“The world would not indorse that, Fern,” replied her mother, gently; “it is apt to turn a cold shoulder to genteel poverty. The hardest lot in life, in my opinion, is the life of a poor gentlewoman.”
“But Mr. Erle does not look down upon us,” persisted Fern, “or he would not come so often. He always says that no room in Belgrave House is so home-like as this room, and that he is happier here than in the houses of his grand friends.”
A troubled look came to the mother’s face, and involuntarily she pressed her child closer to her, as though to defend her from some threatened danger, and her voice was not quite so clear as usual as she answered:
“It is Erle’s nature to say pleasant things. He is a gentlemanly, kind-hearted fellow, and I am sure that we all like him very much; but I should not care for my little daughter to see too much of him. Erle Huntingdon is not the friend I would choose for you, Fern.”
“But, mother”—opening her eyes widely at this—“if we like him, why should we not be friends?”
Mrs. Trafford hesitated; she hardly liked to disturb Fern’s mind, and yet she wished to put her on her guard.
“You see, Fern,” she answered, with assumed lightness, “we are poor people—very poor people; we have to work for our bread, and to be content with simple fare; but my young cousin Erle is rich—he will be his uncle’s heir one day, and, no doubt, he will marry some rich, handsome girl. All the world is before him; he has only to look round him and choose, like the prince in a fairy story. You may be sure there is some gay young princess waiting for him somewhere. Are you cold, my darling?” for Fern shivered a little.
“We have let the fire get rather low,” returned Fern, jumping up to replenish it; but somehow her voice was not quite under her control, and her hand was a little unsteady. “Oh, yes, her mother and Crystal were right; these foolish dreams of hers could never come true; she would have to see her prince ride away some day in quest of some dark-haired princess. And yet, in the fairy stories, the real princess was often poor, and wore a shabby dress, and had golden hair, and—” but here Fern banished these thoughts resolutely, and came back to her footstool a little pale and drooping.
Mrs. Trafford’s keen eyes noted everything, but she wisely forebore to continue the subject. Fern was so docile and humble, she thought so little of herself, that her mother hoped that her words would take effect. She had already given her son a hint that his friend’s visits were rather too frequent; she must speak to him seriously on the subject, and appeal to his love for his sister.
She changed the subject now by asking Fern what was the matter with Crystal.