"I AM ONLY WEE WIFIE."
This would plant sore trouble
In that breast now clear,
And with meaning shadows
Mar that sun-bright face.
See that no earth poison
To thy soul come near!
Watch! for like a serpent
Glides that heart disgrace.
Ask to be found worthy
Of God's choicest gift,
Not by wealth made reckless,
Nor by want unkind;
Since on thee dependeth
That no secret rift
Mar the deep life-music
Of her guileless mind.
PHILIP STANHOPE.
Raby felt as though he were listening to a child's innocent prattle as
Fay chattered on in her light-hearted way. In spite of his deep
knowledge of human nature he found himself unaccountably perplexed.
Margaret had spoken to him, as they sat together over their luncheon,
of the flower-like loveliness of the little bride, and yet he found
himself unable to understand Hugh Redmond's choice; his thoughtful,
prematurely saddened nature could not conceive how any man of Hugh's
age could choose such a child for his life-companion. With all her
sweet looks and ways he must grow weary of her in time.
Perhaps her freshness and innocence had bewitched him; there was
something quaint and original about her naïve remarks. The
disappointed man might have found her brightness refreshing--her very
contrast to Margaret might have been her attraction in his eyes. Well,
Raby supposed that it was all right; no doubt she was an idolized
little woman. Hugh seemed to keep her in a glass case; nothing was
allowed to trouble her. She will be thoroughly spoiled by this sort of
injudicious fondness, thought Raby, perfectly unconscious how far he
was from grasping the truth.
It was Margaret who began to feel doubtful; her womanly intuition
perceived that there was something wanting; she thought Lady Redmond
spoke as though she were often alone.
"I suppose you are never dull?" she asked, gently.
"Oh, no," returned Fay, with another gay little laugh. "Of course we
have plenty of callers; just now the snow has kept them away, but then
I have had our cousin Erle. Oh, he is such a pleasant companion, he is
so good-natured and full of fun. I shall miss him dreadfully when he
goes back to London next week."
"You will have to be content with your husband's society," observed
Raby, smiling. It was a pity that neither he nor Margaret saw the
lovely look on Fay's face that answered this; it would have spoken to
them of the underlying depths of tenderness that there was in that
young heart.
"Oh, yes," she returned, simply, "but then, you see, Hugh, I mean my
husband, is so extremely busy, he never comes in until luncheon has
been waiting ever so long, and very often he has to go out again
afterward. Sometimes, when I know he has gone to Pierrepoint, I ride
over there to meet him. He used to ride and drive with me very often
when we first came home," she continued, sorrowfully, "but now he has
no time. Oh, he does far too much, every one tells him so; he is so
tired in the evening that he is hardly fit for anything, and yet he
will sit up so late."
Raby's sightless eyes seemed to turn involuntarily to the window where
Margaret sat, her pale face bending still lower over her work. This
last speech of Lady Redmond's perplexed him still more. The Hugh who
had courted Margaret had been a good-natured idler in his eyes; he had
heard him talk about his shooting and fishing with something like
enthusiasm; he had been eager to tell the number of heads of grouse he
had bagged, or to describe the exact weight of the salmon he had taken
last year in Scotland, but Raby had never looked upon him as an active
man of business. If this were true, Hugh's wife must spend many lonely
hours, but there was no discontented chord in her bright voice.
"I feel dreadfully as though I want to help him," continued Fay. "I
can not bear to see him so tired. I asked him to let me go and visit
some of the poor people who belong to us--he is building new cottages
for them, because he says that they are living in tumble-down places
only fit for pigs--but he will not hear of it; he says I am too young,
and that he can not allow me to go into such dirty places, and yet he
goes himself, though he says it makes him feel quite ill."
Margaret's head drooped still lower, her eyes were full of tears; he
had not forgotten then! he had promised to build those cottages when
she had begged him to do so. She remembered they had chosen the site
together one lovely September evening, and he had told her, laughing,
that it should be his marriage-gift to her. They had planned it
together, and now he was carrying it out alone; for Fay owned the
moment afterward that she did not know where the new cottages were;
she must ask Hugh to take her one day to see them, but perhaps he
would rather that she waited until they were finished.
Margaret was beginning to feel strangely troubled; a dim but unerring
instinct told her that Fay was more petted than beloved. It was
evident that Hugh lived his own life separate from her, submerged in
his own interests and pursuits, and her heart grew very pitiful over
Fay as she realized this. If she could only meet Hugh face to face; if
she could only speak to him. She felt instinctively that things were
not altogether right with him. Why did he not try to guide and train
the childish nature that was so dependent on him? why did he repress
all her longings to be useful to him, and to take her share of the
duties of life? Surely her extreme youth was no excuse, she was not
too young to be his wife. Margaret told herself sadly that here he was
in error, that he was not acting up to his responsibilities, to leave
this child so much alone.
Fay's frankness and simplicity were touching Margaret's heart; even
this one interview proved to her that under the girlish crudities
there was something very sweet and true in her nature; the petty
vanities and empty frivolous aims of some women were not to be traced
in Fay's conversation. Her little ripple of talk was as fresh and
wholesome as a clear brook that shows nothing but shining-pebbles
under the bright current; the brook might be shallow, but it reflected
the sunshine.
Margaret's thoughts had been straying rather sorrowfully, when a
speech of Fay's suddenly roused her.
"I do wish we could be friends," she observed, rather piteously. "I am
sure my husband must like you both, for he spoke so nicely about you;
it is such a pity when people get to misunderstand each other."
"My dear Lady Redmond," returned Raby, kindly, "it is a pity, as you
say; and we have no ill feeling to your husband; but, I dare say he is
wise if he does not think it possible for us to have much intercourse.
Sir Hugh and I do not agree about things," went on Raby after a slight
hesitation; "perhaps he will tell you the reason some day; but you may
be sure that on this point your husband knows best,"--for he felt
himself in a difficulty.
"Of course Hugh is always right," returned Fay with much dignity.
"When I said it was a pity, it was only because I like you both so
much, and that I know I shall want to see you again."
"You are very good," replied Raby, but there was embarrassment in his
tone; it was evident that Hugh's wife knew nothing about his previous
engagement to Margaret. It was a grievous error, he told himself, for
one day it must come to her ears; why, the whole neighborhood was
cognizant of the fact. She would hear it some day from strangers, and
then the knowledge that her husband had not been true to her--that he
had kept this secret from her--would fill her young heart with
bitterness; and as these thoughts passed through his mind, Margaret
clasped her hands involuntarily: "The first mistake," she murmured;
"the first mistake."
Just then the sound of carriage wheels was distinctly audible on the
gravel sweep before the house, and the next moment Erle entered the
room.
"I am sorry to have been so long," he said, apologetically, and Fay
thought he seemed a little flurried, "but Hugh asked me to go round
and put off those people; they all seemed dreadfully sorry to hear of
your accident, Fay."
"And Hugh?" with a touch of anxiety in her voice.
"Oh, Hugh seemed rather put out about the whole business. I think he
wanted to pitch into me for not taking better care of you. How is the
foot, Fay--less painful?"
"Oh, yes, and I have been so comfortable; Mr. and Miss Ferrers have
been so good to me. I suppose I ought to go now,"--looking regretfully
at Margaret, who had laid aside her work.
"Well, I don't think we ought to lose any more time," observed Erle;
"the days are so awfully short, you know, and really these roads are
very bad."
"And your husband will be waiting," put in Raby.
"Poor Hugh, of course he will," returned Fay quickly. "Erle, I am
afraid you will have to carry me to the carriage, unless you ask
George to do so;" but Erle stoutly refused to deliver up his charge,
so Fay bade good-bye to her new friends.
"Thank you so much, Miss Ferrers," she said, putting up her face to be
kissed. "I shall tell Hugh how good you have been to me. I am so sorry
it is good-bye, Mr. Ferrers."
"Then we will not say it at all," he returned, heartily, as his big
hand seemed to swallow up Fay's little soft fingers. "I will wish you
God-speed instead, Lady Redmond. I dare say your cousin, Mr.
Huntingdon, will be good enough to let us know how you are if he ever
passes the Grange."
"To be sure I will," was Erle's reply to this, and then he deposited
Fay in her corner of the carriage and took his place beside her. Both
of them leaned forward for a parting look at the brother and sister as
they stood together in the porch.
"What a grand-looking pair they are," observed Erle, as they turned
into the road; "don't you think Miss Ferrers is a very handsome woman,
Fay? I admire her immensely."
"Oh, yes, she is perfectly lovely," replied Fay, enthusiastically;
"she looks so sweet and good; it quite rests one to look at her. But
there is something sad about them both. Mr. Ferrers does not look
quite happy; once or twice he sighed quite heavily when we were
talking. I suppose his being blind troubles him."
"He is a very uncommon sort of man," returned Erle, who had been much
struck by the brother and sister. "He made himself very pleasant to me
while you were having your foot doctored. By the bye, my Fairy
Queen,"--his pet name for her--"Miss Dora gave me a message for you:
she says she shall come up and see you to-morrow, as you will be a
prisoner."
"That will be nice; but oh, Erle, what a pity we shall have no more
delightful walks together. I hope Hugh was not really vexed about our
going to the Grange."
"He was just a trifle testy," remarked Erle, quietly suppressing the
fact that his cousin had surprised him much by a fit of regular bad
temper. "He thinks I am not to be trusted with your ladyship any
more;" and he changed the subject by a lively eulogium on the young
ladies at the vicarage, one of whom he declared to be almost as
handsome as Miss Selby; and he kept up such a flow of conversation on
this topic that Fay had no opportunity to put another question.
Sir Hugh was waiting for them at the Hall door, but Fay thought he
looked very grave and pale as he came to the carriage to lift her out.
"This is a very foolish business," he said, as he carried her up to
her room, his strong arms hardly conscious of her weight; "how did it
happen, Fay?" and she knew at once by his tone that he was much
displeased.
"Erle ought to have taken better care of you; I told him so," he
continued, as he placed her on the couch. "I can not let you go
running about the country with him like this; of course the lanes were
slippery, he ought to have known that."
"You are vexed with me, Hugh," she said, very gently. "You think that
I ought not to have gone to the Grange, but indeed I could not help
myself."
"There were other houses," he stammered, not caring to meet her clear
look. "I thought that you would have respected my wishes, but I see I
am mistaken."
"Oh, Hugh," returned the poor child, quite heart-broken at this stern
rebuke; "indeed, indeed, I never meant to disobey you, but my foot was
so painful, and I felt so faint, and Erle was so peremptory with me."
"Well, well, you need not cry about it," observed her husband
impatiently; "you are such a child, Fay, one can never say a word to
you; I have a right to be displeased, if my wife goes against my
wishes."
"I am very sorry," she answered, meekly, trying to keep back those
troublesome tears; "please do not be so angry, Hugh, you know I care
for nothing but to please you, and--and I don't feel quite well, and
your voice is so loud."
"Very well, then, I will take myself off," in rather a huffy tone, but
he relented at the sight of her pale little face, and some of his bad
humor evaporated. "The fact is, you are such a child that you don't
know how to take care of yourself," he continued, sitting down by her,
and letting her rest comfortably against him. "You will do yourself a
mischief some day, Fay. I shall get Doctor Martin to come up and see
your foot, and then, perhaps, he will give you a lecture."
"Oh, no," she returned, charmed at this change of tone, for his anger
had frightened her; "there is no need for that, dear, it is only a
sprained ankle, and Miss Ferrers has bandaged it so beautifully, a day
or two's rest will put it all right."
"But all the same, I should like to have Doctor Martin's opinion," he
answered, quickly. "I am afraid you must have found it very awkward,
Fay, being cast on the compassion of strangers."
"Oh, no, indeed," was the eager answer; "they were so good and kind to
me, Hugh; they welcomed me just as though I were an old friend. I was
a little faint at first, my foot hurt me so; but when I opened my
eyes, I found myself in such a lovely old room, on such an easy couch,
and Miss Ferrers gave me some wine, and actually bathed my foot and
bound it up herself."
"What sort of a room was it, Wee Wifie?"
Fay thought there was something odd in her husband's voice, but she
had her head on his shoulder, and could not see his face, the winter
dusk was creeping over the room, and only the fire-light illumined it.
Hugh felt himself safe to put that question, but he could not quite
control his voice.
"Oh, it was Miss Ferrers's morning-room, she told me so, and it had a
bay window with a cushioned seat overlooking the garden. Oh, how
lovely Miss Ferrers is, Hugh. I have never seen any one like her,
never. I am sure she is as sweet and good as an angel, only I wish she
did not look so sad: there were tears in her eyes once when we were
talking; let me see, what were we talking about? oh, about those
cottages you are building, she did look so interested--did you speak,
dear?"
"No--go on," he said, huskily; but if only Fay could have seen his
face.
"I feel I should love her so if I could only see more of her. I could
not help kissing her when I came away, but she did not seem at all
surprised. Mr. Ferrers wished me God-speed in such a nice way, too.
Oh, they are dear people; I do wish you would let me know them, Hugh."
"My dear child, it is impossible," but Hugh spoke fast and nervously;
"have I not already explained to you that there can be no intimacy
between Redmond Hall and the Grange. When old friends quarrel as we
have, it is a fatal blow to all friendship."
"You were old friends, then?" in some surprise, for he had never said
as much to her before.
"Yes," he returned, reluctantly, for he had not meant to admit this
fact.
"But quarrels can be made up, Hugh; if it be only a misunderstanding,
surely it could be put right." But he silenced her somewhat haughtily.
"This is my affair, Fay--it is not like you to go against my wishes in
this way; what can a child like you know about it? I should have
thought a wife would have been willing to be guided by her husband,
but you seem to think you know best."
"Oh, no, Hugh"--very much ashamed at this--"I am quite sure you are
always right; only"--hesitating a little as though she feared to
offend him--"I should like you to tell me what the quarrel was about."
For a moment Sir Hugh remained absolutely dumb with surprise; it was
as though a dove had flown in his face; he had never known Fay
persistent before. If only she had asserted herself from the beginning
of their married life, she would have gained more influence over her
husband; if she had entrenched herself in her wifely dignity, and
refused to be treated like a child, kept in the dark about everything,
and petted, or civilly snubbed according to her husband's moods, she
would have won his confidence by this time.
Sir Hugh was quite conscious that he had been guilty of a grievous
error in not telling Fay about Margaret before she became his wife; he
wished he had done so from the bottom of his heart; but
procrastination made the duty a far more difficult one; he felt it
would be so awkward to tell her now, he could not tell how she might
take it: it might make her unhappy, poor little thing; it would be a
pity to dim her brightness.
He was sheltering his moral weakness under these plausible excuses,
but somehow they failed to satisfy his conscience. He knew he had done
a mean thing to marry Fay when his heart was solely and entirely
Margaret's; what sort of blessing could attach to such a union?
But when Fay begged him to tell her the cause of his estrangement from
the Ferrers, he positively shrunk from, the painful ordeal--he was not
fit for it, he told himself, his nerves were disorganized, and Fay
looked far from well; some day he would tell her, but not now; and the
old sharpness was in his voice as he answered her.
"I can not tell you; you should not tease me so, Fay. I think you
might have a little faith in your husband."
"Very well, dear, I will not ask," she replied, gently; but the tears
sprung to her eyes in the darkness. She would not think him hard if
she could help it; of course she was young--ah, terribly young--and
Hugh was so much older and wiser. The "Polite Match-Maker" had told
her that husbands and wives were to have no secrets from each other;
but she supposed that when the wife was so much younger it made a
difference--perhaps when she got older, and knew more about things,
Hugh would tell her more. She longed to grow older--it would be years
before she would be twenty; why? she was only seventeen last month.
Hugh thought his Wee Wifie was tired, and tried to coax her to go to
sleep; he brought her another cushion, and attended to the fire, and
then went away to leave her to her nap. Fay would rather have had him
stay and talk to her, but she was too unselfish to say so; she lay in
her pretty room watching the fire-light play on the walls, and
thinking first of her husband and then of Margaret. She longed with a
vague wistfulness that she were more like that lovely Miss Ferrers,
and then, perhaps, Hugh would care to talk to her. Were the creeping
shadows bringing her strange thoughts? Fay could not have told any one
why there were tears on her cheeks; was the consciousness beginning to
dawn upon her that she was not close enough to her husband's
heart?--that she was his pet, but not his friend--that other wives
whom she knew were not kept outside in the cold?
"I am not too young to understand, if Hugh would only think so," she
said to herself plaintively. "How could I be, when I love him so?"
When Sir Hugh returned to the room an hour later, he was sorry to see
Fay look so flushed and weary. "We shall have you ill after all this,"
he said, reproachfully; "why have you not been a good child and gone
to sleep as I told you?"
"Because I was troubling too much. Oh, Hugh!" clasping him round the
neck, and her little hands felt hot and dry, "are you sure that you
are not angry with me, and that you really love me?"
"Of course I am not angry with you," in a jesting tone. "What an
absurd idea, Wee Wifie."
"I like you to call me that," she answered, thoughtfully, drawing down
one of his hands and laying her cheek on it; and Hugh thought as
Margaret had, what a baby face it was. "I mean to grow older, Hugh,
and wiser too if I can; but you must be patient with me, dear. I know
I can not be all you want just at present--I am only Wee Wifie now."
"Well, I do not wish to change her," replied Sir Hugh, with a touch of
real tenderness in his voice, and then very gently he unloosed the
clinging arms. Somehow Fay's voice and look haunted him as he went
down-stairs. "She is a dear little thing," he said to himself, as he
sat in his library sorting his papers; "I wish I were a better husband
to her," and then he wondered what Margaret had thought of his Wee
Wifie.