Loading...
HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Advocate, 1887-12-15, Page 2sL! Hyorprs LOVES. ,„atiad he learnt yet *nether thing, otitis ingot *lowly burnt itself out AO lazily ,IFOMand, wretchedness Ink intOlePhbie •Iganenee rentained as to hie Wifeai fate— BeMetting that startled hiinWith a slime of avreetriefisi and Yet etun g biet..with innnite pain; when the haiinting presence of hie hast wife seemed ever with him pud would not let laim rest; when hie remorse was terrible; and when 'he would have given up 41 he had tn,the world just to hear her say in hertow food voige that she 4We hint, •11, • "tor be limn,/ now diet te had , . „ wrouged her and that his neglect And .celdnesebad driven her from her home. The. -uncerteinty of her late emnetimee nearly drove him wild. How could she lieve laid bar nhinsso acandentelY -that no traces of her and the child coeld be found? Could evil have befallen them ? God help him if a beir of those innocent heads had been touched. In his weakness he could not always control the boreible ;imagine-, tions that beset him- Oitttl he Wouldwalte -from some ghastly dream and. lie till dawn, mashie toshake off his deadly terror. Then all of a sudden in would remember that hasty postscript, "Do not be anxious about me. I em.goitig to some kind people who will be good to ,me and the boy;" Ana he would fall asleep again while vainly trying to recall if he had ever heard Fay speak of any friends of herohildhpod. But thopgh Erle and Mies Mordaunt tried to help him, no name °conned to any of them. It WRS an added burden to him that Erie could not come to him ; but there was trouble in Belgravellonse, ad the shadows were closing round it. Erle coold mot leeve hitruncle, but wrote verytindly to poor con- acienc,e-stricken Hugh, and said all he could tecomfort It was in those hours of dreary helpless- ness that Hugh learnt to miss his Wee Wifie. In those long summer .afteremons, while his foreign nurse nodded drowsily beside him, and the hot air crept sluggishly in at "the open window, how he longed for the small coolland that used to he laid 'go softly on his temples, or put the drink to his patthed lips before they could frame their want. He remembered the hours the had sat 'beside him, fanning the flies feint his pillow or bathing his aching head. She. hadnever left him—never gleamed tired or impatient, though her face had grown so. pale with watching. -Others would have ;Tared her; others told him that she was spent and weary, but he had never noticed it. "And; brute thati was," he thought, ".1 left her alone in her trouble with only strangers and hirelings about her, to fight her, way through the very Valley of the Shadow of Death." Be took out her letter and smoothed' it out—it was a trick of his when he thought no one would see him. He had read it over until he knew it off by heart. Ab! if Heaven would but spare hina this once and give him back the strength he had misused, that he might find her, poor child, and bring her home, and comfort her as only he could comfort her. He would love her now, he thought; yes, if she would only bear with him and give hini time, he knew from the deep pity and tenderness which he felt that he would love her yet, for the merciful Providence that had laid the erring man low was teach. ing him lessons that no other discipline could have inculcated. . . r wind was whirling through he f the oaks and beeches in the Re e when Sir, Hugh came .home,'a c a dened Yes, changed outwardly as well as in- wardly. Good Mrs, Heron cried when she saw hini enter the hall on Savilleal arm, looking so thin and worn and leaning on his stick. His you see passed away; his BMOOt forehead was furrowed likeathatgof a middle -age .and hie fair haii bad worn off . it slight thing him•look;ten years older; and yet as that in Maigh Redmond's face, if ,Ma could luayo seen it, that would have fi heraviire eart with excieeding than nese. ' gor thou the pallor citused ering was still the nd those him said that Sir Hugh an, yet there was &nobler expression than it had ever worn in happier.days. Theold fretful lines &reload the mouth were gone; and, though the eyes looked sadly round at the old familiar faces, as though Missing the truest andt"best, still, there was .a chastened grit•vity about his whole mien that spoke of a new and eernestpurpose ;,. of a heart BO humbled at list that it had fled to ite beet refuge, and had found strength in the tirae of need. Many years afterwards he owned, to one who wits ever his closest friend, that & whole lifetirae of suffering had been compressed into those few short years that had followed hie father's deeth. The whole plan and purpose Of his youth had been marred; his heart wasted by a 'passion that was denied satisfaction; and lastly, just as he was beginning tot turn to his neglected wife with a sympathy and interest that promisedwell for her future happiness, suddenly he found his name outraged and his hoine forsaken, and the load and terror of an mibearable remorse laid heavily upon him: That was a strange winter to Hugh Red- mond—the strangest and saddest he had ever passed; when he Spent lobg, solitary days in the old' Rail; eitd only Erle—generous, kind-hearted Erie —dame now and then to break his solitude. Alt! he Missed her then, Sorinatimea, ite he wandered disconsolately through the afepty Moms, or eat by his lonely &aide m the twilight, the fancy would haunt him that she wOuld wine back to him yet—that the door Would open, and a little figure come isteelizig through the ditknees and min into his 'arms with a lota, glad intr.! And sometimes, when he stood in her room and saw the ettipty tot over which she oiled to hang so fondly, si longing *ohm aiete him for the boy Whoni he had week bel&in tie strati. By and by when the apring keturned, sent° cif hie bla etrength and viger came 131614,0d he vies able to join personally in the semirch, when a new zest and exeiteineut Reetned added to his life; and ht the Oder of the,'chase he learnt forget Margaret and the shadow of a tOo Berm*. ful psat. When the vititett iiiee of hie Wee Willa seemed to bre him on with the cad 174alhe oyes that he relnlmberOd so well; when with the contrariety of man ever eager fat the unattainable, be began toloog MOre and room, to Pee her; when his *lager rerived and imnatiatice wh it. And Omagh beralY Piatied to hhalltelf, both anger ehcl $112P104111.90 were beill laf iota% CHAPTPA vatuTas vaniaitnei nud lather* in noirs worl4 so erear a place, wnere tno lend Older cry 6 fiiised in vain ; Where tears of penanceCetne too late or grief. ne 9n the uprooted flower the genial rain. Keble. S* Luke's little summer wee ,over, the ripe golden days that October binds in her sheaf, the richeet and rarest of the year's harvest, had been followed by chill fogs -- dull sullen days—during which flaring gas. lights burnt in Hrs. Watkins' shop even at noonday, and Fern's busy fingers, never wilhinIy iffle, worked bythe light of e lamp long before the muffin boy and milkman made their afternoon rounds in Elyaian Fields. Anything farther removed from the typical idea of the Elysian Fields could seareely be imagined than on such an after- noon. It was difficult, even for a light- hearted person, to ininntain a uniform cheerfulness where damp exuded every, where and tha moist thick air seemed to close round one in vaporous folds. Some, where, no donbt, the sun was shining, and might possibly shine again; but it was hard to realize it—hard to maintain outward or inward geniality under such depressing dr. cumstances. Fern had turned from the window with an involuntary shudder. Then she lighted her lamp, stirred the fire, and sat down to her enabroidery. As her needle flew through the canvas her lips seemed to dose with an expression of patient sadness. There were sorrowful curves that no one ever sew, for Fern kept all her thoughts to her- self. Never since the night when .the had sob- bed out her grief on her mother's bosom, when the utterance of her girlish despair and longing had Ailed that mother's heart with dismay, never since then had Fern spoken of her trouble. "We will never talk of it 'again," she had said, when the outborst was over; "it will do no good;" and her mother had sorrowfully acquiesced. • ' Mrs. Trafford knew that only time, that beneficent healer, could deaden her child's pain. Fern's gentle nature was *capable of quiet but intense feeling. Nea'e faithful and ardent affections were repro- duced in her child. It WitS not only the loos of her girlish dreams over which Fern mourned. Her woman's love had uncon- sciously rooted itself, and could not be torn up without suffering.. An unerring instinct told her that Erie had not always been indifferent to her; that once, not so very long ago, his friendaoip had been true and deep. Well, she had forgiven his fickleness. No bitterness rankled in hie, heart against him. He had been very kind to her; he would not wish her to be unhappy. But she was very brave. She would not look at the future. The cold blankness, the narrow groove, would have chilled her heart. She only took each day as it came, and tried to do her best with it. With her usual unselfishness she deter- mined that no one else should suffer h her unhappiness. Her mother's •re of rest thould be unshadowed. e little eunbeem whose smiles an evening; but it was still e sweet looks and words were stillalways ready. ild her heart would eerenco. She recog- d power of self - brief It was a greeted he , a sunbeam. and loving atten s Nea watched h ith pride and • ate strenath ni sacrifice legacy. " like her lather," "she is stronger than a rather die than ,tell me again unhappy." But Fern would not have owned that her life was unhappy as long as she had her mother to love her. She was taking her. this afternoon as she sat alone gaped as usual to Mrs. blaming herself for • en she sang very sof ite hymn— h urice t., her as is children, ern is most ••• erd say; .would she is mia—and content; verse•of her fa 11 An And 1,8 it thou blessest is est geed is ill, a right that seeing ,sweet will, but almost line, she wa abrupt outran " -Percy oh, faltered, and she her heart began t was foolish •1, her Pilecyas step for the quick ligh it, but that never cern "You are alone," he keen glance round the beat, because I 'wanted Have you heard from Mb Fern ?" "Yes," she stammered, eyes to his face with a pity had a letter the other d " impatiently, ". Om she gay when they are corning beck? "In another fortnight—* least they , mean to start then;"and thetai the stopped, and 'bawd at him Very piteonsly, " How I wish mother would COO* ; the will not be very long, and—end I would rather that you heard it from her." a Do you Moen that you have anything' special tot tell rite ?" he asked, struck by her manner. "Oh, 1 wish Yon bednot asked me," she returned, clasping he hands I "you are ao ond of Crystal, and it will make you terribly unhappy; but Mother said we caight to tell you, Petty, deari There was never any hope for you•—you knbw she alwaas told yon so; and noW Crystal is rnarried." " Married!" he alniOst el:tented, Aria his haitdeoine young We Seemed tOgrOW hrp and pale. Married I Pehaw 1 you lire eating, Vern." beat Perciy," She answered, gently, do you think I Woukt stm with .you on such a subject. Indeed—indeed it is true. 1 She was Married some ten days to Mr. Ferrero; the blind clergyinan, , who antri staying at Belgteve Hodge. hed eorne there to look foe her. Be bed knitWit her from child, and they heti tong loved each iljterlLi'rried I" ha repeated, in the lathe dell, hard voice, and there *its something good, oat wrong e she had fim rtled by he '41 not hear i ed a little t more qu ed the last .brother'e she le, and kly. It t she ne r heard teningin luntarily d to fellow w. d quickly, with a Well, it is speak to you. a venport lately, ising her eoft expreasion ; 1n hit face that trade X' can throw her arm totted hie peok. " Oh, it is hard," she sobbed kOOW 49W bird it is for you to ,her me say thie but it Ilse to be faced. She never deceive a PA us trust him to the All Merciful; and, en thegeod bishop said to the wither p!,S.,t, Atinastine, the child of SO many prayers • Oitti mit be lpsta d Erle Huntingdon had peesea an anzioite, yon, dear --she ueVer let YOti hope ler enigle moment ; she weal -alwitys true t laereelf and you. TrY to heal' it, Percy try, to be glad that her unharpiness is over and that elio is married to the man sh loves. It is the Otl/Y tiliPg that will help you. "Nothing will kelp Me," he ;stigma, in the seine muffled voice; but she would no be repulsed. She swept back the datk hair from his foreheed and kissed him Did she notafflare his sufferings? "Oh, i mother were only here," she sighed, feeling her inability to comfott htin. "Mother 6 eo sorry for you, 'headed about it the other night." - "Ye," he answered, "mothers are like that ;" and Oen was silent again. What was there he could say—he was in no mood for sympathy. The touch of Fernam soft arms were torture to him. Hie idol wee gone in another man's possession. He ahould never see again the dark southern loveliness that had ao enthralled his imagination; and the idea was madden- ing to him. In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. A wall of ice interned to be built up across hie path, and he could see 110 outlet. "1 cannotstay now," he said, and his voice soundedstrange in hie own ears, " Will you give my love to ray rciother, Fern?" "Oh, do not go," shepleeded,apdnowthe tears were running down her face, "D9 stay with me,Peroy." "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 hie hands, And then he rode out into the gloom. It wao too early to go home ; besides, he did not wish 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 lees would not matter to him in this mood. Black care was sitting behind him on the saddle, and bad taken the reins from his 'hands; and a worse gloom than the murky atinoephere was closing round him. • She had told him that hie life was before him—that he could carve out his own future; but as he looked back =tie past life—on the short tele of his four -and - twenty years—his heart was sick within 'him. What a pitiable part he had played. Was it possible that such a woman as Crystal could ever have loved him ? Had not his cowardly deeertion of his mother only won her silent contempt? And now it was too late to redeem himself' in her a uncomfortahlndliy, 'PereY'e eehfeetilen of o his gambling debts had made him seriouily ; uneasy. It was in his power to help him . this once, he hid said, with minimal stern. e Agee, but he would sopa be a married man, ann. then Peroy must look to himself ; and Percy, nettled at his tone, had answered somewhat shortly, apd in spite of Prle'll t generosity they had not parted !Hondo. But this was not all. AfteeioncheonMr. . Huntingdon hed celled Erie into his study, f and had shown him a letter that he had inet received from Borne anonymous emu - pendent. Some unknown friend and well- wisher had thought it advisable to warn Mr. Huntingdon of his grandson's reckless doings. Erle looked deacifully shocked es be read it; And the expression of concen- trated anger on Mr. Huntingdon's face frightened him still more. . " Perhaps it is net true," he stammered, 00 then the remembrance of his conversa- tion with Percy silenced him. "True," retorted Mr, Huntingdon, in hie hard rasping voice •, "do you not 'see that the writer Rays he can prove every word? And this is mygrandson, whom have taken opt of poverty. Well, well, I might have known the eon of Maurioe Trafford would never lie worth anything," Strangely 1114118t words to be spoken pf Neale idolized Maurice,. whose pure sopl would have revolted against his boy's sins. Erle felt the cruelty of the speech ; but he dare not contradict hie uncle, What were the TraffOrds to him now? There Was to IV large gentlemen's dinner -party at Belgrave House that even- ing, Some East Indian director was to be feted. and Beget"' city magnates were to honor it by their presence. Ede wondered that Percy did not make hie appearance, eyes. His fate was frowning on him. His position at Belgrave House had long been irksome to him. His grandfatherlovedhini, but not as he loved Erle; and in his heart he was secretly jealous of Erle—if it had been possible he would have supplanted him. Only he himself knew how he had tempted him, and the subterfuges to which he had atooped. He had encouraged Erie's visiteto Beulah Place from motives of self- interest, and had been foiled by Erie's engagement to Evelyn Selby. How he lpatlied himself as he thought of it all. Oh, if he could only undo the past. Young as he was, ruin seemed staring him in the face. He had squandered his handsome allowance; his debts were heavy. He had heard his grandfather say that of all things he abhorred gambling; and yet he knew he was a gambler. Only the preceding night he had staked a large. eunt and had lost; and that very morning he had appealed to Erle to gave him from the coneequence of his own rashness. As he rode on, his thoughts seemed to grow tangled and confused. His life Was a failure; how was be to go on living ? All these years he had led on busks, and the taste was bitter in his mouth. Oh 1 if he could Make a clean breast or it all. And then he repeated drearily that it was too late. Hie reins were hanging loosely on his horse's neck. His high-spirited little mare had been following her own will for more than an hour now, and had relapsed into a walk, as Percy roused himself to see where he was. He found himself on a bridge with the river on either side of him. He was miles away from Belgrave House; and for the moment be was perplexed, and drew up to ask a boy who was loitering on. the footpath what bridge it was. There was a steamer pestling; and a little led had clambered on the parapet to see it go by. Either he overbalanced himself or grew giddy, but, to Peroyas horror, there Was a sharp scream, and the next moment the child had disappeared. " Itt an instant Percy was off his horse, and, with the agility of a itractiaed athlete, had swung himself on the parapet. Yes, he could see the eddy where the child had sank; and in another moment be had dived into tho dark water. "It Was a plucky thing to do, sir," observed a navvy who had seen the proceeding, and who afterwards detailed it to Erle Huntingdon ; «1 don't know as ever / saw a pluckier thing in my whole life. Ay, and the poor yOung•gentlermin wmild have done it too,for any one tordd see he knew what he wasabout ; for he dived in straight after the child; arid then, that dratted steitmer—yon will exculle me, sir, but One's feelings are strong —what mud it do but beck to pick up the child ; and the poor fellow, he meet have etruk his head agsmat it, for he went down again. Oh, yes 1 the child was all right, and the yoneg gentleman would have been all right too, but for that naety blow, it stunned hiraLleY0,Oitit8heaccritunned 'him ; the young spent life was over'. Did he call Upon his GOd for succor as he went down' into his watery grave? Who knowO what cry want up to heaven '? The old epitaph that Was engraved on the tonab of a notoriotle ill. litter species quaintly of hope. in such caljel4Betivitt the saddle said the gtolind He moray sought and mercy found and HAY qUoted them softly , tit Crystal as she *opt over the fate of het nnhappy Ioeeti " Hie last Act was to try and eave another God only knows how far this woad go to redeera a faultypast—Godonly knows. Do not try so bitterly, derlitig. for he was always punctual on ouch MOS. WOOS ; but Mr. Huntingdon did not seem to notice his absence. The guests thought their host looked greyer and more bowed than usual, and that his step was feebler. He was getting an old man now, they said to themselves ; and it would not be long before there would be a new muter at Be/grave Home. Any one could see he was breaking last, and would not last long. Well, he had done well for himself; and his heir was to be envied, for he would be a rich min, and scarcely needed the splendid dowry that Evelyn Selby woul4. bring him. The banquet was juat drawing to its close when there were signs of some disturb. ance in the household. The butler wide- pered to Erle, who immediately left the room, and a few minutes later a message was brought to Mr. 'Huntingdon. Something had happened—something dreadful had happened, they told him, and he must come with them at once ; and he had shuddered and turned pale. He was growing old, and Ms nerves were not as strong, as they used to be, and he supported himself with some difficulty as he bowed to his guests with old.fashioned politenesa, and excusing 'himself, begged his old friend Sir Frederick Drummond to take his place. But as the door closed behind him, and he found himself our - rounded by frightened servants, he tottered and hie face grew grey. "You will kill me among yolk," he muttered, a Where is my nephew? Will none of you fools tell me what 6 the matter." • "He's in there," returned the butler, who was looking very soared, and pointing to the library; and the next moment Erie came out with a face as white as death. " Oh ! uncle, uncle, don't go in till they have told you. Percy is there, end—" but Mr. Huntingdon only motioned hint aside with his old peremptori. nese, and then closed the door upon them. He knew what he should find there—he knew it when they whispered into hie ear that something had happened; and then he walked 'feebly acrose the mom to the coach, where something lay with strange rigid lines under a satin coverlid that had been flung over it; and as he drew it down and looked at the face of his dead grandson, he knew that the hand of death had struck him also, that he would never get over this —never! • CHAPTER %XXVIII. NEA AND ,HER EATRER MEET AOAIN. Whence art thou sent from us ? Whither thy goal? How art thou rent from us Thou that wore whole? As with severing of eyelids and eyes, as with sundering of body and son]. Who shall raise thee From the house of the dead? Or what man shall praise thee That thy praise may bo said? - Alas thy beautyl alas thy bodyt alas thy head! What wilt thou leave me • Now this thing is done? A man wilt thou give me, A Son for my son, For the light of my eyes, the desire of my Hfe, the desirable one Algernon O. ,gwiaburne. Erle had followed him into the roont, but Mr. Huntingdon took no notice of him. If he could, he would have spoken to him and implored him to leave him, but his tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his mouth. lie wished to be alone with his grandson, te hide from every one, if he could, that he was stricken down at last. He had loved him, but not as he had loved Erle --the benjamin of his old age; his son of coneolition. Ile had been stern with him, and had neyer delight to win hie confidence; and no the blood of the Anhappj, boy seemed crying to him front the ground. And it was toy this that he had taken Win from his mother, that he should lie there in theprinte of hie youth with all the measure of his sine full to the brim. How had he died—but he dared not ask, and no one told hint. Erie had indeed said something about a child but he had not understood any inore than he under., stood that they had sent to tell the mother, Etle's voice, broken with &notion, had bet% tainly vibrated in his ears, but no sense of the woras had reached him. If be had known thit that mother was eilready on her way to claim the dead body of her son, he would have hidden hinnielf and his gray hairs, What a beautiftil fece it Wad, he thought ; all that had Marred it itt life was voftened now; the eneere, the hard bitter lines, Were smoothed aWay, and Roteething like a ereile reeted eat the young 146. Ab, eurely he was at rest now Some stray hake citing damply to his temPlea, end Mr. Hunting. don etooped (aver him end put them trilde with almost it woman's -tendernese, ana then he sat down on the chair beside him an bowed his grey head in hie liarcle. He was struck down at last! I iil idolized Erle had lein there in. Percy' piece he could have borne it better. But h9)'1 What if she should coMe ona require tire at his hands! COMO home with your own Nea, father" had he eyer °wail to hear those words? Hod he ever forgotten her standing there in the snow with her lathy hidden under her shawl, end her sweet thip face raised to hirm ? Had he ever ceased to love her and yearn for her when hi a anger was most bitter against her? Surely the demons most have leagued together to keep posses- sion of his soul, or he would never have so hardened hinnielf agaioet her 1 He had taken her boy from her; be had tempted his youthful weakness with the sight of wealth, end then he had teft him to his own devices, Be had not taught him to "wash his hands in innocency, or tp take heed to the things that were right." Day and night that boy's dead face, with its likeness to hie mother, would hated hie memory. Oh, geaven ! that he were indeed childless, that none of these things might have come upon him. " Uncle Rolf, will you not come awl), with me?" implored Erle; "the house is quite quiet now, and ell the people heve gone ;" but Mr. Huntingdon only hook his heed—he had no strength to rase from his chair, and he could not tell Erle this. The poor boy was terribly alarmed at hie uncle's looks; he did not seem to under. etapd anything he said; and whet if Mrs. Trafford should take it in ber head to conae—if only he could get his uncle away. But even as he framed the wish the door opened noiselessly, and Mr. Huntingdon raised his eyes. A tall woman with grey hair like hie, and a pale, beautiful face with. an expression that almost froze his blood,. looked at him for e moment, then silently passed up the room, and with her dros. brushing him as he sat there motionless, paused beside the couch. And it was thus. that Nes and her father met again. But site did not notice him; there was only one object for her eyes—the still mute figureof' her boy. Silently, and still with that awful look of woe on her face, she drew the, dark head into her arms, and 6id the dead cheek against her breast; and as she felt, the irreeponsive weight, the chilled touch, her dried-up misery gave way, and the tears streamed from her eyes, She was calling him her darling—her only boy. She had forgotten his cowardly desertion of her; the halite and follies of his youth. Living, he had been little to her, but she claimed the dead as her own. She had for- gotten all; she was the young mother again, its she smoothed the clerk hair with her thin fuigera and pressed the cold face to her bosom, as though She could warm the deadly chill of death. Nes," exclaimed a feeble voice in her ear. "Nee, be was my boy tee." And looking np she saw the tall bowed figure a her father, and two wrinkled hands stretched out to her. Ah, she was back in the present again. She laid her boy down. on the pillow, and drew the quilt tenderly. over him; but all the beauty and softnesa. seemed to die out of her face, as she turned to her father. "My boy," she answered, "not youre ; for you never loved him as I did. You tempted him from me, and made him despise his mother; but he 6 mine now; God ,took him froin you who were ruining him soul and body, to give hint back to me." "Nea," returned the old man with groan; "I have sinned—I know it now. I have blighted your life; it have been a hard cruel father; but in the presence of the dead Hum should be peace," 44.Hy life," she moaned; "thy life. Ab,, if that were all I could haviforgiven it long ago; but it was Maurice—Maurice whom you left to die of a broken heart, though I prayed you to come with me. It was my husband whom you killed; and now, but for you my boy would be living." "Nea, Nes," he wailed again; "my only child, Nee ;" but as she turned, moved by the concentrated agony of his voice, he fell with his face 'downward on the couch, siorose the feet of his dead. grandson. * * The doctors who were summoned said: that a paralytic seizure had long been im- pending; he might "linger for it few weeke, but it was impossible to say whether he would ever recover full consciousness again. Erle heard them sadly; he had been very fond of the old man hi spite of the tyranni- cal sway that had ruled him from boyhood. His uncle had boon hi0 generous benefactor, and he could not hear of his danger without emotion. Mrs. Trafford had not left the house from Ike moment of her father's alarming seiz- ure; she had taken quiet possession itf the sick -room, and Only left it to foflow her boy to the grave. Fern Was there too, but Erle did not speak to her; the crape veil hid her face, and he Could only see the gleam of her fair hair shining in the wintry sunlight. .4 The two women had stood together, Fern e holding her ntother's hand; and when the service was over, Mrs. Trafford had gone back to Belgraee House, and some kindly rleighbor had taken the girl home. Erie would gladly have epoken seine niotcl of sympathy, but Mks. Trafford gave him en Opportunity. Neither of them knew how sadly and wilitfally the peer girllookecl after them. Erhee changed looks, his paleness and depression "Mide Fern's heart heavier; she had not known that he had loved Percy so. Shehed no idea that it Was the eight of hei. Own idint riving figure Mov- ing between the graves thdt Made Erie look BO sad. She Was dearer to hint than ova., he told himself; an they drove *way trona the cemetery; and he hated hiineelf as he said it, He had not seen Evelyn: grate Patty's death. She Wad staying at SOWN) COOtitiY house vvith her mint, Lady .hieltrercierg, where be was to hest joined thetil but of course this Wag impossible under the eir- oninstaneee; and though he did iiot like to oWn to blintielf that her absence was it relief, he took the opportmlity of toblinghee not to hurry back to London on hie iiecount, a� hie time was so fully occupied With necoseary business and watching hie peer Miele that he weiticliiiit be free to tOme tet her. (to be earitlimued.)