Wee Wifie Part 24

CHAPTER XVIII.

ERLE'S VISIT TO THE GRANGE.

He gazed--he saw--he knew the face Of beauty and the form of grace.

BYRON.

Fay was not very well the next day, and Sir Hugh insisted on sending for Dr. Martin; Fay was much surprised when the kind old doctor lectured her quite seriously on her imprudence; and put a veto on any more skating and riding for the present. The sprained ankle was a trifle, but all the same he told her grimly she must consider herself a prisoner for a few days--a very hard sentence to Fay, whose nimble little feet had never been still for long, and who had certainly never known a day's illness in her healthy young life; but, with her usual docility, she promised obedience. Sir Hugh was unusually busy just then. Some vexatious lawsuit in which the Redmonds had been involved for a year or two, and in which both Sir Wilfred and his son had taken great interest, was just drawing to a conclusion, and he was obliged to go up to town for a few hours almost daily, and but for Erle's society, Fay would have been sadly moped; but with his usual good-humor, Erle gave up his out-of-door pursuits to devote himself to her amus.e.m.e.nt.

He was always contriving odd surprises for her; the mystified servants often heard Fay's merry laugh ringing like a peal of silvery bells, and thought that there could be very little the matter with their young mistress; sometimes these sounds were supplemented by others that were still more extraordinary.

One day Erle brought up the stable puppies--three black-faced, snub-nosed, roundabout creatures in which Fay had taken a kindly interest since the hour of their birth--and to her intense delight deposited them on her lap, where they tumbled and rolled over each other with their paws in the air, protesting in puppy fas.h.i.+on against this invasion of their liberties.

Another time there was an extraordinary clucking to be heard outside the door, and the next moment Erle entered with a hen under each arm, and very red in the face from suppressed laughter.

"I thought you would be pining after your favorites, Speckles and Tufty," he observed, with a chuckle; "so, as you could not visit the poultry-yard, my Fairy Queen, I have brought Dame Partlet and her sister to visit you," and he deposited the much-injured fowls on the rug.

It was unfortunate that Sir Hugh should have come in that moment; his disgusted look as he opened the door nearly sent Fay into hysterics; Speckles was clucking wildly under the sofa--Tufty taking excited flights across the room.

"How can you be so ridiculous," observed Sir Hugh, with a frown; "Fay, do you think Dr. Martin would approve of all this excitement;" but even he was obliged to check a smile at Erle's agonizing attempts to catch Speckles.

Fay began to wonder what he would do next; Erle gravely a.s.sured her that if he could have induced Bonnie Bess to walk upstairs, which she would not do under any pretense, preferring to waltz on her hind-legs in the hall, he would have regaled her with a sight of her favorite; but after the baby from the lodge, a half-frozen hedgehog, some white rats kept by the stable-boy, and old Tom, the veteran cat with half a tail, had all been decoyed into the boudoir, Erle found himself at the end of his resources.

But he used to go down to the vicarage with a very long face, and the result was that every afternoon, there were fresh, girlish faces gathering round Fay's couch. Dora Spooner would come with one of her sisters or a Romney girl to help Erle amuse the invalid.

There were delightful little tea-parties every afternoon. Janet, who waited on them, thought her mistress never seemed happier. Fay was treated as though she were a little queen; Dora and Agnes Romney vied with each other in attentions; perhaps Erle's pleasant face and bright voice were powerful inducements in their way; the girls never seemed to think it a trouble to plow their way through the snowy lanes--they came in with glowing faces to narrate their little experiences.

"Yes, it is very uncomfortable walking; but we could not leave you alone, Lady Redmond. Mr. Huntingdon begged us so hard to come," Dora would say, and the hazel eyes looked at Erle rather mischievously.

Erle was up to his old tricks again. Fay used to take him to task when their visitors had gone.

"You are too fond of young ladies," she would say to him, severely.

"You will make poor Dora think you are in love with her if you pay her so much attention. Those are your London manners, I suppose, when you are with that young person who has the go in her, or with the other one with the pretty smile, of whom you say so little and think so much."

"Come, now; I do call that hard on a fellow," returned Erle, in an injured voice.

"You see I take an interest in you, my poor boy," continued Fay, with quite a matronly air. "I can not allow you to make yourself so captivating to our country girls. What will Dora think if you go down to the vicarage every morning with that plausible little story that no one believes? I am not dull one bit. I am laughing from morning to night, and Mrs. Heron comes up and scolds me. No; Dora will believe that you admire hazel eyes and long lashes. Poor girl, she knows nothing about that young person with the go in her."

"Oh, do shut up, Fay," interrupted Erle quite crossly at this. "Why do you always speak of Miss Selby in this absurd fas.h.i.+on? She is worth a dozen Dora Spooners. Why, the girls who were here this afternoon could not hold a candle to her."

"Oh, indeed!" was Fay's response to this, as she lay and looked at Erle, with aggravating calmness.

"Why do you want to make out that girls are such duffers?" he went on in a still more ruffled tone, as though her shrewdness had hit very near the truth; "they have too much sense to think a fellow is in love with them because he has a little fun with them; you married women are so censorious," he finished, walking off in a huff; but the next moment he came back with a droll look on his face.

"Mrs. Spooner wants me to dine there to-morrow; there is to be a little dance; some of the Gowers are coming. Do you think you can spare me, Fay?"

"Oh, go away; you are all alike!" returned Fay, impatiently; "you have only to blame yourself if Mr. Spooner asks your intentions. I do not think Mr. Huntingdon would approve of Dora one bit; she is not so very handsome, she will not hold a candle to you know whom, and she has no money--a vicar with a large family can not afford a dowry to his daughter." But, as Erle had very rudely marched out of the room, she finished this little bit of worldly wisdom to empty walls.

Erle had been over to the Grange. He had mooted the question one evening when he and Sir Hugh were keeping Fay company; and, to Fay's great surprise, her husband had made no objection. "I suppose it would be right for you to call and thank them, Erle," he had said, as though he were prepared for the suggestion; "and perhaps, Fay"--hesitating slightly--"it might be as well for you to write a little note and say something civil after all their attention." And Fay thanked him for the permission with a radiant face, as though he had done her a personal favor, and the next day wrote the prettiest and most grateful little note, which Erle promised to deliver.

"You will be sure to keep the girls until I get back," had been his parting request when he came to fetch the dogs.

It was not exactly the sort of afternoon that Erle would have selected for a country walk--a thaw had set in, and the lanes were perfect quagmires of half-melted snow and slash, in which the dogs paddled and splashed their way with a perfect indifference to the state of their glossy coats; any amount of slush being better than enforced inaction.

"I shall have to leave you outside, my fine fellows," observed Erle, as Nero took a header into a heap of dirty-looking snow, in which he rolled delightedly. "I am afraid I shall hardly be presentable myself out these are the joys of country life, I suppose."

But he was not at all sorry when he found himself at the Grange, and a pleasant-looking, gray-haired woman had ushered him into a room where Mr. Ferrers and his sister were sitting. It was a far larger room than the one where Fay had had her foot doctored that day, and was evidently Mr. Ferrers's peculiar sanctum--two of the walls were lined from the floor to the ceiling with well-filled book-shelves, an ordinary writing-table occupied the center of the room; instead of the bay-window, a gla.s.s door afforded egress to the garden, and side windows on either side of the fire-place commanded a view of the yew-tree walk; a Scotch deerhound was stretched on the rug in front of the blazing fire, and two pet canaries were fluttering about a stand of ferns.

Miss Ferrers had evidently been writing from her brother's dictation, for several letters were lying ready for the post. As Erle had crossed the hall he had distinctly heard the sound of her clear, musical voice, as she read aloud: but the book was already laid aside, and she had risen to welcome him.

Erle fancied she looked paler than on the previous occasion, and he wondered what Mr. Ferrers would have said if he had seen those dark lines under her eyes; perhaps she never told him when she was tired--women liked to be martyrs sometimes.

He was received very cordially; and Miss Ferrers seemed rather touched at the contents of her little note.

"It was good of Lady Redmond to write," she said to Erle with a smile; "but she makes far too much of my little services."

"Oh, that is just her way," returned Erle, candidly. "She is such a grateful little soul. Most people take all one's attentions as a matter of course; but Fay is not like that."

"Oh, no, she is very sweet," observed Margaret, thoughtfully; somehow she had yearned to see that pretty, bright face again.

"She is the finest little creature that ever lived," returned Erle, with boyish enthusiasm; "it is wonderful how little she thinks about herself. And she is about the prettiest girl one can see anywhere; and she is clever, too, though you would not believe it to hear her; for she always wants to make out that she can do nothing."

Mr. Ferrers smiled at this. "Lady Redmond did seem bent on proving that fact to us."

"Of course, did I not tell you so? but don't you believe her, Mr.

Ferrers. Why, even Hugh, critical as he is, owns Fay is the best horsewoman in these parts. I should like to see her and Bonnie Bess in the Row; she would make a sensation there. And it is quite a treat to see her drive her ponies; she knows how to handle a horse's mouth.

Why, those tiny hands of hers could hold in a couple of thorough-breds. Oh, she is a good sort; the Spooner girls swear by her."

Miss Ferrers looked kindly at the young man; she liked to hear him vaunting his cousin's excellencies after this unsophisticated fas.h.i.+on.

She had taken rather a fancy to this boyish, outspoken young fellow; and her brother shared this liking. She was about to put a question to him, when he suddenly started up with an exclamation, and the next moment he had crossed the room and was standing before a picture, with a very puzzled expression on his face. It was the portrait of a girl, and evidently painted by a good artist. Of course it was she, Erle told himself after another quick look; in spite of the smiling mouth, he could not mistake her. There was the small, finely shaped head, set so beautifully on the long neck; the coils of black hair; the dark, dreamy eyes, which always seemed to hold a shadow in them.

"I beg your pardon; but I had no idea you knew Miss Davenport," he said at last, looking at Margaret as he spoke. But it was Mr. Ferrers who answered.

"Davenport? We know no one of that name, do we, Margaret? What does Mr. Huntingdon mean? Is it some picture?"

"Yes, dear, Crystal's picture. Mr. Huntingdon seems to recognize it."

"Crystal? why, that is her name, too. I have heard Miss Trafford use it a dozen times. As though there could be two faces like that"--pointing to the canvas. "She looks younger, yes, and happier, in the picture; but then, of course, one has never seen her smiling like that. But it is Miss Davenport--ay, and to the life too."

"You must be mistaken," observed Mr. Ferrers in a voice so agitated that Erle regarded him with astonishment. He was strangely pale, and the hand that was grasping the chair back was visibly trembling. "That is the portrait of our young cousin, Crystal Ferrers."

"Yes, our adopted child," added Miss Ferrers, "who left our home nearly eighteen months ago."

Erle looked more puzzled than ever. "I can not understand it," he said, in a most perplexed voice. "If she be your cousin, Crystal Ferrers, why does she call herself Crystal Davenport? There can be no question of ident.i.ty; that is the face of the Miss Davenport I know--the young governess who lives with the Traffords; that is the very ring she wears, too"--with another quick glance at the hand that was holding a sheaf of white lilies. But here Mr. Ferrers interrupted him.

"Will you describe that ring, Mr. Huntingdon?"

"Willingly--it is of Indian workmans.h.i.+p, I fancy, and has a curiously wrought gold setting, with an emerald very deeply sunk into the center."