Wee Wifie Part 28

"Were you giddy? how white you looked. Shall we sit down a little?

your hand is trembling still."

"It was nothing, I have not been strong lately; yes, we will sit, the air will do us both good. What were you saying, Lady Redmond?" as though the words were not burned into her memory: "Dear Margaret!"

Why, the very angels must have wept to hear him!

"Whom could he mean?" continued Fay, with nervous reiteration. "I don't believe Mrs. Heron was right when she said that he was thinking of his baby sister; he would have called her Joyce. Margaret; there is no one that I know who has that name except yourself; but," looking at her doubtfully, "though you were old friends, it was not likely that he meant you."

A deep flush rose to Margaret's face, a quick pet.i.tion for help and wisdom to guide her at this critical moment rose from her heart.

"He used to call me Margaret, in the old days," she said, in a very low voice. "That need not surprise you, Lady Redmond, as we were such old friends; his mother called me Margaret too."

"You knew his mother."

"Yes, when I was a child, Sir Hugh and I were playfellows; has he not told you that; ah, well, it is sad when old friends get estranged.

Lady Redmond, I see you have a question on your lips, may I ask you not to put it. I think that it would not be acting honorably to your husband if you should hear anything from our lips; he can not tell you himself now, but it will not hurt you to wait."

"No," replied Fay, slowly, "no, it would not hurt me to wait, as you say, but then you see Hugh may refuse to tell me, as he did before."

"Will you ask him again, and see if he refuse? will you tell him that Margaret Ferrers begs him most earnestly to tell you why Redmond Hall and the Grange are estranged? tell him, that no consideration for us need seal his lips any longer, that he has always been free to speak, that we will willingly take our share of blame; will you tell him this?"

"Oh, yes," returned Fay, in a relieved voice; "and he will be sure to tell me now; no doubt he was afraid of paining you in some way. Hugh is so kind-hearted, he hates to make any one uncomfortable. I will not try to find out any more by myself; I will be good and patient until he gets well."

"That is spoken like a brave wife," replied Margaret, with a faint smile. "By one who loves her husband more than herself."

"As I love Hugh," was the soft response; "dear Miss Ferrers, I must go now; the ponies will be growing restless, and I am a long way from home."

"Yes, I must not keep you. G.o.d bless you, Lady Redmond. Will you forgive me if I stop here, for I have been walking from Pierrepoint, and need rest," but Margaret did not add that her strength had forsaken her, and that she dared not move from her place for fear her limbs should refuse to carry her; she would wait a little until strength came back, and she could meet Raby with her usual calmness.

"Yes, you look very tired," was Fay's unconscious answer; "but you will soon get rested with this lovely air." And then she kissed her affectionately, and went up the beach with her old elastic step, and Margaret watched her sadly until she was out of sight.

"She is sweet and good, but he does not love her yet," she said to herself; "but it will come, it must come in time."

Fay drove happily home, and was met at the lodge gates by the good news that Sir Hugh had had an hour or two's refres.h.i.+ng sleep, and that Dr. Conway, as well as Dr. Martin, were quite satisfied with the progress he had made.

"Oh, could it be quite true?" Fay asked, when she reached the Hall.

Yes, it was quite true the fever had abated. Sir Hugh's wonderful strength and vitality had triumphed at last, and the doctors soon announced that he was out of danger.

There were still days of weary waiting for Fay before it was p.r.o.nounced safe for her to enter her husband's sickroom; but at last the day came, and one sweet spring evening, Hugh waking up from a brief doze, felt tears falling on his forehead, and saw Fay leaning over him. He was too weak even to put out his hand, but a faint smile came to his lips. "My Wee Wifie," Fay heard him say, but the next moment the smile had died away into sadness.

CHAPTER XXI.

"LET ME SEE MARGARET."

Be with me, love, when weak and worn, My life chord vibrates to and fro; When with the flood-tide's backward flow, My soul stands waiting to be gone.

And let me, with my failing hand, Hold fast to that I love so well, Till thine clasps but an empty sh.e.l.l, Amid the drift-weed on the sand.

Be with me that my closing eyes In that last hour may seek thy face, Thine image so can none displace, But soar with me through yonder skies.

HELEN MARION BURNSIDE

"But they were not out of the wood yet," as Mrs. Heron observed to Ellerton.

When, he had reached a certain point Sir Hugh failed to make any further progress.

The London physician, Dr. Conway, frankly owned that Sir Hugh's case completely baffled his medical skill and experience.

Just when they had least expected it the fever had abated, and he had begun to amend, and now he as steadily refused to get well.

Day after day he lay in an extremity of weakness that was pitiable to witness; and ever, as time went on, seemed sinking slowly from sheer inanition and exhaustion. After all there must be some strange mischief at work, he said; but Dr. Martin was of a different opinion.

He had seen enough of his patient by this time to be sure that there was sickness of heart as well as of brain, and that it needed some other healing power than theirs before the man could throw off the load of oppression that was r.e.t.a.r.ding his recovery and, gathering up his wasted energies, take up his life again.

But now he seemed very far from recovery.

Day after day he lay with that far-off look on his face that it made Fay weep to see, for she thought that he must surely die.

Hugh thought so too.

Hour by hour he felt himself drifting nearer to the dark valley which, to his tired eyes and heart, seemed only like some still haven of repose. Only to sleep, he said, to sleep--to rest--and with his white lips he murmured, "and may G.o.d have mercy on my soul." And ever he longed and prayed that he might see Margaret again.

And one night he dreamed of her.

He dreamed that he was dying--as he surely believed he was--and that Margaret came to his bedside and looked at him. He could see her distinctly; the pale, beautiful face, the folds of her dress, the wave of her dead-brown hair. And when he awoke and saw only the spring suns.h.i.+ne filling the room, and quivering light under his eyelids, and knew that the fresh day was dawning brightly to all but him, he could not suppress the groan that rose to his lips, "Margaret, Margaret."

Fay was sitting by him, but the curtain concealed her; she had been curled up for hours in the big arm-chair that stood at the head of the bed. It was her habit to rise early and go to her husband's room and send the nurse to rest; indeed, Dr. Martin had to use all his authority to induce her to take needful exercise, for Fay begrudged every moment spent out of the sick-room.

She was looking out at the avenue and listening to the soft soughing of the spring breezes in the tree-tops, and thinking of the summer days that were to bring her a marvelous gift; but at the sound of Hugh's agonized voice her day-dream vanished. "Margaret, Margaret," he had said, and then almost with a sob, "my one and only love, Margaret."

No! she was not asleep, the words were ringing in her ears. Hugh, her Hugh, had spoken them, "My one and only love, Margaret."

He must take back those words, that was her first thought. Oh, no, he could not mean them; it would not be possible to go on living if she thought he meant them; but he was ill, and she must not agitate him, she must speak to him very quietly for fear the fever had returned, and his poor head was confused again.

"You have been dreaming," she said, gently--oh, so gently. "What is it you want, my dearest."

And Hugh, folding his wasted hands together as though he were praying, looked up to her with unutterable longing in his eyes, and panted out "Margaret."

"Margaret," she repeated, slowly; "what Margaret do you mean, Hugh?"

"Margaret Ferrers," he whispered. "Oh, Fay, dear Fay, if I have wronged you, forgive me. In the old times before I knew you, Margaret and I were engaged--she had promised to be my wife, and then she took back her promise. Child, I meant to tell you, I always meant to tell you, but I did not like to grieve you by what was over and gone; but I am dying--G.o.d knows I can not live in this weakness--let me see Margaret once, and bid her goodbye before I go."

Ah, there was no doubt now! slowly, but surely, the color faded out of the sweet face.

If he had raised that helpless arm of his, and felled her to the ground, she could not have felt so stunned and bruised and giddy as she stood there, winding and unwinding the fringe of the quilt between her cold fingers, with that strange filmy look in her eyes.