Part 24 (1/2)
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.