140
CHRISTIAN
Foan’s
TROUBLES.
that half confession; “it was only that 1 dis- like that boy to be so silly; I knew he was no- thing to you. I dare say he will write to you; of course, you will pay no attention—it would only be cruel to the poor fellow.”
“‘Mrs. Gray,” replied Christian, coldly, “1 trust that in all that regards the conduct of a true womnn, I have no need of s lesson. Your son is perfectly free, and there is no necessity for prolonging thia conversation.”
“You are quite right, and I must say good- bye! Don’t stay outin this damp, and you have nothing on your head; draw up your shawl, pray. Good-bye, dear Miss Ford—good-bye!"
“She shook Christian's hand with the utmost cordiality, and hastened away. The girl’s face expressed only quiet acorn as she looked after her for a moment, and then retraced her steps to her home.
When she entered the house, Christian found many duties to perform, and she went through them unfalteringly; assisted her blind aunt to her chamber, sat by her bedside until she slept, and then stole softly away.
She was free at Inst to give vent to her an- guish! The confinement of the house was like & prison, it stifled her; she unlocked the side door and went out into the garden. The dew lay heavy upon the grass, drenching her gar- ments as she walked up and down the narrow paths, but she took no heed. She was no stoic after all, poor Christian Ford! Under that cold exterior beat a woman's heart, and now it cried out in strong suffering which would be heard.
That girl bad led o quiet, uneveniful life, watching over her old aunt, and educating her- self after her own fashion. She had gone on thus to her twenty-third birthday before there came any change.
It was only a few months before that Mrs. Gray had sought that retired spot, bringing her son as 8 companion during the retirement which her delicate health had rendered necessary.
How Christian’s acquaintance with Robert Gray had grown inlo intimacy she herself could hardly have told. He was a wild, impetuous boy, impatient of restraint, and at that period, when his real character bad been so little awakened, that any strong influence would have swayed him at will. Time and earnest struggle with the world would change him, and bring out the real nobility of his nature, but the teachings of his youth had not been of a class to have that effect.
His love for Christian Ford was passionate and mad, like every other feeling in hig soul, but from the first she had been too clear-sighted not to feel that in returning it, she ran every risk of wrecking each beautiful life-hope in her soul. And yet she loved him; ay, spite of alt she loved him! It was in vain that her reason warned her of the danger, in vain that she strove against it with every energy of her strong nature: that love grew and entwined itself about every fibre of her heart, till it had become that affection which no influence of time or years could change.
But Robert Gray never knew this; from the very first she bad warned him of the fallacy of his hopes, had atriven to make him understand the great changes which a few years must pro- duce in his mind and feelings, but without effect; he only returned her counsel with wild protestations, and reproached her for thus cruelly doubting him who had flung every good impulse of his nalure at her feet.
Now all was over! Christian Furd sat down in that moonlight garden to review that brief past, in which the bitter sweetness of a life had been concentrated, and to look shudderingly upon the bleak future.
There had always a mad hope slept in her beart that he might return unchanged, that in his soul likewise that affection would be lasting, but her interview with his worldly mother had crushed it out. They must never meet again, that was the only sting left now—separation!
Christian would have torn ber heart out sooner than entered any family an unwelcome inmate ; mingled with this Loo there was a feeling nobler than her great pride; sho had exaggerated ideas of the duties of children, forgetting that parents have likewise theirs no less imperative and bind- ing.
That was the firat hour of Christian's suffering, and even she was wholly mastered by the rush of agony that swept like black waves over her soul. So the night wore on long and terrible, hours which sear their Way through the human heart, and whose trace may never be entirely obliterated. When the dawn broke in the east, Christian returned to her chamber, not to sleep, but to subdue herself into the calm with which she must go to her daily duties.
Very early in the morning she saw Robert Gray approaching the house, but she did not falter in her resulve. She called the women who aided her in the household cares, and gave directions stern and decided. She heard Robert's voice raised in enger inquiry—heard the mut- tered execration which followed the woman's reply—then there was a silence of many mo- ments, during which she crouched upon her knees, hiding her face in the bed-clothes. The
