The Fate of Fenella

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The Fate of Fenella Chapter I : Fenella



And dinna ye mind, love Gregory,

As we twa sate at dine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers,

And I can show thee thine?



Her hair, gloves, and shoes were tan-color, and closely allied to tan, too, was the tawny, true tiger tint of her hazel eyes. For the rest, she was entirely white save for her dark lashes and brows, the faint tint of rose in her small cheeks, and a deeper red in her lips that were parted just then in a spasm of silent, delighted mirth. She stood on the top steps of the Prospect Hotel, Harrogate, waiting for the coach to come round, and looking across the hotel gardens to the picturesque Stray beyond, upon which a unique game of cricket was just then going forward, to the intense diversion of all beholders. Two little boys had evidently started it on their own hook, and a variety of casuals had dropped in to bear a hand, the most distinguished of these being a nigger minstrel, who, in full war-paint, and with deep lace ruffles falling over his sooty hands, was showing all his white teeth, and batting with a prowess that kept the whole field in action.

“I hope Ronny won’t get his pate cracked,” said the girl, half aloud, as the four grays drew up with a flourish, and the usual bustle on the steps began. “Good-morning, George!” and she nodded brightly to the good-looking driver, who beamed all over, and touched his hat, for the girl had clambered to many a pleasant drive be-side him during the past fortnight.

“Box-seat again!” snapped a spiteful female voice behind her. “I wonder she is allowed to monopolize the best seat as she does, day after day!”


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