Part 25 (1/2)

”Yes, yes; it must be she,” murmured Raby, and then for the moment he seemed able to say no more; only Margaret watched him, with tears in her eyes.

Erle's interest and curiosity were strongly excited. There must be some strange mystery at the bottom of this he thought. He had always been sure that Miss Davenport had some history. She was wonderfully handsome; but with all his predilection for pretty faces he had never quite taken to her; he had regarded her with involuntary distrust.

He looked at Mr. Ferrers as he stood evidently absorbed in thought.

What a grand-looking man he was, he said to himself, if he would only hold his head up, and push back the ma.s.s of dull brown hair that lay so heavily on his forehead.

There was something sad in that spectacle of sightless strength; and to those who first saw him, Raby Ferrers always seemed like some patient giant oppressed and bowed down, both physically and mentally, but grand in a certain sublime resignation that endured because he was too proud to complain.

”It must be so,” he observed at last. ”Margaret, I see light at last.

Mr. Huntingdon”--turning to his guest--”I have been very rude, very uncourteous, but your words have given me a shock; you have touched accidentally on a deep trouble. Now, will you be good and kind enough to sit down and tell me all you can about Miss Davenport, as you call her.”

”Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Ferrers.” And, with very few interruptions from either the brother or sister, Erle gave a full and graphic description of Crystal's present home and surroundings--all the more willingly that his listeners seemed to hang breathlessly on his words.

He described eloquently that shabby room over Mrs. Watkins's, that was yet so pleasant and home-like; the mother with her worn, beautiful face, who moved like a d.u.c.h.ess about her poor rooms, and was only the head teacher in a girls' school. He dismissed the subject of the gentle, fair-haired Fern in a few forcible words; but he spoke of little Florence, and then of Percy, and of the curious way in which all their lives were involved.

Only once Mr. Ferrers stopped him. ”And Miss Davenport teaches, you say?”

”Yes, both she and Miss Trafford have morning engagements. I think Miss Martingale, where Mrs. Trafford is, has recommended both the young ladies. There are not many gentle people living there; the Elysian Fields and Beulah Place are not exactly aristocratic neighborhoods. But Miss Trafford goes to the vicarage; there are young children there; and by good luck the senior curate, Mr. Norton, wanted some help with his two little boys. Miss Davenport is a Latin scholar, and they took her on the Traffords' recommendation.”

”And only her mornings are occupied? Excuse these seemingly trifling questions, Mr. Huntingdon”--with a sad smile--”but you are speaking of one who is very dear to us both.”

”I will tell you all I know,” returned Erle, in his kind-hearted way; ”but I am only a visitor at Mrs. Trafford's. I think, at least I am sure, that they do a good deal of needle-work in their spare time--embroidery for shops; they are very poor, you see. There is always work about; sometimes they are making their gowns. They are never ashamed of anything they do, they are such thorough gentlewomen.

I do not think you could find a prouder woman than Mrs. Trafford anywhere, and yet she is frank, and generous to a fault.”

”They must be charming people,” observed Margaret, thoughtfully.

”Crystal has told us all this in her letters, Raby. Mr. Huntingdon's account most fully indorses hers.”

”Yes,” he returned, quietly, ”she is in good hands; our prayers have been answered, Maggie. But now dear, if we have heard all that Mr.

Huntingdon can tell us about our poor child, will you leave me with him a little, for I want to take him into our confidence; when he knows all, he may be willing to help us.” And Margaret rose without a word; but her beautiful eyes rested on Erle a moment, wistfully, as though to bid him to be patient.

And then, as the twilight crept over the room; while the girls were laughing and chatting round Fay's couch, and wondering--Dora especially--what could have happened to detain Mr. Huntingdon so late; and while the blazing pine knots threw a ruddy glow over Raby's pale face, Erle sat listening to one of the saddest stories he had ever heard.

And when it was finished they had a long talk together, and Erle told Raby about Percy's hopeless pa.s.sion, and of the impatience and loathing with which Crystal seemed to turn from her handsome young lover.

”He makes his way with other girls, but not with her,” went on Erle; ”and yet he is clever and fascinating, and will be rich, too, some day. It seems strange, does it not. Mr. Ferrers?”

”Not to me,” returned Raby, quietly; but there was a smile on his face as he spoke. ”Crystal will never care for your friend, Mr. Huntingdon; it is no use, his persecuting her with his attentions.”

”If I could only get Percy to believe it; but he seems absolutely crazy on that point. Miss Davenport--Miss Ferrers, I mean--is not quite the style I admire; but she is superbly handsome, one must own that.”

”Yes,” replied Raby, with a sigh; ”I always said her face would do for Vashti's. She has Italian blood in her veins; her mother was a Florentine. Oh, here comes Margaret,” as the door opened and she reappeared. ”Maggie, what do you think? Mr. Huntingdon has invited me to Belgrave House.”

”My uncle is very hospitable, Miss Ferrers,” observed Erle, with a smile at her surprise; ”Percy and I can always ask our friends. He is old, and has his own rooms; so we never interfere with him. Mr.

Ferrers would find himself very comfortable with us, and I would take great care of him.”