A GLIMPSE OF THE DARK VALLEY.
Not alone unkindness
Rends a woman's heart;
Oft through subtler piercings
Wives and mothers die.
Though the cord of silver
Never feel a strain;
Though the golden language
Cease not where ye dwell,
Yet remaineth something
Which, with its own pain,
Breaks the finer bosom
Whence true love doth well.
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 appetite, 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 nobly.
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 passionate
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."
"Well, will you promise me to be a brave little woman and not fret
after me when I am gone?" he went on more gently. "It is only six
weeks, you know, Fay, and I have promised to be back in time."
"Yes, yes, I know you will," she answered, "and I will be good--indeed
I will, Hugh; only tell me you are not angry with me before you go,
and call me your Wee Wifie as you used when you first brought me
home;" and she held up her wet face to him as though she were a child
wanting to be kissed and forgiven.
"You foolish birdie," he said, laughing, but he kissed her more fondly
than he had done yet. "There, you will take care of yourself, my own
Wee Wifie, will you not, and write long letters to me, and tell me how
you are getting on."
"Yes, Hugh," she replied, quietly; and then he put her down from his
arms. She had taken the flower from his button-hole, and stood
fondling it long after he had driven off.
"Had you not better lie down, my lady?" Mrs. Heron said to her a
little while afterward, when she found her still standing in the
middle of the room; and she took hold of her gently, for she did not
like the look in my lady's eyes at all; and then she laid her down on
the couch, and never left her until she had fallen asleep, like a
child, for very trouble.
And then she went down and spoke put her mind to Janet; and the
substance of her speech might be gathered from the concluding
sentence.
"And I am sorry to say it, Janet, of any one to whom I am beholden for
the bread I eat, and whom I have known since he was a baby; but, in
spite of his bonny looks and pleasant ways, Sir Hugh is terribly
selfish; and I call it a sin and a shame for any man to leave a sweet
young creature like that at such a time. What can he expect if she
goes on fretting herself to death in this way?"
Fay could not tell why she felt so strangely weak the next, day when
she woke up, and Mrs. Heron could not tell, either. She did not fret;
she did not even seem unhappy; she was too tired for anything of that
sort, she said to herself; but day after day she lay alone in her
little room with closed eyes and listless hands; while Nero lay at her
feet wondering why his little mistress was so lazy, and why she wasted
these lovely summer mornings in-doors instead of running races with
him and Pierre.
No, she was not ill, she assured them, when Mr. Heron and the faithful
Janet came to look after her, and to coax her with all kinds of
dainties; she was only so tired, and would they not talk to her, for
she felt as though she could never sleep enough; and would some one
tell Sir Hugh so when they wrote to him, for he would get no long
letters from her now--she had tried to write, but her hand was too
weak to hold the pen. But for all that she would not own she was ill;
it was only the heat that made her so lazy, she said again and again.
No, they must only tell Sir Hugh that she was very tired.
But when a few more days had passed, Mrs. Heron thought she had been
tired long enough, and sent for Dr. Martin.
He looked very grave when he saw her, and Fay smiled to herself, for
she said, "The time is very near now, and then he thinks that I shall
die."
But Margaret's reproachful speech came back to her--"Would you wish to
die without winning your husband's love?" and to the alarm of the good
housekeeper she suddenly became hysterical and begged her to send for
Sir Hugh.
But her piteous request was forgotten for a time, for before night her
life was in danger.
Hour after hour the desolate young creature looked death in the face
and found him terrible, and called out in her agony that she was
afraid to die unless Hugh would hold her hand; and for many a long day
after that Fay did not see her baby boy, for the least excitement
would kill her, the doctor said, and her only chance was perfect
quiet.
And the urgent letters that were sent did not reach Sir Hugh for a
long time, for he was wandering about Switzerland. He had carelessly
altered his route, and had forgotten to tell Fay so.
But on his homeward route, which was not until the six weeks were
past, he found a budget awaiting him at Interlachen.
Hugh was deeply shocked when he heard of his wife's danger, and blamed
himself for his selfishness in leaving her.
The trip had refreshed him, but the idea of returning home was still
irksome to him. He had enjoyed his freedom from domestic restraint;
and he had planned a longer route, that should end in the Pyramids,
when Fay was well and strong again. It would not matter then; but he
was a brute, he confessed, to have left her just at that time. Then he
added in self-extenuation that he was not quite himself.
And one lovely summer morning, when Fay lay like a broken lily on her
pillow, and looked languidly out upon the world and life, they brought
her baby to her and laid it in her weak arms; and Fay gazed
wonderingly into a dimpled, tiny face and blue-gray eyes that seemed
to her the counterpart of Hugh's eyes; and then, as she felt the soft
breathing of the warm, nestling thing against her shoulder, and saw
the crumpled hand on her breast, a new, strange flood of happiness
came into her starved heart.
"Hugh's little boy," she whispered, and a tender look shone in her
eyes; and then she added, "he will love me for my baby's sake."
And she was very happy in her belief.
As long as they would let her, she lay cradling her boy in her feeble
arms and whispering to him about his father: and when night came she
would lie awake happily trying to hear baby's soft breathing in the
bassinet beside her, and if he woke and cried, she would ask the nurse
to lay him beside her.
"He will not cry when he is with his mother," she would say, with
maternal pride. "He is always so good with me; indeed, I never knew
such a good baby," which was not wonderful, considering her experience
had been confined to Catharine's baby at the lodge. And if the nurse
humored her, Fay would cover the little downy head with noiseless
kisses, and tell him not to cry, for father was coming home to love
them and take care of them both.
"You will love me now; yes, I know you will, Hugh," she would murmur
softly when baby was slumbering peacefully in his blankets again, and
nurse had begged Lady Redmond not to think any more about Master Baby,
but to go to sleep. And as she obediently closed her eyes, the happy
tears would steal through her eyelids.
Poor innocent child! when she had first discovered that Hugh did not
love her, her despair had nearly cost her her life; but no sooner was
her baby brought to her than hope revived, for from the depths of her
sanguine heart she believed that by her boy's help she should win his
love; not knowing in her ignorance that Hugh might possibly care
nothing for the son though he desired the heir, and the baby charms
that had been so potent with her should possess no magic for him.