“You suffer, too, you say, in the one letter that has reached me: I have ever overshadowed your happiness. You and Raby are troubling your kind hearts about me, but indeed there is no need for any fresh anxiety.
“I have met with good Samaritans. The roof that shelters me is humble indeed, but it shelters loving hearts and simple, kindly natures—natures as true as yours, Margaret—gentle, high-souled women, who, like the charitable traveler in the Bible, have sought to pour oil and wine into my wounds. How you would love them for my sake, but still more for their own!
“These kindly strangers took me in without a word—they asked no questions; I was young, friendless and unhappy, that was all they cared to know.
“I must tell you very little about them, for I do not wish to give you any clew to my home at present; they are a mother and two daughters in reduced circumstances, but having unmistakably the stamp of gentlewomen; both mother and daughter, for the second is only a child, have high, cultured natures. The mother—forgive me, Margaret, for I dare not mention her name—teaches in a school close by us, and her daughter is also a daily governess. I am thankful to say that their recommendations have procured me work of the same kind; I give morning lessons to two little boys, and Fern—that is the eldest daughter’s name—and I have also obtained some orders for embroidery to fill up our leisure hours and occupy our hands while we teach Fern’s youngest sister.
“And now I have told you all this, will you not be comforted a little about me; will you not believe that as far as possible things are well with me? Tell him—tell Raby—that when I have wiped out my sin a little by this bitter penance and mortification, till even I can feel I have suffered and repented enough, I will come back and look on your dear face again. And this for you, Margaret; know that in the blameless, hard-working life I lead that I have forgotten none of your counsel, and that I so walk in the hard and lonely path that I have marked out for myself that even you could find no fault. Farewell.
“Crystal.”
As Margaret’s voice died away, Raby turned his sightless face to her.
“You may give it back to me, Margaret, but stay, there is the copy of your answer; I think I would like to hear that once again; and Margaret obediently opened the thin, folded paper.
“My poor Darling—At last we have heard from you—at last you have yielded to my urgent request for some news of your daily life. God bless you for lifting a little of the weight off us, for telling us something about yourself and your work. I could not help crying bitterly over your letter, to think that a humble roof shelters our child; that you are compelled to work for your living; you, Crystal, who have never known what it is to want anything; upon whom a rough wind was not suffered to blow. My child, come home. What need is there of penance and expiation when all has been forgiven? The evil spirit that tormented our child has been cast out, and you are clothed afresh and in your right mind now; come home, for dear Raby’s sake, and be his darling as of old! Do you know how he longs for you? Daily he asks ‘Any news of her, Margaret?’ and last night, as I was passing his study door, he called me in and bade me give you this message—‘Tell my child, Margaret,’ he said, ‘that every night I bless her and fall asleep breathing her name; tell her that my forgiveness and blessing are ever with her; that there is no bitterness in my heart; that she can not escape from my love; that it will follow her to the world’s end. And tell her, Margaret, that if she do not soon come back to me that I, Raby—blind, helpless, useless as I am—will seek her through God’s earth till I find her and bring her back.’ Ah, surely you must weep as you read this, Crystal. I pray that every tear may be God’s own dew to melt and break up the hardness of your heart. Your ever loving
“Margaret.”
“That was written nearly two months ago, Madge, and she has not come yet.”
“No, dear, we must have patience.”
Raby sighed impatiently. “So you always say; but it is hard to be patient under such circumstances—to know that the woman you love has made herself an exile from all she holds dear. Margaret, I was wrong not to tell her what I felt. I sometimes fear that she misjudged my silence. But she was so young.”
“You meant it for the best, Raby?”
“Yes, I meant it for the best,” he answered, slowly. “I did not wish to take advantage of her youth; it did not seem right or honorable. Let her go into the world a little and see other men, that is what I said to myself. Even now, I hardly think I was wrong.”
“No, you were right, quite right; but you need not have dreaded the result of such an ordeal; Crystal would never have loved any one but you, Raby. I sometimes think”—but here she hesitated.
“You think what, Margaret?”
“That she was jealous of Mona—that she misunderstood you there?”
“Good heavens! Mrs. Grey!”
“Crystal was so young, and she did not know that poor Mona’s life was doomed. I have seen her look at Mona so strangely when you were talking to her; and once she asked me if you admired fair women, and if you did not think Mrs. Grey very beautiful; and when I said yes, I remember she turned very pale and did not answer.”
“I never thought of this,” he returned, in a tone of grief. “It must have been one of her sick fancies, poor unhappy child—as though my heart had ever swerved from her for an instant. What do you think, Margaret, could she care for the blind man still?”
“More than ever, dear. If I know Crystal, her heart has belonged to you from a child.”
“There speaks my comforter”—with one of his rare smiles; “you are always good to me, Madge. Now read to me a little, and let me banish these weary thoughts. One little clew—one faint hint—and I would keep my word and seek for her; but, as you say, we must have patience a little longer,” and Raby straightened himself and composed himself to listen, and they sat there until the evening sunshine began to creep about the sun-dial, and it was time for Raby to walk over to Pierrepoint.
It is well for some of us that coming events do not always cast their shadow before; that we lie down to rest in happy ignorance of what the next day may bring forth. As Margaret looked out on the moonlight that evening, she little thought that that Sunday was the last day of her happy girlhood—that the morrow held a bitter trial in store for her.
She was sitting alone in the morning-room, the next afternoon, when Sir Wilfred Redmond was announced, and the next moment the old man entered the room.
A faint blush came to Margaret’s cheeks as she rose to greet him. This visit meant recognition of her as his son’s fiancée; and yet, why did he come alone—why was not Hugh with him? Hugh’s father was almost a stranger to her. He was a man of reserved habits, who had never been very sociable with his neighbors, and Margaret had seen little of him in her girlish days.
“It is very good of you to come so soon, Sir Wilfred,” she said, blushing still more rosily under his penetrating glance. “I am so sorry that my brother is out; he has gone over to Pierrepoint.”
“I came here to see you and not your brother,” returned Sir Wilfred; but he did not look at her as he spoke, and Margaret noticed that he seemed rather nervous. “My business is with you, Miss Ferrers; I have just heard strange news—that you and my son are engaged; is that true?”
Margaret bowed her head. She thought Sir Wilfred’s manner rather singular—he had met her with coldness; there was certainly no trace of warmth, no cordiality in the loose grasp of her hand. She wondered what made him speak in that dry, measured voice, and why, after his first keen glance at her, he had averted his eyes. He looked older than he had done yesterday, and there was a harassed expression in his face. “It is rather strange,” he went on, “that Hugh should have left me in ignorance all these months, but that”—as Margaret seemed about to speak—“is between me and him, I do not include you in the blame. On the contrary,”—speaking