The dainty little boot was sadly mangled before they could get it off, and Miss Ferrers uttered a pitying exclamation at the sight of the inflamed and swelled ankle. The hot fomentation was deliciously soothing, and Miss Ferrers’s manipulations so soft and skillful that Fay was not sorry that her little protest was made without success.
“Don’t you think your maid could do this? I do not like to trouble you so much,” she said once, in a deprecating voice.
“It is no trouble,” returned Margaret, fixing her beautiful eyes for a moment on Fay’s pale face; “I like to do it for you, Lady Redmond.” Yes, she liked to do it; it gave her a strange pleasure to minister to her innocent rival, Hugh’s wife. As Fay’s little white foot rested in her hand, all at once a scene arouse before her mind—an upper chamber, where a mild majestic Figure rose from among His wondering disciples and “girded Himself with a towel.”
Ineffable condescension, divine humility, uniting for all ages the law of service and kindly ministration; bidding men to do likewise, and to wash the feet of sinners.
Margaret had stolen many a look at the pale little face resting on the cushions. What a baby face it was, she thought, and yet wonderfully pretty too; and then, as she bent over her work again, a quick throbbing pain that was almost agony, and that made her look as pale as Fay, seemed to stifle her. Hugh, her Hugh; ah, heavens! what was she thinking? another woman’s husband could be nothing to her!
“Men are all alike,” she thought, sadly; “even the best of them forget. Well, he is content with her now—with this little piece of innocent baby-faced loveliness. Yes,” interrupting herself, sternly, “and I ought to thank God on my knees that he is content—my own Hugh, whom I love better than myself;” and she looked so gently and kindly at Fay that the little thing was quite pleased and grateful.
“Oh, how good you are to me,” exclaimed Fay, gratefully; “and now beautifully you have bandaged my foot. It feels so much more comfortable. What a sweet old room this is, Miss Ferrers. I do like that cushioned window-seat running round the bay; and oh, what lovely work,” raising herself to look at an ecclesiastical carpet that was laid on the ground, perfectly strewn with the most beautiful colors, like a delicate piece of mosaic work. Mr. Ferrers, who had entered the room that moment, smiled at the sound of the enthusiastic young voice.
“What colors,” cried Fay, delightedly; “what purples, and crimsons, and violets. They look like clusters of jewels, or stars on a deep-blue ground.”
Mr. Ferrers stooped down and touched the carpet with his large white hand.
“It is for our little church, and by all accounts it must be gorgeous. The description makes me fancy it like the robe of office that Aaron wore. It has a border of pomegranates, I know. Ah, color is one of my sister’s hobbies. She agrees with Ruskin in connecting brilliant coloring with purity of mind and nobility of thought. I believe if she had her way she would wear those same crimsons and emeralds herself.”