"GOOD-BYE--GOOD-BYE."
I never will look more into your face
Till God says, "Look!" I charge you, seek me not,
Nor vex yourself with lamentable thoughts
That peradventure I have come to grief.
Be sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at ease,
But such a long way, long way, long way off,
I think you'll find me sooner in my grave,
And that's my choice--observe.
E. B. BROWNING.
Fay had made up her mind to be lost.
Could any one imagine anything so utterly ignorant and childish, and
yet so pathetic? She was going to lay down her wifely rights and steal
away, friendless and unprotected, into the great lonely world, so that
Hugh might come back to his old home in peace.
With the rash impulse of despair--of a despair that hoped nothing and
feared nothing--she was taking the most terrible step that a young
creature could take. She was doing evil that good might come; she was
giving up herself in complete renunciation and self-sacrifice in
obedience to a miserable and mistaken idea. If she had been older; if
her simplicity of character had been less childish, and her worldly
knowledge greater, she must surely have hesitated before taking a step
that must anger as well as grieve her husband. How would Sir Hugh's
haughty spirit brook the disgrace of publicity and the nine-days'
wonder of the world when they knew that his wife, Lady Redmond--the
successor of all the starched and spotless dames who hung in the old
guest-chambers--should so forget herself and him as to tarnish his
reputation by an act so improper and incredible.
He might forgive his spoiled trip, and all the trouble that awaited
him in his empty home; but how will he ever bring himself to forgive
that?
But Fay, poor mistaken child, thought of none of these things. She
only felt that she must go and take her baby with her. There was no
time to be lost, and she must make all her plans very quickly.
Fay's will was a strong one--there was no fear that she would falter
in her purpose; but she never remembered afterward how she carried it
out, or from whence came the strange feverish energy that supported
her. She was working in a dream, in a nightmare, in a horrible
impatience to be gone--to be gone--where? But even this question was
answered before many hours were over, for she was to make her poor
little plans with the utmost precision. In the quiet evening time, as
she paced restlessly through the empty rooms, she thought of a place
of refuge where she might rest safely for a little. The moment the
carriage had turned the corner, and she could see it no longer, she
had taken the letter from the drawer and laid it on the table.
Such an innocent, pitiful little letter it was.
"Darling Hugh," it began, "do not be angry with me when you
come back to-morrow and find your Wee Wifie has gone. What
could I do--how could I stay any longer after reading your own
words? Indeed, I think I could have borne anything but this.
No, this one thing I could not bear--that you should leave
your home and country to free yourself and me.
"'You must go,' you say; 'of course it must be you.' Darling,
do you not know me better than that?
"I felt you could not love me, Hugh; but have I ever blamed
you in my heart? I was too childish and young for such a man
as you. Why did you marry me, dear?--that was a great mistake.
But perhaps you saw I liked you.
"I tried so hard to please you, but somehow I always failed.
And then the baby came--our baby--and you did not care for
him; and then, indeed, I thought my heart would break. I
wonder if you know how I have loved you? I was not too young
for that, though you thought I was. I never lay down to sleep
without praying God to bless my dear husband, and
sometimes--was it very childish of me, I wonder?--I put baby's
hands together and made believe he was praying too.
"I think if you knew what I suffered, when they thought I was
dying, and the angels would not come for me; I think--yes, I
do think, Hugh--you would have been sorry for me then.
"Good-bye, my darling--I shall never call you that again, for
I am going away forever. You must not trouble about me, for I
shall take great care of myself, and after a time I shall not
fret so much. I shall take my baby--he can not do without me,
and I love him so. When he is older I will send him back to
you. He is so like you, dear--a Redmond all over--and his eyes
will remind me of you.
"I shall say good-bye to you very quietly. When I try to speak
there is a dreadful lump in my throat that seems to choke me;
and I feel as though I could blush with shame for being so
little and insignificant in your eyes. You are like a king to
me, Hugh; so grand, and noble, and proud. Oh, what made you
marry me? You did wrong there, darling, did you not?
"Good-bye, good-bye. I shall be quite lost. Do not look for
me; only give me a thought now and then--one kind and gentle
thought of your Wee Wifie."
She read through the letter dry-eyed, and kissed it, and laid it on
the table. It would touch his hands, she thought. Later on she
unsealed it, and added a short postscript. "Do not be anxious," it
said; "I am going to some kind people who will be good to me and the
boy."
She had placed the letter where Hugh would see it at once, and then
she went upstairs. She wanted to have her baby in her arms, that its
touch might lull the deadly faintness at her heart; and when she felt
a little better she sent for Mrs. Heron and Janet.
Sir Hugh had gone off to London, she told them; they had telegraphed
for him, and she was to follow him immediately. She would take her
luggage with her, of course, for she did not intend to return to the
Hall before going down into Devonshire; but they would see Sir Hugh
again for a few hours--he would probably run up the following evening
to give his final orders.
And would she be long away? asked Mrs. Heron. She thought my lady
looked very ill, and required a thorough change.
"Yes," returned Fay, quickly; but she turned away as she spoke. She
should most certainly be away all the time Sir Hugh was in Egypt.
Janet must set to work at once, for they would have to start early.
And then she explained that the cottage at Daintree was very small,
and that Sir Hugh had begged her to dispense with Janet's services,
and only take nurse.
Janet looked very disappointed when Fay said this, for she adored her
gentle little mistress. "I don't know what master is thinking about,"
she grumbled, in confidence, to Mrs. Heron. "This new nurse has only
been here six weeks, and does not know my lady's ways. And who will
wait upon her, I should like to know, if I am to be left behind? but
it is all of a piece with his selfishness." But she worked with a will
for all that, and all the time her boxes were being packed, Fay
wandered about with her baby on her arm collecting her little
treasures, and dropping them in the boxes as she passed. Now it was a
book Hugh had given her, or a picture, or the withered flower he had
worn in his button-hole; an odd glove he had left on his
dressing-table, and which she clutched with the greediness of a miser;
and even a silk handkerchief he had worn round his neck--she put them
all in. Such a strange little assortment of odds and ends. Janet
thought she was daft.
And she would have none of her evening dresses packed up, or indeed
any of her costly ones--she would not require them in the country, she
said, quietly; but she would have all her jewels--not those Hugh had
given her, or the old family jewels that had been reset for her, but
those that had belonged to her mother, and were exceedingly valuable;
there was a pearl necklace that was worth five hundred pounds. Hugh
had drawn out a large sum of money that he had given in charge to
her--he meant to have left it for domestic expenses while he was away.
Fay wrote out a receipt, and put it with her letter. It would be no
harm to keep it, she thought; Hugh could help himself to her money.
There would be enough to keep her and the boy for more than a year,
and after that she could sell her necklace. She was rich, but how was
she to draw any more money without being traced to her hiding-place?
The last act before the daylight closed was to go to the stables and
bid Bonnie Bess good-bye. The groom, who knew that he was to follow in
a few days with Bonnie Bess and another horse--for Sir Hugh had been
very mindful of his wife's comfort--was rather surprised to see her
kissing the mare's glossy neck, as though she could not bear to part
with her; when she had left the stables, Nero, who had followed her
about all day with a dog's instinctive dread of some impending change,
looked up in her face wistfully.
"Do you want to come with me, Nero?" she asked, sadly; "poor fellow,
you will fret yourself to death without me. Yes, you shall come with
me; we will go to Rowan-Glen together."
For all at once the thought had come to her of a beautiful spot in the
Highlands where she and her father had stayed many years ago. If she
remained in England, Hugh would find her, and she had a dread of going
abroad. Besides, what could she do with baby, for of course she must
leave nurse behind; she would have to engage a stranger who did not
know she was Lady Redmond. And then she bethought herself that she
would call herself by her husband's second name, St. Clair--she would
be Mrs. St. Clair.
Yes, she and her father had had a very happy time at Rowan-Glen. They
had been to Edinburgh, and to the Western Highlands, and had then made
their way to Aberdeen, as Colonel Mordaunt had some old Indian friends
there; and, as they had still some weeks to spare, they had come down
to the Deeside, and had fallen in love with Rowan-Glen.
But they could not obtain a lodging in one of the cottages, so the
Manse opened its hospitable doors to them. The minister, Mr. Duncan,
was old, and so was his wife, and they had no children; so, as there
was room and to spare, and their income was somewhat scanty, the good
old people were quite willing to take in Colonel Mordaunt and his
little daughter. Fay had forgotten their existence until now; but she
remembered how kind Mrs. Duncan had been to her; and she thought she
would go to her, and tell her that she was married, and very unhappy,
and then she would let her and baby stop there quietly in the old gray
house.
Nobody ever came there, for they were quiet folk, and Mr. Duncan was
an invalid; and there was a dear old room, looking out on the
old-fashioned garden, where her father had slept, that would just do
for her and baby.
Fay had a vague sort of feeling that her strength would not last very
long, and that by and by she would want to be cared for as well as
baby. Her poor brain was getting confused, and she could not
sleep--there was so much to plan before the next day.
Ah, what a night that was. If it had not been for the soft breathing
of her infant in the darkness, Fay must have screamed out in her
horror, as thoughts of the desolate future came over her; and yet it
was easier for her to go away than to stay on at the Hall an unloved
wife--a millstone round her husband's neck.
When Janet called her at the proper time, she found her up and dressed
and beginning her baby's toilet.
"Here, Janet," she said, with an unsteady laugh, "I don't think I am
putting on baby's things very nicely, but I wanted to try, so nurse
let me; but he cries so that he confused my head." And then she gave
him up and went wandering through the rooms, saying a silent good-bye
to everything; and last of all she went into her husband's library.
Ellerton found her there when he summoned her to breakfast. She would
come in a minute, she said, quietly; she was only arranging Sir Hugh's
papers as he liked to have them. Yes, she knew the carriage would be
round directly; but Ellerton need not fear that she would be late. And
then, when the old servant had closed the door, she went up to her
husband's chair, leaning over it and embracing it with her two arms,
while she rested her cheek against the carved ebony back. "This is
where he will sit this evening," she said. "Good-bye, God bless you,
dear;" and then she left the room.
But she would eat nothing, and only asked for her baby. But just
before she got into the carriage she called Mrs. Heron to her, and
bade her take care of the aged people at the Pierrepoint almshouses,
and see they had their little packets of tea and grocery as usual; and
then she shook hands with her and Ellerton.
"Good-bye to you all," faltered the poor child, hurriedly. "You have
been good friends to me, all of you. Good-bye--good-bye;" and then she
drew her veil over her face, and leaned back in the carriage, while
Nero licked her little ungloved hand.
Sir Hugh had sworn to love and cherish her until death, and yet he had
brought her to this.
The journey was a very short one; but nurse afterward remembered that
Lady Redmond did not appear surprised, when they arrived at Euston, to
find that Sir Hugh was not waiting at the station. "What are we to do,
my lady?" she asked, rather helplessly, for she was young and a
country woman, and the din and bustle were overwhelming to her; but
Fay was helping to identify her luggage, and did not answer. She told
nurse to go into the waiting-room with baby, and she would come to her
presently. And then she had her luggage put on to a cab.
"Nurse," she said, quickly, when she came back a few minutes
afterward, "will you give me baby a moment, and go to the
refreshment-room--it is just a little way down the station. I should
like some sandwiches and sponge-cakes, and perhaps you had better get
something for yourself, there is plenty of time;" and the woman obeyed
her at once. Her lady looked faint, she thought; most likely she was
disappointed that Sir Hugh was not there.
As soon as she had left the waiting-room, Fay went up to the person in
charge, and asked her to give a sealed note to her nurse when she came
back. "You remember her--the young woman with reddish hair who held
baby just now; tell her I have gone to look after the luggage, and ask
her to read it." And though the woman thought the request a little
strange, she took the sealed packet without demur.
As Fay and Nero went outside the station, the porter who had loaded
the cab was standing a little way off, Fay told the cabman hastily to
drive off to King's Cross, as she wanted to take the Scotch express;
and as the porter came up to claim his gratuity he found the cab
driving off, but Fay flung him a shilling. By a strange fatality the
cabman who drove them met with an accident that very day, from the
consequences of which he died in two or three weeks' time; and this
one thing checked all clew. When the inquiries were set afloat, the
porter certainly remembered the little lady and baby and the big black
dog, but he had not heard her instructions to the cabman.
Fay only took her ticket to York; she dared not go straight to her
destination. When she arrived there she would not put up at the
station hotel, but had herself driven to a quiet little hotel for the
night. It was an unpretending place, kept by very honest folk; but Fay
found herself very comfortable. She made some excuse about not
bringing her nurse, and the chamber-maid helped her undress baby. She
was almost too stupefied with grief and fatigue by this time to do
anything but sleep helplessly; but she made the girl promise to call
her early, and ordered a fly to the station; and when the morning came
she got into it without telling any one where she was going, and took
the midday train for Edinburgh. It would be impossible to describe the
nurse's feelings when she opened the packet in the waiting-room and
read her mistress's note. "Dear nurse," it said, "I am really very
sorry to treat you so badly, but I can not help it. I have gone away
with baby, and I could not take you. Please go back to Singleton by
the next train; you will find your box on the platform, and the porter
will help you. Sir Hugh will tell you what to do when he arrives this
evening.--Your affectionate mistress, F. Redmond." And inclosed were
two months' wages. In spite of her youth, Fay had excellent business
capabilities, only her husband had never found them out.
But unfortunately for the bewildered household at Redmond Hall, Sir
Hugh never arrived that evening. First came a hazy telegram, informing
them of a change of programme, and later on a special messenger came
down from him bringing a letter from Sir Hugh--a very affectionate
farewell letter.
Fitzclarence had acted on impulse as usual, and he and Sir Hugh had
started that very night, leaving Powis and Egerton to follow them.