Part 27 (1/2)

”Oh, my lady!” exclaimed the nurse, in a terrified voice, ”this is very wrong--very wrong indeed.”

”Hush--I am his wife--I have a right to be here. You know me, do you not, my darling Hugh?”

Poor Fay! she had her punishment then; for Hugh did not know her in the least, and seemed to shrink from her with horror; he begged her to send Margaret to him--his dear Margaret, and not stand there like some white horrible statue dressed up in grave-clothes.

”You had better go, my lady, you are only exciting him,” observed the nurse, quietly; and Fay wrung her hands and hurried from the room.

Saville found her crouching against the dressing-room door, with her face hidden in her hands, and fetched Mrs. Heron at once to coax her away; but Fay hardly seemed to understand their meaning; her face had a white, strained look upon it as Mrs. Heron put her arm round her and led her tenderly to her room.

CHAPTER XX.

”LITTLE JOYCE.”

In the cruel fire of sorrow Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail, Let thy heart be firm and steady, Do not let thy spirit quail; But wait till the trial be over And take thy heart again; For as gold is tried by fire, A heart must be tried by pain.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

”Oh, my lady, what will Doctor Martin say?” exclaimed Mrs. Heron, as she almost lifted her young mistress on to the couch, and stood over her rubbing her cold hands. It was a warm April evening, but Fay was s.h.i.+vering and her teeth chattering as though with cold.

”What does it matter what he says?” returned Fay; the girl's lips were white, and there was still a scared look in her eyes. ”Is that why they would not let me see him--because they have cut off his hair and made him look so unlike himself, and because he talks so strangely?”

”Yes, my lady, and for your own good, and because--” but Fay interrupted her excitedly.

”My good? as though anything could do me good while my darling husband suffers so cruelly. Oh, Mrs. Heron, would you believe it? he did not know me; he looked as though he were afraid of me, his own wife: he told me to go away and not touch him, and to send Margaret. Oh,” with a sort of restless despair in her voice, ”who is this Margaret of whom he always speaks?”

Mrs. Heron's comely face paled a little with surprise--as she told Ellerton afterward, she felt at that moment as though a feather would have knocked her down. ”My heart was in my mouth,” she observed, feelingly, ”when I heard the pretty creature say those words, 'who is this Margaret of whom he always speaks?' Oh, I was all in a tremble when I heard her, and then all at once I remembered Miss Joyce, and it came to me as a sort of inspiration.”

”Do you know who he means?” continued Fay, languidly.

”Indeed, my lady, there is no telling,” returned the good housekeeper, cautiously; ”it is often the case with people in fever that they forget all about the present, and just go back to past days; and so it may be Sir Hugh thinks about the little sister who died when he was a lad at school, and of whom he was so fond.”

”Sir Hugh never told me he had had a sister,” replied Fay, roused to some animation at this. ”Was her name Margaret?”

”Yes, to be sure.” But Mrs. Heron forbore to mention that the child had always been called by her second name Joyce. ”Ay, she was a pretty little dear, and Master Hugh--I mean Sir Hugh--doated on her; she had the whooping-cough very badly, and Miss Joy--I mean Miss Margaret was always delicate, and it just carried her off.”

”And my husband was fond of her?” was the musing reply, ”and yet it seems strange that he should go back all those years and think of his baby sister.”

”I don't think Doctor Martin would say it was strange if you were to ask him, my lady,” was the diplomatic answer. ”We might mention it to-morrow, and see what he says. You may depend upon it that folk travel backward in their mind when the fever gets hold of their brain.

Most likely he is thinking a deal of his mother and Miss Margaret, for he was always an affectionate lad was Master Hugh.”

”Dear Margaret! that was what he called her.”

”Ay, no doubt, precious little lamb. I can see her now, with her curly head and white frock, as she pelted Master Hugh with rose-leaves on the lawn. Now, my lady, you are only fit for bed, and there is not a morsel of color in your face, and Ellerton says you hardly touched dinner. Now I am going to bring you up a gla.s.s of wine and a sandwich, and you will let Janet help you undress.”

Fay was too weary to resist. What did it matter, she thought again; but with her usual sweet courtesy she thanked Mrs. Heron, and tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, though they seemed to choke her, but she was glad when they left her alone. Sleep? how was she to sleep, with this nightmare of horror oppressing her? Again, the poor shaven head was lying in her bosom. She was kissing the wide staring eyes. Why had he pushed her from him? ”Oh, Hugh, you ought to have known me,” she sobbed, as she tossed wearily in the darkness. Janet, who was sleeping in the adjoining room, heard her once and came to her bedside.

”Were you calling me, my lady?” she asked.

”No, Janet,” answered the poor child. ”I am only crying because I am so unhappy.”