UNDER THE ROWANS.
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so thro' those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come,
* * * * *
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.
TENNYSON'S _Princess_.
Fergus was not kept long in suspense; his letter was answered by
return of post. Messrs. Green and Richardson had been evidently struck
with the concise, businesslike note they had received, and they took
great pains in furnishing him with full particulars, and begged that,
if he had any special intelligence to impart, he would write direct to
their client, Sir Hugh Redmond, Redmond Hall, Singleton.
After studying Messrs. Green and Richardson's letter with most careful
attention, Fergus came to the conclusion that it would be as well to
write to Sir Hugh Redmond. He was very careful to post this letter
himself, and, though he confided in no one, thinking a secret is
seldom safe with a woman, he could not hide from Lilian and Aunt
Jeanie that he was "a bit fashed" about something.
"For it is not like our Fergus," observed the old lady, tenderly, "to
be stalking about the rooms and passages like a sair-hearted ghost."
Sir Hugh was sitting over his solitary breakfast, with Pierre beside
him, when, in listlessly turning over his pile of letters, the Scotch
postmark on one arrested his attention, and he opened it with some
eagerness. It was headed, "The Manse, Rowan-Glen," and was evidently
written by a stranger; yes, he had never heard the name Fergus Duncan.
"DEAR SIR," it commenced, "two or three days ago I saw your
advertisement in the 'Standard,' and wrote at once to your
solicitors, Messrs. Green and Richardson, begging them to
furnish me with the necessary particulars for identifying the
person of Lady Redmond. The answer I received from them
yesterday has decided me to act on their advice, and
correspond personally with yourself. My aunt, Mrs. Duncan, has
had a young married lady and her child staying with her all
the winter. She calls herself Mrs. St. Clair, though I may as
well tell you that she has owned to me that this is only her
husband's second name"--here Hugh started, and a sudden flush
crossed his face.
"She arrived quite unexpectedly last September. She had been
at the Manse as a child, with her father, Colonel Mordaunt;"
here Hugh dropped the letter and hid his face in his hands.
"My God, I have not deserved this goodness," rose to his lips;
and then he hastily finished the sentence, "and she begged my
aunt to shelter her and the child, as she had been obliged to
leave her husband; and as she appeared very ill and unhappy,
my aunt could not do otherwise.
"The particulars I have gleaned from Messrs. Green and
Richardson's letter have certainly led me to the conclusion
that Mrs. St. Clair is really Lady Redmond. Mrs. St. Clair is
certainly not nineteen, and her baby is eleven months old; she
is very small in person--indeed, in stature almost a child;
and every item in the lawyer's letter is fully corroborated.
"We have not been able to gain any information from Mrs. St.
Clair herself; she declines to explain why she has left her
home, and only appears agitated when questions are put to her.
Her fixed idea seems to be that her husband does not want her.
Her health has suffered much from ceaseless fretting, but she
is better now, and the child thrives in our mountain air.
"As the sight of your handwriting would only excite Mrs. St.
Clair's suspicions, it would be as well to put your answer
under cover, or telegraph your reply. I need not tell you that
you will be welcome at the Manse, if you should think it well
to come to Rowan-Glen--I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,
"FERGUS DUNCAN."
A few hours later a telegram reached the Manse.
"I am on my way; shall be at the Manse to-morrow afternoon. No
doubt of identity; unmarried name Mordaunt.
"H. REDMOND."
"Aunt Jeanie must be taken into counsel now," was Fergus's first
thought as he read the telegram; his second was, "better sleep on it
first; women are dreadful hands at keeping a secret. She would be
fondling her with tears in her dear old eyes all the evening, and Mrs.
St. Clair is none so innocent, in spite of Jean and Lilian calling her
a woman-angel. Ay, but she is a bonnie lassie, though, and
brave-hearted as well," and the young minister's eyes grew misty as he
shut himself up in the study to keep himself safe from the temptation
of telling Aunt Jeanie.
He had a sore wrestle for it, though; but he prided himself on his
wisdom, when, after breakfast the next morning, he led the old lady
into the study, and, after bidding her prepare for a shock, informed
her that Mrs. St. Clair's husband, Sir Hugh Redmond, would be down
that very afternoon.
He might well call Aunt Jeanie soft, to see her white curls shake
tremulously, and the tears running down her faded cheeks.
"Eh, my lad--eh, Fergus," she sobbed, "Mrs. St. Clair's husband--the
father of her bairn. Oh, whatever will Jean say? she will be for
running away and hiding them both--she can not bide the thought of
that man."
"Aunt Jeanie," broke in Fergus in his most masterful voice, "I hope
you will not be so foolish as to tell Jean; remember I have trusted
this to you because I know you are wise and sensible, and will help
me. We have made ourselves responsible for this poor child, and shall
have to account to Sir Hugh if we let her give us the slip. I have
said all along that no doubt there were faults on both sides, only you
women will take each other's parts. Now, I am off to the farm to see
Lilian. Just tell Jean that I am expecting a friend, and she had
better choose a fine plump pair of chicks for supper; she will be for
guessing it is Lothian or Dan Ambleby, or one of the old lot, and she
will be so busy with her scones and pasties that one will hardly
venture to cross the kitchen." And then, begging her to be careful
that Mrs. St. Clair might not guess anything from her manner, Fergus
strode off to the farm to share his triumph and perplexities with
Lilian.
It was well for Aunt Jeanie that Fay was extremely busy that day,
finishing a frock for her baby; so she sat in her own room all the
morning at the window overlooking the orchard, and baby Hugh, as
usual, crawled at her feet.
He was a beautiful boy now, with the fresh, fair complexion of the
Redmonds, with rough golden curls running over his head, and large,
solemn gray eyes. Fay had taught him to say "dada," and would cover
him with passionate kisses when the baby lips fashioned the words.
"Yes, my little boy shall go home to his father some day, when he can
run about and speak quite plain," she would tell him; and at the
thought of that day, when she should give him up to Hugh, she would
bury her face in the fat creasy neck, and wet it with tears. "How would
she ever live without her little child?" she thought; but she knew,
for all that, that she would give him up.
When Fergus returned to luncheon, he found Aunt Jeanie had worked
herself almost into a fever--her pretty old face was flushed and
tremulous, her eyes were dim when Fay came into the room carrying her
boy.
"He is far too heavy for you, Mrs. St. Clair," exclaimed Fergus,
hastening to relieve her. "I know mothers' arms are generally strong,
but still this big fellow is no light weight. What are you going to do
with yourself this afternoon? Aunt Jeanie always takes a nap in Uncle
Donald's room, but I suppose you have not come to the age for
napping."
"No," returned Fay with a smile; "but Jean has finished her
preparation for the strange gentleman, and she wants to take baby down
to Logill; Mrs. Mackay has promised her some eggs. It will do the boy
good, will it not, Mrs. Duncan?" turning to the old lady; "and as I
have been working all the morning, and it is such a lovely afternoon,
I think I will go down to the falls."
"That is an excellent idea," returned Fergus with alacrity before his
aunt could answer. He had to put down the carver to rub his hands, he
was so pleased with the way things were turning out--Mrs. St. Clair
safely at the falls, where they knew exactly where to find her; Jean,
with the boy and her basket of eggs comfortably occupied all the
afternoon; and Aunt Jeanie obliged to stay with Uncle Donald. Why, he
would have the coast clear and no mistake. Sir Hugh would have no
difficulty in making his explanations with the Manse parlor empty of
its womankind.
He had received a second telegram, and knew that the expected visitor
might be looked for in an hour's time; but it was long before that
that he saw Jean with the boy in one arm, and the basket on the other,
strike out bravely down the Innery Road, from which a cross lane led
in the direction of the village where the accommodating Mrs. Mackay
lived.
A few minutes later Mrs. St. Clair passed the parlor window. It was a
lovely May day, and she wore a dainty spring dress--a creamy silky
fabric--and a little brown velvet hat, which particularly suited her.
As she saw Fergus, she looked up and smiled, and then called Nero to
order as he scampered amongst the flower beds.
"Ay, my lady, I have my grip of you now," he observed, with a gleam in
his eyes, as he turned away.
About twenty minutes later he heard the click of the gate, and saw a
tall, fair-bearded man, in a tweed traveling suit, walking up the
steep little path, and casting anxious glances at the windows. Mrs.
Duncan saw him too.
"Ay, but he is a goodly man," she said, half aloud. "I like a man to
walk as though all the world belongs to him;" and for the first time a
doubt crossed her mind, whether Fay's childishness may not have been
to blame; for Hugh Redmond's handsome face and frank, careless manner
always found favor in women's eyes.
Fergus felt himself impressed by Sir Hugh's lordly bearing; he felt an
awkward, raw-boned Scotchman beside this grand-looking aristocratic
man. As he went out into the porch, Sir Hugh put out his hand, and
said, in a quick, agitated voice, "Mr. Duncan, you have made me your
debtor for life, but we will talk of that presently. Will you take me
to my wife, please?"
"Certainly, but Mrs. St. Clair--Lady Redmond, I mean--has gone down to
the Rowans--the falls over yonder; shall we walk there at once, or
will you come in and rest a little?" moved by the pale harassed look
of the face before him. "You have had a long journey, Sir Hugh, and
perhaps you would like to get rid of the dust."
"No, I can not rest until I have seen my wife; you will understand my
feelings, I am sure, Mr. Duncan;" and Fergus took down his hat from
the peg, and said gravely that he could well understand them. "It is
only a step," he continued, "and I will just walk with you to the gate.
The Rowans is Lady Redmond's favorite haunt; she thinks there is no
place to compare with the falls. You will find no difficulty if you
follow the little path"--but with that rare intuition that belongs to
a sympathetic character, Fergus said no more. He could see that Sir
Hugh was much agitated at the thought of the impending meeting; and
directly they reached the wicket-gate leading to the falls, he pointed
to the path, and retraced his steps to the Manse.
Hugh gave a sigh of relief as he found himself alone. His hand shook a
little as he unlatched the gate. As he passed the covered rustic seat
he noticed a few sprays of withered heather that had been lying there
since last year. Perhaps Fay had gathered them.
He hesitated a moment--should he wait for her here or seek her
further? A trifle decided him. Among the raspberry bushes that tangled
the underwood was a little bunch of wild flowers caught on a bramble.
The floral message seemed to lure him onward, and he followed the
narrow, winding path. By and by he came to a little green nook of a
place as full of moss and sunshine as a nest; there was a great pool
near it, where some silver trout were leaping and flashing in the
light. The whole spot seemed to come before him strangely. Had he seen
it in a dream?
He crept along cautiously. He fancied he had caught a white gleam
between the trees that was neither sunshine nor water. He groped his
way through the underwood, putting the branches back that they might
not crackle, and then all at once he stood still; for he saw a little
runlet of a stream making dimples of eddies round a fallen tree, and a
great silver birch sweeping over it; and there, in her soft spring
dress, with the ripples of golden-brown hair shining under her hat,
was his lost Wee Wifie. She had floated a rowan-branch on the stream
and was watching it idly, and Nero, sitting up on his haunches beside
his little mistress, was watching it too.
Hugh's heart beat faster as he looked at her. He had not admired her
much in the old days, and yet how beautiful she was. Either his taste
had changed or these sad months had altered her; but a fairer and a
sweeter face he owned to himself that he had never seen, and all his
man's heart went out to her in in a deep and pitiful love. Just then
there was a crackling in the bushes and Nero growled, and Fay, looking
up startled, saw her husband standing opposite to her.
In life there are often strange meetings and partings; moments that
seem to hold the condensed joy or pain of years. One grows a little
stony--a little colorless. There are flushes perhaps, a weight and
oppression of unshed tears, and a falter of questions never answered;
but it is not until afterward that full consciousness comes, that one
knows that the concentrated essence of bitterness or pleasure has been
experienced, the memory of which will last to our dying days. It was
so with Fay when she looked up from her mossy log and saw Hugh with
his fair-bearded face standing under the dark larches. She did not
faint or cry out, but she clasped her little hands, and said
piteously, "Oh, Hugh, do not be angry with me. I tried so hard to be
lost," and then stood and shivered in the long grass.
"You tried so hard to be lost," he said, in a choked voice. "Child,
child, do you know what you have done; you have nearly broken my heart
as well as your own. I have been very angry, Fay, but I have forgotten
it now; but you must come back to me, darling, for I can not live
without my Wee Wifie any more;" and as she hid her face in her
trembling hands, not daring to look at him, he suddenly lifted the
little creature in his arms; and as Fay felt herself drawn to his
breast, she knew that she was no longer an unloved wife.
* * * * *
She was calmer now. At his words and touch she had broken into an
agony of weeping that had terrified him; but he had soothed her with
fond words and kisses, and presently she was sitting beside him with
her shy, sweet face radiant with happiness, and her hands clasped
firmly in his. He had been telling her about his accident, and his sad
solitary winter, and of the heart-sickness that he had suffered.
"Oh, my darling, will you ever forgive me?" she whispered. "It was for
your sake I went. How could I know that you would miss me so--that you
really wanted me? it nearly killed me to leave you; and I do not think
I should have lived long if you had not found me."
"My child," he said, very gravely and gently, "we have both done
wrong, and must forgive each other; but my sin is the heavier. I was
older and I knew the world, and I ought to have remembered that my
child-wife did not know it too. If you had not been so young you would
never have left me, but now my Wee Wifie will never desert me again."
"No, never. Oh," pressing nearer to him with a shudder, "to think how
you have suffered. I could not have borne it if I had known."
"Yes," he said, lightly, for her great, beautiful eyes were wide with
trouble at the recollection, and he wanted to see her smile, "it has
changed me into a middle-aged man. Look how my hair has worn off my
forehead, and there are actually gray hairs in my beard. People will
say we look like father and daughter when they see us together."
"Oh," she returned, shyly, for it was not quite easy to look at
him--Hugh was so different somehow--"I shall not mind what people say.
Now I have my own husband back, it will not matter a bit to me how
gray and old you are." Then, as Hugh laughed and kissed her, she said
in a very low voice, "Do you really mean that you can be content with
me, Hugh; that I shall not disappoint you any more?"
"Content," he answered, fondly, "that is a poor word. Have I ever
really deserved you, sweetheart; but I mean to make up for that. You
are very generous, Fay; you do not speak of Margaret--ah, I thought
so," as her head drooped against his shoulder--"she is in your mind,
but you will not venture to speak of her."
"I am so afraid you must regret her, Hugh."
And Hugh, with a shade of sadness on his fine face, answered, slowly:
"If I regret her, it is as I regret my lost youth. She belongs to my
old life; now I only reverence and cherish her memory. Darling, we
must understand each other very clearly on this point, for all our
unhappiness springs from that. We must have no secrets, no
reservations in our future life; you must never fear to speak to me of
Margaret. She was very dear to me once, and in some sense she is dear
to me still, but not now, thank God, so precious in my eyes as the
wife He has given me." Then, as she put her arms round his neck and
thanked him with innocent, wifely kisses, he suddenly pressed her to
him passionately, and asked her to forgive him, for he could never
forgive himself.
Then, as the evening shadows crept into the green nest, Fay proposed
timidly that they should go back to the Manse, for she wanted to show
Hugh their boy; and Hugh consented at once. And hand in hand they went
through the tangled underwood and past the shimmering falls; and as
Hugh looked down on his little wife and saw the new sweet womanliness
that had grown on her with her motherhood, and the meek purity of her
fair young face, he felt a proud happiness thrilling within him, and
knew that it was God-given, and that its blessing would last him
throughout his whole life.