Part 29 (2/2)
”Hus.h.!.+” she said, turning round as she heard Margaret's voice; ”we must not talk here, it would disturb him, and he must be kept very quiet--oh! very quiet, Doctor Conway says. Come in here, if you wish to speak to me,” and she led the way into her little room. ”Will you sit down?” she went on, with the same pa.s.sive gentleness; ”you were good to come, but--but--it must have tired you.”
”Oh! Lady Redmond--” But here Margaret could say no more. She seemed to have no strength left for this; she felt as though her calmness and fort.i.tude were deserting her.
”I told Doctor Conway that you were coming, and he thought it would do no harm, and Doctor Martin said the same. He knows you, he says, and he was sure that you would be very wise and quiet, that you would not excite him. No, do not tell me anything about it. I--I can trust you, and Hugh would not like me to know.”
”Indeed you are mistaken,” began Margaret, eagerly, but Fay checked her with a little dignity.
”Never mind that. Do you know, Miss Ferrers, that Doctor Conway says that my husband is better, that he will not die, it is only weakness and a nervous fancy; but though he is so slow in getting well, they notice a gradual improvement.”
”Thank G.o.d, for your sake, Lady Redmond.” But as she said this a painful flush mounted to Fay's forehead.
”You should say for his sake,” she returned, quietly. ”What does it matter about me? Perhaps before the summer is over we may be at rest together, baby and I.”
”Lady Redmond! Oh! I can not bear it;” and here Margaret burst into tears. Yes, she who had parted dry-eyed from her lover wept bitterly for the deceived and unhappy wife.
”Why do you cry, Miss Ferrers?” asked Fay, in the same subdued voice.
”It seems to me that if G.o.d would take us both it would be so much better for us all. n.o.body wants us”--and here her lips quivered--”and I should not like my baby to live without me. What could Hugh do with it, you know?”
”My child,” replied Margaret, checking her sobs, ”is this your faith?
is this your woman's courage? Would you who love him so be content to die without winning your husband's heart?”
Fay looked at her wonderingly.
”It is yours to win,” she continued. ”Oh! do not look at me like that, as though I have murdered your happiness. What have you done, you poor child, that you should suffer like this for my sake. For the sake of my future peace of mind I entreat you to listen to me.”
And then, as Fay did not refuse, Margaret took the listless little hand and told her all. And she judged wisely in doing so, for it was out of her great pity for him that Fay learned to forgive her husband, and that the vague hope arose in her heart that she might comfort and win him back. And when Margaret had finished her sad story, Fay put her arms round her and kissed her.
”Oh, I am so sorry for you; how unhappy you must have been when you gave him up; but it was n.o.ble of you, and you did it for his sake.
Forgive me if I wronged you, for when you were in that room talking to him, I felt angry and bitter with him and you too; but I see it is no one's fault, only we are all so unhappy, please forgive me, for indeed you are better than I.”
”There is nothing to forgive,” replied Margaret, gently. ”Yes, I tried to do my duty, and if your husband has failed in his, remember that he is not patient by nature, that men are not like us. One day he will be yours, and yours solely, and then you will be able to think of me without bitterness.” Then, taking the little creature in her arms, she added, ”Good-bye, be brave and patient and generous for your husband's sake, and it will all come right,” and with a low word of blessing she let her go.
And when Hugh woke that evening from his long trance-like sleep he found his Wee Wifie as usual beside him.
She had been sitting there all day, with her great tearless eyes fixed on vacancy; refusing to take rest or food, never moving except to drop her head still lower over her clasped hands.
”You are tired, Wee Wifie,” he said, as she stooped over him and asked how he felt. ”You will wear yourself out, my child;” and he felt for the little hand that generally lay so near his own. Fay put it in his, and bent over him with an unsteady smile.
”I am not so very tired, and I like to take care of you,” she said, with a quiver in her sweet voice. ”I promised in sickness as well as health, you know; let me do my duty, dear,” and Hugh was silent.
But that night, while Hugh slept, and Margaret knelt praying pitiful prayers for Fay, Fay, tossing in her lonely chamber, sobbed in the desolate darkness:
”Oh, if it would please G.o.d that, when the summer has come, baby and I might die together; for if Hugh can not love me, my sorrow is greater than I could bear.”
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