how caressing his manners could be at times. He liked all women, old and young, but only one had really touched his heart. It was strange, then, that more than one hoped that she had found favor in his eyes. Erle’s sunshiny nature made him a universal favorite, but it may be doubted whether any of his friends really read him correctly. Now and then an older man told him he wanted ballast, and warned him not to carry that easy good nature too far or it might lead him into mischief; but the spoiled child of fortune only shook his head with a laugh.

But in reality Erle Huntingdon’s character wanted back-bone; his will, not a strong one, was likely to be dominated by a stronger. With all his pleasantness and natural good qualities he was vacillating and weak; if any pressure or difficulty should come into his life, it would be likely for him to be weighed in the balance and found wanting.