FAY'S MISTAKE.
She loves with love that can not tire,
And when, ah, woe! she loves alone
Through passionate duty love flames higher
As grass grows taller round a stone.
COVENTRY PATMORE.
Never! 'tis certain that no hope is--none?
No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear,
The hardest part of my hard task is done;
Thy calm assures me that I am not dear.
JEAN INGELOW.
Erle was quite shocked at Fay's changed appearance, but he said very
little about it. He had an instinctive feeling that the shadow had
deepened, and that Fay was sick at heart; but he only showed his
sympathy by an added kindness, and an almost reverential tenderness,
and Fay was deeply grateful for his delicacy, for she knew now that,
though she had been blind, others had had their eyes open; and she had
a morbid fear that every one traced her husband's restlessness and
dissatisfaction with his life to the right cause, and knew that she
was an unloved wife. Fay was very proud by nature, though no one would
have guessed it from her exceeding gentleness; and this knowledge
added largely to her pain. But she hid it--she hid it heroically, and
no one knew till too late how the young creature had suffered in her
silence.
Erle and she were better friends than ever; but they did not resume
their old confidential talks. Erle had grown strangely reticent about
his own affairs, and spoke little of his _fiancée_ and his approaching
marriage. He knew in his heart that Fay had read him truly, and knew
that his warmest affections had been given to Fern, and he had an
uneasy consciousness that she condemned his conduct.
Fay never told him so; she congratulated him very prettily, and made
one of her old mischievous speeches about "the young lady with the go
in her"--but somehow it seemed to fall flat; and she asked him a few
questions, as in duty bound, about his prospects, and how often he saw
Miss Selby, and if he would bring her down to Redmond Hall, one day;
"for I mean to be very fond of your wife, Erle, whoever she may be,"
she continued; "and I hear from the Trelawneys that Miss Selby--but I
must call her Evelyn now--is very nice indeed, and that you are to be
congratulated."
"She is far too good for me," returned Erle, with a touch of real
feeling, for his _fiancée's_ unselfish devotion was a daily reproach
to him. Could any girl be sweeter or more loving, he thought.
Fay sighed as she watched him. Erle had changed too, she said to
herself; he was nicer, but he had lost his old careless merriment; he
looked graver, and a little thin, and there was not always a happy
look in his eyes. Fay sometimes feared that the other girl with the
fair hair had not been forgotten; she wanted to tell him that she
hoped Evelyn knew all about her, but she lacked the courage, and
somehow it was not so easy to talk to Erle this time.
But there was one subject on which he dilated without reserve, and
that was on Mr. Ferrers's search for Crystal. He was in New York now,
he told Fay, with his sister, and he was waiting for further
intelligence before he followed Miss Davenport. "Miss Trafford
corresponds with him," he continued, with an effort; "but it seems the
travelers have little time for writing." But he wondered, as he talked
about the Ferrers, why Fay changed color so often--he had heard it was
a sign of delicacy.
"I am tiring you," he said, hastily; "you are looking quite pale; you
want a change sadly yourself, my Fairy Queen." And Hugh, entering the
room at that moment, caught at the word and came up quickly to the
couch.
"Don't you feel so well to-day, pet?" he asked, kindly; "why are you
talking about a change?"
"It was only Erle's nonsense, dear," she said, hurriedly. She never
could speak to him without a painful blush, and it always deepened if
he looked at her long, as he did now.
"I never saw you look better than you do to-day," returned her
husband; "she is quite rosy, is she not, Erle? But you are right, and
a change will do her and the boy good. I was thinking how you would
like to go down to Devonshire, Fay, while I am away?"
"Away?" she said, very quietly; "where are you going, Hugh?"--but
there was no surprise in her face.
"Oh, you can not forget," returned Hugh, impatiently, "unless that
baby puts everything out of your head. Do you not remember that I told
you that Fitzclarence was coming down this week to arrange about our
trip to Cairo."
"No," she replied, "you never said anything about it, Hugh;" which was
the truth, for he had never taken the trouble to inform her, though
Mrs. Heron had had orders to prepare a room for the expected guest.
"Well, well," rather irritably, "I meant to tell you, but one's memory
is treacherous sometimes. He will be down here about Wednesday or
Thursday, for in another week we hope to start."
"Indeed," returned Fay, in a tired voice, pulling off her baby's shoe;
but, to Erle's astonishment, she manifested no emotion. As for Sir
Hugh, he was relieved to find his Wee Wifie was becoming such a
reasonable woman. Why, he could talk to her quite comfortably without
fear of a scene.
"What will you do with yourself, dear," he continued, briskly. "Don't
you think it would be the best thing to go down to Daintree and show
your baby to Aunt Griselda?"
"Just as you like," was the indifferent answer. But Erle interrupted
her.
"How long do you mean to absent yourself from the bosom of your
family, Hugh?"
"Oh, two or three months; we can not follow out the route Fitzclarence
proposed under that time--about ten or eleven weeks, I should say."
"Three months? Well, all I can say is, marriage is not the fettered
state we bachelors imagine it to be. I had no idea one could get leave
of absence for half that time. I hope my wife will be as accommodating
as Fay."
There was a concealed sarcasm in Erle's careless speech that jarred
upon Hugh, and he answered, angrily:
"I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Erle. Fay has the sense to
know that my health requires complete change, and I shall not be the
man I was without it. I ought to have had three months last time, only
her illness recalled me. But now I can leave her more happily."
"And you expect to do the trip in eleven weeks with Fitzclarence as
the leader of the expedition. Fitzclarence, so renowned for his
punctuality--so celebrated for never altering a given route at a
minute's notice."
Erle was going too far, and Sir Hugh answered him with decided
impatience.
"I did not know Fitzclarence was a friend of yours, Erle; but I never
listen to the idle gossip one picks up at one's club. I am perfectly
satisfied with his arrangements, and so are the other men--we have
two other fellows going with us. Fay, my dear, I should like you to
write at once to your aunt, and ask her if she can have you and the
boy. The cottage is rather small; do you think you could do without
Janet, and only take nurse?"
"Oh, yes," replied Fay, in the same constrained voice; but Erle saw
that she had become very pale. But just then Ellerton entered and told
his master that some one was waiting to speak to him on business; so
the subject was dropped.
Erle looked rather wistfully at Fay when they were left alone
together. "I am afraid you will be very lonely when Hugh goes away,"
he said, kindly. "Why need you go to Daintree; you will be dreadfully
dull there with only your aunt. I do not see why you should not come
to Belgrave house first, while Mrs. Montague is there. She is a very
pleasant woman, Fay; and you could do just as you like, and you would
see Evelyn, and I am sure you two would soon be great friends. Do
come, Fay; and you can go to Daintree afterward."
Fay shook her head with a faint, dissenting smile; but she was touched
by his kind thought for her.
"No, Erle," she said, decidedly, "it would not do at all. Hugh would
not like it. He wishes me to go to Aunt Griselda."
"What does it matter to him where you go, so long as he is enjoying
himself," burst from Erle's impatient lips; her meekness really
provoked him. But he regretted the rash speech as soon as it was
uttered, especially when a soft little hand touched his.
"Hush! Erle," she said, gently, "you should not speak like that; not
to me at least. Do you not know that I have no greater pleasure in the
world than to obey my husband's wishes. No," she continued, and her
eyes grew misty, "I have no other happiness but that--no other
happiness but that."
"But Fay," interrupted Erle, eagerly, "what possible objection could
Hugh have to your staying at our house while Mrs. Montague is there?
We would wait on you, and watch over you, as though you were a queen."
"Yes, yes! I know that--you are always so kind to me, Erle; but it
would never do for me to come to Belgrave House. Hugh does not like
Mr. Huntingdon."
"Very few people do," muttered Erle; "but he has always been a good
friend to my mother and to me."
"Yes, I know; and he is your uncle, so of course you make allowances
for him. But Hugh has told me the story of poor Nea Huntingdon; and,
somehow, I feel as though I could never visit at Belgrave House until
you are master there."
Erle smiled. "When that day comes, Mrs. Trafford shall reap a golden
harvest after all her hard work. You do not know how I long to help
her, and make life easier for them all. Think of such women living in
a place like the Elysian Fields--over that shop too; and yet, if I
were to take up their cause now, I should only forfeit my own chances,
and do no good. So you mean to be obdurate, my Fairy Queen, and not
come to us."
"No, dear," she said, quietly, "I could not come." But she never told
him that one of her reasons was that she might possibly meet the
Ferrers there, if they were coming back from America; and she felt
just now as though she could not have borne such an encounter.
Erle had to go up to London the next day, but the Hon. Algernon
Fitzclarence took his place the following evening, and after that Fay
had a miserable time; for all day long Hugh and his guest were
planning the route for their trip, or talking over previous tours.
Either Fay's knowledge of geography was very limited or her head got
confused; but as she listened to them, she felt as though Egypt were
thousands of miles away, and as though Hugh would certainly get lost
in those trackless deserts, and die of thirst like the poor travelers
of whom she had read. It was cruel to leave her for such dangers, she
thought. And sometimes she got so nervous that she would make an
excuse and leave the room, that she might not hear any more. And then
she would wander about the grounds in an aimless way, trying to throw
off the oppression that was growing greater as the days went on. It
was not that she did not want her husband to leave her. Her loneliness
could not be greater if he went away--so she believed in her
wretchedness; but she was so terrified for him. And she had taken a
dislike to the Hon. Algernon Fitzclarence. He might be a great
traveler, as Hugh told her, and a very amusing companion, but his
manners were not to her taste. Fay's innocence instinctively took
alarm at the covert admiration conveyed in her guest's looks and
words. He was too much a man of the world to pay her open compliments;
and indeed her gentle dignity repelled him; but he made her understand
that he thought his hostess very charming.
Hugh noticed nothing; he was rather pleased than otherwise that a
fastidious man like Fitzclarence should admire his little wife. Fay
was certainly very pretty, even in her husband's eyes, and she was so
much improved--not half so childish. But it was a relief to Fay when
the Hon. Algernon departed. Hugh was to join him in town for a day or
two to procure his outfit, and then come back to the Hall to bid Fay
good-bye. It was on the second day after their guest had left Redmond
Hall that Fay went into her husband's study to dust and arrange his
papers as usual.
It was a duty she had taken upon herself from the first. Sir Hugh had
a masculine horror of what he called servants' interference--he never
allowed them to touch the papers on his writing-table or bureau; and
his strictures on the feminine duster were so severe that no one but
Mrs. Heron ever ventured even to remove the overflowing wastepaper
baskets.
But when Fay came to the Hall she assumed the duty as her right, and
took a great pride and pleasure in her task; and Hugh's first marital
praise was bestowed on the clever little fingers that tidied without
disarranging his cherished papers, and after that the work became her
daily pleasure. But this morning there was an unusual amount of
disorder and confusion. Sir Hugh had sat up late the previous night
sorting and destroying his letters; and not only the baskets but the
floor was heaped with a profusion of torn paper. Fay felt weak and
tired, and she went about her work slowly; but she would not ring for
a servant to help her; it would be a long time before she tidied
Hugh's papers again, she thought. And then her attention was attracted
by an unfinished letter lying at the bottom of the _débris_ which she
first believed had been thrown away by mistake--but on a closer
inspection she found it was torn across. But it was in her husband's
handwriting. Fay never knew why the temptation came to her to read
that letter. A sentence had caught her eye, and an intense wish
suddenly seized her to read the whole and know what it meant.
Afterward she owned that her fault had been a great one; but she was
to pay dearly for her girlish curiosity.
It was a mere fragment, and was apparently the concluding portion of a
long explanatory letter.
"--And now I have told you all frankly, and however much you may
condemn me, at least you will be sorry for me.
"For, indeed, I have done all that a man can do, or at least the best
that is in me, and have only been beaten and humiliated at every turn.
I can do no more. My illness has exhausted me, and taken away all
strength of resistance; and though it may seem cowardly to you, I am
forced to run away, for my present life is unendurable. Just put
yourself in my place, and think what I must suffer.
"So you must not blame me, dear, if I have come to the conclusion that
the same place can not hold us both--at least, not for a time. One or
other of us must leave; and of course it must be I. The misery of it
is too great for my endurance, until I can learn to forget the past;
and, as I have told you before, Margaret"--the word lightly scratched
through and "I" substituted, only Fay never noticed this--"I think it
right to go; and time and absence will help us both. She is so good
and gentle; if she knew all, she would own that this is my duty;
but--" here the letter was torn across, and Fay read no more. But as
she stood there her fingers stiffened over the paper, and an icy chill
seemed to rob her of all feeling. She thought that letter was written
to Margaret, and now her despair had reached its climax.
Poor, unhappy Wee Wifie; it was a most fatal mistake. That letter had
been written by Hugh one night when he could not sleep, and it was
addressed to his wife. He had come to the conclusion that he had lived
the life of a hypocrite long enough, and that it would be wiser and
more honest if he unburdened himself of his unhappy secret and told
Fay why he thought it better to go way. He had tried to speak to her
once, but she did not seem to understand, and he had grown irritable
and impatient; it would be easier to make excuses for himself on
paper. He could tell her truly that he was very fond of her, and that
he wanted to make her happy. "I mean to make you a good husband," he
had said in a previous portion; "one of these days, if you are patient
with me, you shall be the happiest little woman in the world."
Hugh never finished this letter; something happened to distract his
attention, and he never found an opportunity of completing it. The
night before he had read it over, and the beginning had not pleased
him. "I will write another when I am away," he said to himself; "I am
afraid she will feel herself hurt if she reads this, poor little
thing. I have not been sufficiently considerate." Unfortunately, Fay
had come to a different conclusion. She thought the letter had been
written to Margaret, and that the "she" who was mentioned was Hugh's
wife. Yes, it was his wife of whom Hugh spoke, when he said the same
place could not hold them both, and for "place" the unhappy girl
substituted "house." Hugh could not remain in the same house with her.
"She was good and gentle; if she knew all"--ah! and she did know
all--"she would own that it was his duty; his present life was
unendurable," and therefore--therefore he was going to Egypt with that
dreadful man who would lead him into danger. "One or other of us must
leave, and of course it must be I."
"No, no, my bonny Hugh," she said at last, with a dim smile, as she
lifted up her eyes to his portrait; "if one must be sacrificed it
shall not be you--no, my dearest, it shall not be you." And then, in
her childish ignorance, she made up her mind that Hugh should not go
to Egypt.
"You are very unhappy, darling," she went on, pressing the letter in
her hands; "you are terribly unhappy because you can not love me and
care for your boy; but you shall not be troubled with us any longer;
and, indeed, I could not stop--" and here a flush of shame came to her
sweet face--"knowing what I know now. No, baby and I will go, and you
shall not leave your beautiful home and get lost in those horrible
deserts; you shall stay here and learn to forget all your troubles,
and presently you will be happy; and it is I who will go, my dearest."
And it was for this that she had come back to him through "the Valley
of the Shadow of Death," bringing her baby with her.
Some strange feverish power seemed to enter into her and give her a
fitful strength. She sat down at her husband's desk and began writing
rapidly, and as the thoughts came to her; and when she had finished,
she inclosed her letter with the torn fragment, and, after addressing
it, sealed it carefully. As she did so she heard footsteps approaching
the library, and slipped it hurriedly into the open drawer, and the
next moment Sir Hugh entered with a telegram in his hand.
"I have been looking all over the place for you, Fay," he began,
hurriedly; "and not a soul seemed to know where you were. Look here; I
have just had this telegram from Fitz. He wants me to come up to town
at once. I believe we have to start earlier than we intended."
And as Fay seemed to have no answer ready, he went on "I am so vexed
about it, my pet, for I meant to have driven you over to Pierrepoint
after luncheon; you looked so pale this morning, and I had to arrange
about so many things. Well, it can not be helped; Saville is packing
my 'Gladstone,' and I have not a moment to lose."
"Do you mean you are going off to Egypt now?" asked Fay, hardly able
to articulate--her lips had grown quite white. What if she should be
too late after all!
"Egypt indeed! What a child you are, Fay; one can never make you
understand things. No, I am going up to London to get what I want, and
meet Egerton and Powis, the other fellows who are to join us. I shall
sleep at the club to-night, and you may expect me to be down to dinner
to-morrow. The next day--" here he hesitated; "well, there is time
enough to talk of saying good-bye then."
"Yes, yes, I understand now. Go and get ready; and, Hugh, don't forget
to kiss baby."
"All right," he laughed good-humoredly; and then Fay stood quite
still, holding the table, till he came back.
"My traps are in the hall; I must say good-bye quickly, darling." How
handsome, how well he looked, as he stooped over her with his plaid
over his arm.
He need not be fearful of her detaining him; there was no clinging, no
agony of weeping this time. She put her two hands round his neck and
held him for a moment, as her cold lips touched his, and then stood
quite still and waved to him--sadly, quietly--from the window as he
drove past, and that was all.