Part 24 (2/2)

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.”

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