Wee Wifie. Rosa Nouchette Carey
will not suffer one pang too much,” was the quiet answer; “but you are worn out, and I will not talk more to you to-night. Go to your own room, Margaret; tomorrow we will speak of this again.” But before she left him he blessed her once more.
CHAPTER V.
THE LITTLE PRINCESS.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way,
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
Suckling
One lovely spring afternoon Hugh Redmond walked through the narrow winding lanes that lead to the little village of Daintree.
The few passers-by whom he encountered glanced curiously at the tall handsome man in deep mourning, but Hugh did not respond to their looks—he had a grave preoccupied air, and seemed to notice little; he looked about him listlessly, and the beautiful country that lay bathed in the spring sunlight did not seem to excite even a passing admiration in his mind; the budding hedge-rows, the gay chirpings of the unseen birds, busy with family cares, were all unheeded in that hard self-absorbed mood of his. Things had gone badly with Hugh Redmond of late; his broken engagement with Margaret Ferrers had been followed by Sir Wilfred’s death. Hugh’s heart had been very bitter against his father, but before Sir Wilfred died there had been a few words of reconciliation. “You must not be angry with me, Hugh,” the old man had said; “I did it for the best. We were both right, both she and I—ah, she was a fine creature; but when one remembered her poor mother’s end—well, we will not speak of that,” and then looking wistfully at his son’s moody face, he continued plaintively, “My boy, you will be brave, and not let this spoil your life. I know it is hard on you, but you must not forget you are a Redmond. It will be your duty to marry. When I am gone, go down and see Colonel Mordaunt’s daughter: people tell me she is a pretty little creature; you might take a fancy to her, Hugh;” and half to pacify the old man, and half because he was so sick of himself that he did not care what became of him, Hugh muttered a sort of promise that he would have a look at the girl, and then for a time he forgot all about it.
Some months after, a chance word spoken by a friend brought back this promise to his memory.
He had been spending a few days at Henley with some old college friends, when one of them mentioned Daintree, and the name brought back his father’s dying words.
“I may as well do it,” he said to himself that night; “the other fellows are going back to London; it will not hurt me to stop another day”—and so he settled it.
Hugh scarcely knew why he went, or what he intended to do; in his heart he was willing to forget his trouble in any new excitement; his one idea during all these months had been to escape the misery of his own thoughts. Yes, he would see the young heiress whom his father had always wished him to marry; he remembered her as a pretty child some seven or eight years ago, and wondered with a listless sort of curiosity what the years had done for her, and whether they had ripened or destroyed what was certainly a fair promise of beauty.
Poor Hugh! It would have been better for him to have traveled and forgotten his disappointment before such an idea had come into his head. Many a one in his case would have shaken off the dust of their native land, and, after having seen strange countries and undergone novel experiences, have returned home partially or wholly cured—perhaps to love again, this time more happily. But with Hugh the time had not yet come. He was terribly tenacious in his attachments, but just then anger against Margaret had for a little time swallowed up love. He said to himself that he would forget her yet—that he would not let any woman spoil his life. If he sinned, circumstances were more to blame than he. Fate was so dead against him, his case was so cruelly hard. Alas, Hugh Redmond was not the only man who, stung by passion, jealousy, or revenge, has taken the first downward step on the green slippery slope that leads to Avernus.
Hugh almost repented his errand when he came in sight of the little Gothic cottage with its circular porch, where Miss Mordaunt and her niece lived.
The cottage stood on high ground, and below the sloping garden lay a broad expanse of country—meadows and plowed fields—that in autumn would be rich with waving corn, closed in by dark woods, beyond which lay the winding invisible river. As Hugh came up the straight carriage drive, he caught sight of a little girl in a white frock playing with a large black retriever on the lawn.
The dog was rather rough in his play, and his frolics brought a remonstrance from his little mistress; “Down, Nero! down, good dog!” exclaimed a fresh young voice; “now we must race fairly,” and the next moment there were twinkling feet coming over the crisp short turf, followed by Nero’s bounding footsteps and bark.
But the game ended abruptly as a sudden turn in the shrubberies brought the tall, fair-bearded stranger in view.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed the same voice, rather shyly; and Hugh took off his hat suddenly in some surprise, for it was no child, but an exceedingly pretty girl, who was looking up in his face with large wondering blue eyes.
“I hope I have not startled you,” returned Hugh, courteously, with one of his pleasant smiles. What a diminutive creature she was; no wonder he had taken her at first sight for a child; her stature was hardly more than that a well-grown child of eleven or twelve, and the little white frock and broad-brimmed hat might have belonged to a child too.
But she was a dainty little lady for all that, with a beautifully proportioned figure, as graceful as a fairy, and a most lovely, winsome little face.
“Oh!” she said, with a wonderful attempt at dignity that made him smile—as though he saw a kitten on its best behavior, “I am not at all startled; but of course Nero and I would hardly have had that race if we had known any one was in the shrubbery. Have you lost your way?” lifting those wonderful Undine-like eyes to his face, which almost startled Hugh with their exceeding beauty and depth.
“Is Nero your dog?” returned Sir Hugh, patting the retriever absently; “he is a fine fellow, only I am afraid he is rather rough sometimes; he nearly knocked you down just now in his play. I see you do not remember me, Miss Mordaunt. I am Sir Hugh Redmond. I have come to call on you and your aunt.”
“Oh!” she said, becoming very shy all at once, “I remember you now; but you looked different somehow, and the sun was in my eyes; poor Sir Wilfred—yes, we heard he was dead—he came to see Aunt Griselda once before he went away. It must be very lonely for you at the Hall,” and she glanced at his deep mourning, and then at the handsome face that was looking so kindly at her. What a grand-looking man he was, she thought; it must have been his beard that altered him so and prevented her from recognizing him; but then, of course, she had never seen him since she was a little girl, when her father was alive, and they were living at Wyngate Priory.
Hugh Redmond! ah, yes, she remembered him now. She had made a cowslip ball for him once, and he had tossed it right into the middle of the great elms, where the rooks had their nest; and once she had harnessed him with daisy chains and driven him up and down the bowling-green, while her father laughed at them from the terrace—what a merry little child she used to be—and Hugh Redmond had been a splendid playfellow; but as she moved beside him down the graveled walk leading to the cottage her shyness increased, and she could not bring herself to recall these old memories; indeed, Hugh could not get her to look at him again.
“There is Aunt Griselda,” she said, suddenly, as a tall lady-like woman with a gentle, subdued-looking face appeared in the porch, and seemed much surprised at Hugh’s apparition. “Auntie, Sir Hugh Redmond has come to see us,” and then without waiting to see the effect of this introduction on her aunt, Nero’s little playfellow slipped away.
Hugh found himself watching for her reappearance