IN THE BLUE NESTIE.
....This perhaps was love--
To have its hands too full of gifts to give
For putting out a hand to take a gift,
To have so much, the perfect mood of love
Includes, in strict conclusion, being loved;
As Eden dew went up and fell again,
Enough for watering Eden, obviously
She had not thought about his love at all.
The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves,
And risen self-crown'd in rainbow; would she ask
Who crown'd her?--it sufficed that she was crown'd.
E. B. BROWNING.
Redmond Hall was a curious old house; it had been built originally in
Gothic style, but an aspiring Redmond, who was ignorant of the laws of
architecture and not possessed with the spirit of uniformity, had
thrown out windows and added wings that savored strongly of the Tudor
style, while here and there a buttress or arch was decidedly Norman in
its tendency.
To a connoisseur this medley of architecture was a great eye-sore, but
to the world in general the very irregularity of the gray old pile
added to its picturesque entirety, and somehow the effect was very
pleasing.
The various owners of the Hall, holding all modern innovations in
abhorrence, had preserved its antiquity as far as possible by
restoring the old carvings and frescoes that were its chief ornaments.
The entrance-hall was of noble dimensions, with a painted ceiling, and
a great fire-place surrounded by oaken carvings of fruit and flowers,
the work of Gibbon, with the Redmond motto, "Fideles ad urnam," in the
center.
The walls were adorned with stags' antlers, and other trophies of the
chase, while implements of warfare, from the bow and arrow to the
modern revolver, were arranged in geometrical circles round the
battered suits of armor.
The dwelling-rooms of the house, with the exception of the
drawing-room and billiard-room, were long and low, with the same
painted ceilings and heavy oak carvings; and some of the windows,
especially in the library and morning-room, were furnished with such
deep embrasures, as to form small withdrawing rooms in themselves, and
leave the further end of the apartment in twilight obscurity even on
the brightest summer's day.
Many people were of opinion that the old Hall needed complete
renovation, but Sir Wilfred had cared little for such things. In his
father's time a few of the rooms had been modernized and refurnished,
the damask drawing-room for example, a handsome billiard-room added,
and two or three bedrooms fitted up according to nineteenth century
taste.
But Sir Wilfred had preferred the old rooms in the quaint embrasures,
where many a fair Redmond dame had worked with her daughters at the
tapestry that hung in the green bedroom, which represented the death
of Saul and the history of Gideon.
In these rooms was furniture belonging to many a different age.
Carpets and chair-cushions worked in tent stitch and cross stitch and
old-fashioned harpsichord; gaudy white and gold furniture of the Louis
Quatorze time, mixed with the spindle-legged tables of the Queen Anne
epoch.
At the back of the Hall lay a broad stone terrace reaching from one
end of the house to the other.
On one side were the stables and kennels, and on the other a walled
sunny garden, with fruit trees and a clipped yew-hedge, and a
sun-dial, on which a stately race of peacocks loved to plume
themselves.
Beyond, divided by the yew-hedge, was the herb-garden, where in the
olden time many a notable house-mother, with her chintz skirts hustled
through her pocket-holes, gathered simples for her medicines, and
sweet-smelling lavender and rosemary for her presses of home-spun
linen.
These gardens were walled and entered by a curiously wrought iron
door, said to be Flemish work; and below the terrace lay a smooth,
gently sloping lawn, that stretched to the edge of a large sheet of
water, called by courtesy the lake--the whole shut in by the
background of the Redmond wood.
Here through the sunny afternoon slept purple shadows, falling aslant
the yellow water-lilies, and here underneath the willows and silvery
birches, in what was called "The Lover's Walk," had Hugh dreamed many
a day-dream, whose beginning and whose end was Margaret.
Poor Hugh! he little thought as he paced that walk that the day should
come when his wife should walk there beside him, and look at him with
eyes that were not Margaret's.
When Fay, escorted by Mrs. Heron and followed by Janet, had ascended
the broad oaken staircase, and passed through the long gallery, the
housekeeper paused in a recess with four red-baized doors.
"Sir Hugh's dressing-room, my lady," she explained, blandly, "and the
next door belongs to Sir Hugh's bathroom, and this," pointing solemnly
to the central door, "is the oriel room."
"What," faltered Lady Redmond, rather fearing from Mrs. Heron's manner
that this room might be the subject of some ghost story.
"The oriel room," repeated the housekeeper still more impressively,
"where the Redmond ladies have always slept. In this room both Sir
Wilfred and Sir Hugh were born, and Sir Marmaduke and his sons Percy
and Herewald were laid in state after the battle."
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 passages, 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 épergnes 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 amusement; 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 noble 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.