Part 15 (1/2)
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 suns.h.i.+ne 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!