Wee Wifie Part 15

It was well that Fay did not understand the latter end of the housekeeper's speech, but she shuddered notwithstanding with vague discomfort when the door was opened, and all the glories of the oriel room were displayed before her. It was so large and grand that a queen might have slept in it and have been content, but to Fay's eyes it was only a great gloomy room, so full of hidden corners and recesses, that the blazing fire-light and the wax-candles only seemed to give a faint circle of light, beyond which lurked weird shadows, hiding in the deep embrasures of the windows, or beaming against the painted ceiling.

The cabinets and wardrobe, and grotesque tables and chairs, all of black oak, and, above all, the great oak bedstead with its curiously twisted pillars and heavy silk damask curtains--each projected separate shadows and filled Fay's mind with dismay, while from the paneled walls the childish figure was reflected in dim old mirrors.

"Oh, dear," sighed the little bride, "I shall never dare to be by myself in this room. Janet, you must never leave me; look how those shadows move."

"It is not quite canny, my lady," replied Janet, glancing behind her at her mistress's word, "but I think I can mend matters a little;" and so saying, she touched the logs so smartly that they spluttered and emitted showers of sparks, till the whole room gleamed warm and ruddy with reflected brightness.

"That is better, Janet," cried Fay, delightedly; "but where are you going, Mrs. Heron?" for the housekeeper was making mysterious signs that her lady should follow her to a curtained recess; "indeed," she continued, wearily, "I am very tired, and would rather see nothing more."

"Don't be too sure of that, my lady," returned Mrs. Heron, smiling, and her tone made Fay follow her at once. But the next moment she uttered a little scream of delight, for there, hidden away behind the ruby curtains, was a tiny room--"a wee blue-lined nestie" fitted up as a boudoir or morning-room. The bow-window promised plenty of light, a cheerful modern paper covered the wall, with one or two choice landscapes; the snowy rug; the soft luxurious couch and low easy-chairs, covered with delicate blue cretonne; the writing-tables, and book-case, were all so suggestive of use and comfort. Two love-birds nestled like green blossoms in their gilded cage, and a white Persian kitten was purring before the fire.

"Oh, the dear room!" exclaimed Fay, in a perfect ecstasy, and then oblivious of her dignity, her fatigue, and the presence of the stately housekeeper, Lady Redmond sat down on the soft white rug, and lifted the kitten on her lap.

"I had a Persian kitten once," she observed, innocently; "but I took her down to the cowslip meadow and lost her. We called her the White Witch, she was so pretty and so full of mischief. I made myself quite ill crying over her loss, we were so afraid she was killed," and here Fay buried her face in the little creature's fur, as she rocked herself to and fro in the fire-light.

Mrs. Heron and Janet exchanged looks. Janet was smiling, but the housekeeper's face wore a puzzled expression; her new mistress bewildered her.

The worthy soul could make nothing of these sudden changes; first a tiny woman rustling in silks, and holding her head like a little queen, with a plaintive voice speaking sweet words of welcome; then a pale, tired lady peering into corners and averse to shadows; and now, nothing but a pretty child rocking herself to and fro with a kitten in her arms. No wonder Mrs. Heron shook her head rather gravely as she left the room.

"What on earth will my master do with a child like that?" she thought; "she will not be more of a companion to him than that kitten--but there, he knows his own business best, and she is a pretty creature."

But all the same, Mrs. Heron still shook her head at intervals, for all the household knew that Margaret Ferrers, the sister of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe, was to have come to the Hall as its mistress; and the housekeeper's faithful eyes had already noticed the cloud on her master's brow.

"'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,' that is what many a man has done to his cost," she soliloquized, as she bustled about her comfortable room. "Well, she is a bonny child, and he's bound to make her happy; she will be like a bit of sunshine in the old Hall if he does not damp her cheerfulness with his gloomy moods."

A little while afterward, Ellerton met his little mistress wandering about the Hall, and ushered her into the damask drawing-room. Fay was looking for her husband.

She had escaped from Janet, and had been seeking him some time, opening doors and stumbling into endless pa.s.sages, but always making her way back somehow to the focus of light--the big hall; and feeling drearily as though she were some forlorn princess shut up in an enchanted castle, who could not find her prince.

She wanted to feel his arms round her, and sob out all her strangeness; and now an ogre in the shape of the gray-haired butler had shut her up in a great, brilliantly lighted room, where the tiny, white woman saw herself reflected in the long mirrors.

Fay, standing dejected and pale in the center of the room, felt like Beauty in the Beast's palace, and was dreaming out the story in her odd childish way, when the door was flung suddenly open, and the prince, in the person of Sir Hugh, made his appearance.

She ran toward him with a little cry; but something in his look checked her, and she stood hesitating and coloring as he came up to her and offered his arm.

"Ellerton has announced dinner," he said, quietly; "draw your scarf round you, for the Hall is cold. You look very nice, dear," he continued, kindly, looking at the dainty little bit of loveliness beside him with critically approving eyes; "you should always wear white in the evening, Fay;" and then, as they entered the dining-room, he placed her at the head of the table.

Poor child, it seemed all very solemn and stately, with Ellerton and two other footmen to wait on them; to be divided from her husband by silver epergnes and choice flowers, to have to peep between the ferns and flowers for a sight of the golden-brown beard. No wonder her little talk died away, and she stammered in her replies, and then blushed and felt discomposed. She thought she was playing her part very awkwardly, and was ashamed of herself for Hugh's sake, never dreaming that the very servants who waited on her were wondering at the radiant young creature. Everything comes to an end in this world, and so did this ordeal; for after what seemed to her endless courses, the door closed on the retiring servants, and she and her husband were left alone together; and when Sir Hugh woke up from a brief musing fit he found Fay at his end of the table watching him.

"Why! what brings you here, Wee Wifie?" he asked, smiling; "have you finished your grapes--am I keeping you waiting?"

"Oh! I am in no hurry," she returned, calmly. "I am going to enjoy my grapes here; it is so dull at the other end of the table;" and she chattered merrily to him, while Hugh drank his coffee, and then coaxed him up into the "blue nestie."

Hugh took all her thanks very graciously. He was pleased that her innocent tastes should be gratified; he never imagined for a moment that she thought he had chosen all the pretty knickknacks round them.

He had said everything suitable to a lady's boudoir was to be provided, and the people had done it very well. He had given them _carte blanche_, and it was certainly a very pretty little room; and then he watched Fay presiding over her tea-table, and listened placidly to her ecstasy over the lovely old china cups, and the dear little antiquated silver cream-jug, and the tiny spoons; and for a little while her brightness infected him. But presently, when she came and nestled against him and told him how happy she was, and how dearly she meant to love her new home, the old look of pain came back on his face; and telling her that he knew his Wee Wifie was tired and must go to bed, he kissed her twice, and then putting her hurriedly from him, went down-stairs.

And when he got into his library and saw the lamp lighted, and the fire burning brightly, he gave a sigh of relief at finding himself alone, and threw himself down in his easy-chair.

And that night, long after Fay had prayed that she might be worthy of Hugh's love, and make him happy, and had fallen asleep in the old oak bed with a child's utter weariness, did Hugh sit with his aching head buried on his arms, thinking how he should bear it, and what he would do with his life!

And so the home life began, which was far more tolerable to Sir Hugh than his Continental wanderings had been; when he rode over his estate and Fay's--the Wyngate lands adjoining, from morning until late afternoon, planning, building, restoring, or went into Pierrepoint on magisterial business; happy if at night he was so weary with exercise that rest was a pleasure and his little wife's manipulations sweet.

All the surrounding gentry for miles round came to call at the Hall, and were loud in their praises of the sweet-faced bride; but the Ferrers were not among them--all those winter months Sir Hugh never saw Margaret. No, though the Grange and the Hall were but two miles apart, they never met; though many a time Sir Hugh had to turn his horse into some miry lane, or across a plowed field, to escape her as she went to and fro among the wayside cottages.

Neither did they meet at the various entertainments--dinner-parties and dances that were given in honor of the bride. That winter Margaret declined all invitations; her brother needed her--and she had never cared much for gayety--this was her only excuse. But Sir Hugh knew why he never met her--her high sense of honor kept them apart--neither of them had lived down their pain; in the future it might be possible for her to be his friend, and the friend of his wife; but now it could hardly be; and yet Margaret was longing, craving intensely to see the lovely young creature of whom every one was speaking, and whom already she loved by report.

Strange to say, no one spoke about the Ferrers to Fay; people were too well acquainted with the story of Sir Hugh's engagement to Margaret to venture on a hint. Once Fay asked a lady with whom she was driving, who lived in that quaint old house on the Sandycliffe road? and was told briefly that the blind vicar, Mr. Ferrers, lived there with his sister.

Fay would have put some more questions, but Mrs. Sinclair turned the subject rather quickly; but Fay recurred to it that evening.

"Why have not the Ferrers called on us, Hugh?" she asked, suddenly, when she was keeping him company in the library.

Sir Hugh started, and then jumped up to replenish the fire.

"Who told you about them?" he asked, as he tried to break a refractory coal.

"Mrs. Sinclair. I was driving with her this afternoon, and I asked her who lived in that red brick house with the curious gables, on the Sandycliffe road, and she said it was the blind vicar, Mr. Ferrers, and his sister; don't you like them, Hugh? everyone else has called, and it seems rather strange that they should have taken no notice."

"Well, you see, it is a little awkward," returned her husband, still wrestling with the coal, while Fay watched the process with interest; "they used to be friends of mine, but we have had a misunderstanding, and now, of course, there is a coolness."

"And they are nice people."

"Very nice people; he is a very clever man, but we do not agree--that is all;" and then Hugh disposed of the coal and took up his paper, and Fay did not like to disturb him with any more questions. It seemed a great pity, she thought, it was such a lovely house; and if Mr.

Ferrers were a nice clever man--and then she wondered what his sister was like; and as she sat at Hugh's feet basking in the fire-light she had no idea that Hugh's forehead was clouded and puckered with pain.

Fay's innocent questions had raised a storm in his breast. Would she speak of them again? was there any danger that people would gossip to her? One day he might be obliged to tell her himself, but not now, she seemed so happy, so perfectly contented, and she was such a child.

Yes, Hugh's Wee Wifie was very happy.

At first, to be sure, her position was a little difficult and irksome.

The number of servants bewildered her; she wished Mrs. Heron would not interlard her conversation with so many "my ladys," and that, Hugh would ride with her oftener instead of that tiresome groom.

But by and by she got used to her new dignity, and would drive her gray ponies through the country roads, stopping to speak to any old villager she knew; or she would mount Bonnie Bess at the hour she thought Hugh would be returning from Pierrepoint, and gallop through the lanes to meet him and rein up at his side, startling him from his abstraction with that ringing laugh of hers.

She was seldom idle, and never dull.

When Sir Hugh had shooting parties, she always carried the luncheon to the sportsmen, driving through the wood in her pony-carriage; when her husband began to return his neighbors' hospitality, she surprised him by making a perfect little hostess, and never seemed too shy to chat in her pretty, modest manner to his guests. All Sir Hugh's masculine friends fell in love with her, and the ladies petted and made much of her.

Fay was very grateful to them for their kindness, but she liked best to be alone in the old Hall.

She had a hundred sources of amus.e.m.e.nt; she would follow Mrs. Heron from room to room, listening to her stories of many a dead Redmond; or coax her to show the old treasures of tapestry and lace; or she would wander through the gardens and woods with her favorite Nero and Sir Hugh's n.o.ble St. Bernard, Pierre.

She made acquaintance with every man, woman, and child about the place, and all the animals besides; when the spring came she knew all the calves and lambs by name, all the broods of chickens and ducklings; she visited the stables and the poultry-yards till every helper and boy about the premises knew her bright face well, and were ready to vow that a sweeter-spoken creature never lived than the young Lady Redmond.

And she would prattle to Hugh all through the long dinner, beguiling him by her quaint bright stories; and when he went into the library--she never could coax him after that first evening into her "blue nestie"--she would follow him and sit herself at his feet with her work or book, perfectly content if he sometimes stroked her hair, or with a sudden feeling of compunction stooped over her and kissed her brow, for he was always very gentle with her, and Fay adored him from the depths of her innocent heart.

CHAPTER XIII.