At present his life had been smooth and uneventful; he had yet to test the hollowness of human happiness, to learn that the highest sort of life is not merely to be cradled in luxury and to fare sumptuously every day. The purple and fine linen are good enough in their way, and the myrrh and the aloes and the cassia, but what does the wise man say—“Rejoice, oh, young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment … for childhood and youth are vanity.”
Erle knew that a new interest had lately come into his life; that a certain shabby room, that was yet more homelike to him than any room in Belgrave House, was always before his eyes: that a girl in a brown dress, with sweet, wistful eyes, was never absent from his memory.
Neither Fern nor he owned the truth to themselves; they were ignorant as yet that they were commencing the first chapter of their life-idyl. Fern had a vague sense that the room was brighter when Erle was there looking at her with those kindly glances. She never owned to herself that he was her prince, and that she had found favor in his eyes. She was far too humble for that; but she knew the days were somehow glorified and transfigured when she had seen him, and Erle knew that no face was so lovely to him as this girl’s face, no voice half so sweet in his ears, and yet people were beginning to connect his name with Miss Selby, Lady Maltravers’ beautiful niece.
He was thinking of Miss Selby now as he looked across at Fern. She had taken up her work again, and Percy had thrown himself into the rocking-chair beside her with a discontented expression on his face. He was telling himself that Miss Selby was handsome, of course strikingly handsome; but somehow she lacked this girl’s sweet graciousness. Just then Fern raised her eyes, and a quick, sensitive color came into her face as she encountered his fixed glance.
“Ah, do you know, Miss Trafford,” he said quickly, to put her at her ease, “I have promised to spend Christmas with my cousin, Sir Hugh Redmond. I am rather anxious to see his wife. Report says she is a very pretty girl.”
“I did not know Sir Hugh Redmond was your cousin,” returned Fern, without raising her eyes from her work.
“Yes, on my mother’s side, but I have not been to Redmond Hall for an age. Old Hugh had rather a disappointment last year; he was engaged to another lady, and she jilted him—at least that is the popular edition of the story; but anyhow the poor old fellow seemed rather badly hit.”
“And he has married so soon!” in an incredulous tone.
“Of course, caught at the rebound like many other fellows. Don’t you know how the old adage runs, Miss Trafford:
“‘Shall I wasting with despaire