St. Luke’s little summer was over, the ripe golden days that October binds in her sheaf, the richest and rarest of the year’s harvest, had been followed by chill fogs—dull sullen days—during which flaring gas-lights burned in Mrs. Watkins’s shop even at noonday, and Fern’s busy fingers, never willingly idle, worked by the light of a lamp long before the muffin boy and milkman made their afternoon rounds in the Elysian Fields.

Anything further removed from the typical idea of the Elysian Fields could scarcely be imagined than on such an afternoon. It was difficult, even for a light-hearted person, to maintain a uniform cheerfulness where damp exuded everywhere, and the moist thick air seemed to close round one in vaporous folds. Somewhere, no doubt, 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 circumstances.

Fern had turned from the window with an involuntary shudder. Then she lighted her lamp, stirred the fire, and sat down to her embroidery. As her needle flew through the canvas her lips seemed to close with an expression of patient sadness. There were sorrowful curves that no one ever saw, for Fern kept all her thoughts to herself.

Never since the night when she had sobbed out her grief on her mother’s bosom, when the utterance of her girlish despair and longing had filled 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 outburst 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’s faithful and ardent affections were reproduced in her child. It was not only the loss of her girlish dreams over which Fern mourned. Her woman’s love had unconsciously rooted itself, and could not be torn up without suffering. An unerring instinct told her that Erle had not always been indifferent to her; that once, not so very long ago, his friendship had been true and deep. Well, she had forgiven his fickleness. No bitterness rankled in her 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 determined that no one else should suffer through her unhappiness. Her mother’s brief hours of rest should be unshadowed. It was a pale little sunbeam whose smiles greeted her of an evening; but it was still a sunbeam. The sweet looks and words and loving attention were still always ready. As Nea watched her child her heart would swell with pride and reverence. She recognized the innate strength and power of self-sacrifice that Maurice had left her as his legacy. “Of all my children, Fern is most like her father,” Mrs. Trafford would say; “she is stronger than she looks—she would rather die than tell me again that she is 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 herself to task this afternoon as she sat alone—for Fluff had escaped as usual to Mrs. Watkins’s—and was blaming herself for her discontent; and then she sung very softly a verse of her favorite hymn—

But almost before she had finished the last line, she was startled by her brother’s abrupt entrance.

“Percy! oh, I did not hear you,” she faltered, and she turned a little pale, and her heart began to beat more quickly. It was foolish of her, but she never heard Percy’s step without listening involuntarily for the quick light tread that used to follow it, but that never came now.

“You are alone,” he said, quickly, with a keen glance round the room. “Well, it is best because I wanted to speak to you. Have you heard from Miss Davenport lately, Fern?”

“Yes,” she stammered, raising her soft eyes to his face with a pitying expression; “I had a letter the other day.”

“Well,” impatiently, “does she say when they are coming back?”

“In another fortnight—at least they mean to start then;” and there she stopped, and looked at him very piteously. “How I wish mother would come; she will not be very long, and—and I would rather that you heard it from her.”

“Do you mean that you have anything special to tell me?” he asked, struck by her manner.

“Oh, I wish you had not asked me,” she returned, clasping her hands; “you are so fond of Crystal, and it will make you terribly unhappy; but mother said we ought to tell you, Percy, dear. There was never any hope for you—you know she always told you so; and now Crystal is married.”

“Married!” he almost shouted, and his handsome young face seemed to grow sharp and pale. “Married! Pshaw! you are jesting, Fern.”

“Dear Percy,” she answered, gently, “do you think I would jest with you on such a subject? Indeed—indeed it is true. She was married some ten days ago to Mr. Ferrers, the blind clergyman, who was staying at Belgrave House. He had come there to look for her. He had known her from a child, and they had long loved each other.”

“Married!” he repeated, in the same dull, hard voice, and there was something in his face that made Fern throw her arms round his neck.

“Oh, it is hard,” she sobbed; “I know how hard it is for you to hear me say this, but it has to be faced. She never deceived you, dear—she never let you hope for a single moment; she was always true to herself and you. Try to bear it, Percy; try to be glad that her unhappiness is over, and that she is married to the man she loves. It is the only thing that will help you.”

“Nothing will help me,” he returned, in the same muffled voice; but she would not be repulsed. She swept back the dark hair from his forehead and kissed him. Did she not share his sufferings? Could any one sympathize with him as she could? “Oh, if mother were only here,” she sighed, feeling her inability to comfort him. “Mother is so sorry for you, she cried about it the other night.”

“Yes,” he answered, “mothers are like that;” and then was silent again. What was there he could say?—he was in no mood for sympathy. The touch of Fern’s soft arms, her little attempt at consolation, were torture to him. His idol was gone in another man’s possession. He should never see again the dark southern loveliness that had so inthralled his imagination; and the idea was maddening to him.

In a little while he rose, but no speech seemed possible to him. A wall of ice seemed to be built up across his path, and he could see no outlet. “I can not stay now,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Will you give my love to my mother, Fern?”

“Oh, do not go,” she pleaded, and now the tears were running down her face. “Do stay with me, Percy.”

“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 his hand. And then he rode out into the gloom.

It was too early to go home; besides, he did not care 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 less would not matter to him in this mood.

Black care was sitting behind him on the saddle, and had taken the reins from his hands; and a worse gloom than the murky atmosphere was closing round him.

She had told him that his life was before him—that he could carve out his own future; but as he looked back on his past life—on the short tale 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 desertion of his mother only won her silent contempt? and now it was too late to redeem himself in her eyes.

His fate was frowning on him. His position at Belgrave House had long been irksome to him. His grandfather loved him, 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 stooped. He had encouraged Erle’s visits to Beulah Place from motives of self-interest, and had been foiled by Erle’s engagement to Evelyn Selby.

How he loathed 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 sum and had lost; and that very morning he had appealed to Erle to save him from the consequences of his own rashness.

As he rode on, his thoughts seemed to grow tangled and confused. His life was a failure; how was he to go on living? All these years he had fed on husks, and the taste was bitter in his mouth. Oh! if he could make a clean breast of it all. And then he repeated drearily that it was too late.

His 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 he was perplexed, and drew up to ask a boy who was loitering on the footpath what bridge it was.

There was a steamer passing; and a little lad had clambered on the parapet to see it go by. Either he overbalanced himself or grew giddy, but, to Percy’s horror, there was a sharp scream, and the next moment the child had disappeared.

In an instant Percy was off his horse, and, with the agility of a practiced athlete, had swung himself on the parapet. Yes, he could see the eddy where the child had sunk; and in another moment he had dived into the dark water.

“It was a plucky thing to do, sir,” observed a navvy who had seen the whole proceeding, and who afterward retailed it to Erle Huntingdon; “I don’t know as ever I saw a pluckier thing in my life. Ay, and the poor young gentleman would have done it too, for any one could see he knew what he was about; for he dived in straight after the child; and then, that dratted steamer—you will excuse me, sir, but one’s feelings are strong—what must it do but back to pick up the child; and the poor fellow, he must have struck his head against it, for he went down again. Oh, yes, the child was all right, and the young gentleman would have been all right too, but for that nasty blow; it stunned him, you see.”

Yes, it had stunned him; the young ill-spent life was over. Did he call upon his God for succor as he went down into his watery grave? Who knows what cry went up to heaven? The old epitaph that was engraved on the tomb of a notorious ill-liver speaks quaintly of hope in such cases,

and Raby quoted them softly to Crystal as she wept over the fate of her unhappy lover.

“His last act was to try and save another; God only knows how far this would go to redeem a faulty past—God only knows. Do not cry so bitterly, darling. Let us trust him to the All Merciful; and, as the good bishop said to the mother of Saint Augustine, ‘the child of so many prayers can not be lost.’”

******

Erle Huntingdon had passed an anxious, uncomfortable day. Percy’s confession of his gambling debts had made him seriously uneasy. It was in his power to help him this once, he had said, with unusual sternness, but he would soon be a married man, and then Percy must look to himself; and Percy, nettled at his tone, had answered somewhat shortly, and in spite of Erle’s generosity they had not parted friends.

But this was not all. After luncheon Mr. Huntingdon had called Erle into his study, and had shown him a letter that he had just received from some anonymous correspondent. Some unknown friend and well-wisher had thought it advisable to warn Mr. Huntingdon of his grandson’s reckless doings. Erle looked dreadfully shocked as he read it; and the expression of concentrated anger on Mr. Huntingdon’s face frightened him still more.

“Perhaps it is not true,” he stammered, and then the remembrance of his conversation with Percy silenced him.

“True,” returned Mr. Huntingdon, in his hard rasping voice; “do you not see that the writer says he can prove every word? And this is my grandson, whom I have taken out of poverty. Well, well, I might have known the son of Maurice Trafford would never be worth anything.”

Strangely unjust words to be spoken of Nea’s idolized Maurice, whose pure soul would have revolted against his boy’s sins. Erle felt the cruelty of the speech; but he dare not contradict his uncle. What were the Traffords to him now?

There was to be a large gentlemen’s dinner-party at Belgrave House that evening. Some East Indian director was to be fÊted, and several city magnates were to honor it by their presence. Erle wondered that Percy did not make his appearance, for he was always punctual on such occasions; but Mr. Huntingdon did not seem to notice his absence. The guests thought their host looked grayer 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 master at Belgrave House. Any one could see he was breaking fast, 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 man, and scarcely needed the splendid dowry that Evelyn Selby would bring him.

The banquet was just drawing to its close when there were signs of some disturbance in the household. The butler whispered 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 his 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 politeness, 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 surrounded by frightened servants, he tottered and his face grew gray.

“You will kill me among you,” he muttered. “Where is my nephew? Will none of you fools tell me what is the matter?”

“He’s in there,” returned the butler, who was looking very scared, and pointing to the library; and the next moment Erle came out with a face as white as death.

“Oh! uncle, uncle, don’t go in till they have told you. Percy is there, and—” but Mr. Huntingdon only motioned him aside with his old peremptoriness, and then closed the door upon them.

He knew what he should find there—he knew it when they whispered into his ear that something had happened; and then he walked feebly across the room to the couch, 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!