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.