Part 41 (2/2)

O this life, how pleasant To be loved and love, Yet should love's hope wither Then to die were well.

PHILIP STANHOPE WORSLEY.

Every one noticed at the Hall that Lady Redmond was sadly altered in those days--every one but one, and that was her husband.

Had Sir Hugh's indifference made him blind? for he completely ignored the idea of any change in her. She was pale and thin--very thin, they told him. Hugh said he supposed it was only natural; and when they spoke of her broken rest and failing appet.i.te, he said that was natural, too.

They must take better care of her, and not let her do so much. That was his sole remark; and then, when she came into the room a few minutes afterward to bathe his aching head and read him to sleep, or to sit fanning the teasing flies from him for the hour together, Hugh never seemed to notice the languid step or the pale, tired face, out of which the lovely color had faded.

His Wee Wifie was such a dear, quiet little nurse, he said, and with that scant meed of praise Fay was supposed to be satisfied.

But she knew now that all his gentle looks and words were given her out of sheer pity, or in colder kindness, and shrunk from his caresses as much as she had once sought them; and often, as she spoke to him, the shamed, conscious color rose suddenly to her fair face, and broken breaths so impeded her utterance that her only safety was in silence.

Scarcely more than a child in years, yet Fay bore her martyrdom n.o.bly.

Unloved, unhelped, she girded on her heavy cross and carried it from day to day with a resignation and courage that was truly womanly; and hiding all her wrongs and her sorrows from him, only strove with her meek, young ways to win him yet.

But as time went on her love and her suffering increased, and the distance widened miserably between them.

Sometimes when her trouble was very heavy upon her--when Hugh had been more than usually restless, and had spoken irritably and sharply to her--she would break down utterly and nestle her face against his in a moment's forgetfulness, and cry softly.

Then Hugh would wonder at her, and stroke her hair, and tell her that she had grown nervous by staying at home so much; and then he would lecture her a little in a grand, marital way about taking more care of herself, until she dried her eyes and asked him to forgive her for being so foolish; and so the pent-up pain that was within her found no outlet at all.

”Oh, if he will not love me--if he will not try to love me, I must die,” cried the poor child to herself; and then she would creep away, with a heart-broken look on her face, and sob herself to sleep.

Ah, that was a bitter time to Fay; but she bore it patiently, not knowing that the days that were to follow should be still more full of bitterness than this.

Sir Hugh was getting better now--from the hour he had seen Margaret there had been no relapse; but he was struggling through his convalescence with a restless impatience that was very trying to all who came in contact with him.

He was longing for more freedom and change of air. He should never grow strong until he went away, he told Fay; and then she understood that he meant to leave her. But the knowledge gave her no fresh pain.

She had suffered so much that even he could not hurt her more, she thought. She only said to him once in her shy way, ”You will be at home in time, Hugh; you will not leave me to go through it all alone?”

And he had promised faithfully that he would come back in plenty of time.

And the next morning she found him dressed earlier than usual and standing by the window in the library, and exclaimed at the improvement; and Hugh, moving still languidly, bade her see how well he could walk. ”I have been three times round the room and once down the corridor,” he said, with a smile at his own boasting. ”Tomorrow I shall go out in the garden, and the next day I shall have a drive.”

And a week after that, as they were standing together on the terrace, looking toward the lake and the water-lilies, Hugh, leaning on the coping, with a brighter look than usual on his wan face, spoke cheerfully about the arrangements for the next day's journey.

He was far from well, she told him, sadly, and she hoped Saville would take great care of him; and he must still follow Dr. Martin's prescriptions, and that was all she said that night.

But the next day, when the servants were putting the portmanteaus on the carriage, and Hugh went into the blue room to bid her good-bye, all Fay's courage forsook her, and she said, piteously, ”Oh, Hugh, are you really going to leave me? Oh, Hugh, Hugh!” And, as the sense of her loneliness rushed over her, she clung to him in a perfect anguish of weeping. Sir Hugh's brow grew dark; he hated scenes, and especially such scenes as these. In his weakness he felt unable to cope with them, or to understand them.

”Fay,” he said, remonstrating with her, ”this is very foolish,” and Fay knew by his voice how vexed he was; but she was past minding it now. In her young way she was tasting the bitterness of death. ”My dear,” he continued, as he unloosened her hand from their pa.s.sionate grasp, and held them firmly in his, ”do you know what a silly child you are?” and then be relented at his own words, she was such a child.

”I told you before that I should never be well until I went away, but you evidently did not believe me. Now I can not leave you like this, for if you cry so you will make yourself ill; therefore, if you will not let me go quietly, I can not go at all.”

”No, no,” she sobbed; ”don't be so angry with me, Hugh, for I can not bear it.”

<script>