Wee Wifie Part 50

And yet she loved Hugh Redmond. I talked to Raby afterward, and he comforted me a little. He said that though Hugh loved her with the whole strength of his nature, that he could never really have satisfied a woman like Margaret--that in time she must have found out that he was no true mate for her. 'A woman should never be superior to her husband,' he said. 'Margaret's grand intellect and powers of influence would have been wasted if she had become Hugh Redmond's wife. Oh, yes, he would have been good to her--probably he would have worshiped her; but one side of her nature would have been a mystery to him. You must not grieve for her, my child, for she has ceased to grieve for herself; the Divine Providence has withheld from her a woman's natural joys of wifehood and maternity, but a n.o.ble work is to be given to her; our Margaret, please G.o.d, will be a mother in Israel.' And, indeed, I feel Raby is right, and that Margaret is one of G.o.d's dear saints."

It was on a golden September day that Crystal became Raby Ferrers's wife; the company that had grouped themselves in the long drawing-room of the boarding-house owned that they had never seen a grander bride.

The creamy Indian silk fell in graceful folds on the tall supple figure; the beautiful head, with its coils of dark glossy hair, was bent in girlish timidity. Margaret had clasped round her white throat the pearl necklace and diamond cross that had belonged to her mother, and which she was to have worn at her own bridal. "I shall not need it; it is for Raby's wife," she said, as Crystal protested with tears in her eyes; "it must be your only ornament. Oh, if Raby could only see how lovely you look."

But the calm tranquil content on the sightless face silenced even this wish. Crystal ceased to tremble when the deep vibrating voice, vowing to love and cherish her to her life's end, sounded in her ears; but Raby felt the coldness of the hand he held.

When they had received the congratulations of their friends, and Margaret had tenderly embraced her new sister, and they were left alone for a little, Raby drew his young bride closer to him.

"You are not afraid now, my darling?"

"No," she answered, unsteadily; "but it is all so like a dream. A fortnight ago--only a fortnight--I was the most desolate creature in G.o.d's earth; and now--"

"And now," echoing her words with a kiss, "you are my wife. Ah, do you remember your childish speech--it used to ring in my ears; 'I am going to belong to Raby all my life long; I will never leave him, never.'

Well, it has come true, love; you are mine now."

"Yes," she whispered, leaning her forehead against him, "you will never be able to got rid of me; and oh"--her voice trembling--"the rest of knowing that it will never be my duty to leave you."

He laughed at that, but something glistened in his eyes too. "No, my wild bird; no more flights for you--I have you safely now; you are bound to me by this"--touching the little circlet of gold upon the slender finger. "Now, my darling--my wife of an hour, I want you to make me a promise; I ask it of your love, Crystal. If a shadow--even the very faintest shadow, cross your spirit; if one accusing thought seems to stand between your soul and mine; one doubt or fear that, like the cloud no bigger than a man's hand, might rise and spread into the blackness of tempest, will you come and tell it to me?"

"Oh, Raby, do not ask me."

"But I do ask it, love, and I ask it in my twofold character of priest and husband, and it is the first request your husband makes you. Come, do not hesitate. You have given me yourself; now, with sweet generosity, promise me this, that you will share with me every doubt and fear that disturbs you?"

"Will you not let me try to conquer the feeling alone first, and then come to you?"

"No, I would not undertake the responsibility; I know you too well, darling. Come, I thought you promised something that sounded like obedience just now."

"Ah, you are laughing at me. But this is no light matter, Raby; it means that I am to burden you with all my foolish doubts and fancies--that I am never to keep my wrong feelings to myself."

"Promise!" was his only answer, in a very persuasive voice.

"Yes, I will promise," hiding her face on his shoulder; "but it will be your own fault if I am ever a trouble to you. Oh, Raby, may I always tell you everything; will you help me to be good, and to fight against myself?"

"We will help each other," he answered, stroking her soft hair; "there shall never be a shadow on the one that the other will not share--half the shadow and half the sunshine; and always the Divine goodness over us. That shall be our married life, Crystal."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

SIR HUGH'S REPENTANCE.

And by comparison I see The majesty of matron grace, And learn how pure, how fair can be My own wife's face:

Pure with all faithful pa.s.sion, fair With tender smiles that come and go, And comforting as April air After the snow.

JEAN INGELOW.

Sir Hugh began to wish that he had never gone to Egypt, or that he had gone with any one but Fitzclarence--he was growing weary of his vagaries and unpunctuality. They had deviated already four times from the proposed route, and the consequence was, he had missed all his letters; and the absence of home news was making him seriously uneasy.

He was the only married man; the rest of the party consisted of gay, young bachelors--good enough fellows in their way, but utterly careless. They laughed at Sir Hugh's anxious scruples, and secretly voted that a married man was rather a bore in this kind of thing. What was the use of bothering about letters, they said, so long as the remittances came to hand safely.

Sir Hugh thought of Fay's loving little letters lying neglected at the different postal towns, and sighed; either he was not so indifferent to her as he supposed himself to be, or absence was making his heart tender; but he had never been so full of care and thought for his Wee Wifie as he was then. He wished he had bidden her good-bye. He remembered the last time he had seen her, when he had gone into his study with the telegram in his hand; and then he recalled the strange wistful look she had given him. He could not tell why the fancy should haunt him, but he wished so much that he had seen her again and taken a kinder leave of her. It had not been his fault, he told himself a hundred times over; but still one never knew what might happen. He wished now that he had taken her in his arms and had said G.o.d bless her; she was such a child, and he was leaving her for a long time.

Sir Hugh was becoming a wiser man, and was beginning to acknowledge his faults, and, what was better still, to try and make amends for them.

It was too late to undo the effects of Fitzclarence's reckless mode of traveling, but he would do all he could; so in his leisure moments, when the other men were smoking and chatting in their tent, he sat down in a quiet corner and wrote several letters, full of descriptions of their journey, to amuse Fay in her solitude; and one Sunday, when the others had started on an expedition to see some ruin, he wrote the explanation that he had deferred so long. Hugh was an honest, well-meaning man, in spite of his moral weakness; if that letter had only reached the young wife's eyes it would have healed her sore heart and kept her beside him.

For he told her everything; and he told it in such a frank, manly way, that no woman could have lost confidence in him, though she read what Fay was to have read in the first few lines--that he had not married her for love. Hugh owned his unhappy pa.s.sion for Margaret, and pleaded his great trouble as the excuse for his restlessness. He had gone away, he said, that he might fight a battle with himself, and return home a better man; it would all be different when he came back, for he meant to be a good husband to her, and to live for her and the boy, and to make her happy, and by and by he would be happy too. And he ended his letter as he never ended one yet, by a.s.suring her that he was her loving husband. But, alas, when that tardy explanation reached the cottage at Daintree, Aunt Griselda only wrung her thin white hands and cried, for no one knew what had become of Fay, and Erle was rushing about and sending telegrams in all directions, and Fay, with the shadow always on her sweet face, was sitting in the orchard of the Manse, under the shade of the mossy old apple-trees, and baby Hugh lay on her lap, gurgling to the birds and the white clouds that sailed over their heads. When Sir Hugh had written that letter, he felt as though a very heavy weight were off his mind, and he began to enjoy himself. Not for long, however, for presently they reached Cairo, and there he found a budget awaiting him. Every one seemed to have written to him but Fay; and when he saw that, he began to tear open the letters rather wildly, for he feared she must be ill. But by and by he came to her letter.

He read Erle Huntingdon's first--an indignant letter, evidently written under strong excitement--"Why had he not come home when they had sent for him? He must know that their search had been useless; they had no news of either Fay or the child. Miss Mordaunt was very ill with worry, and her old servant was much alarmed about her. They had written to him over and over again, and directed their letters to every possible place he could not have missed. If he had any affection for his wife and child, and cared to know what had become of them, he had better leave Fitzclarence and the other fellows and return at once," and so on.

Hugh dropped the letter--he was pale to the lips with apprehension--and turned to the others.

They were from Miss Mordaunt, and Mrs. Heron, and Ellerton, and the lawyer, but they only reiterated the same thing--that all efforts had been in vain, and that they could hear nothing of either Lady Redmond or the boy; and then they urged him to come home at once. Lastly, directed by Mrs. Heron, as though by an afterthought, was the letter Fay had left for him upon the study-table; but, in reality, it had been forwarded before the alarm had been given, for the seal was still unbroken. Mrs. Heron, on learning from the messenger that Sir Hugh had started for Egypt, had redirected it, and it had only just been posted when the distracted nurse made her appearance at the Hall and told her story. When Hugh read that poor little letter, his first feeling was intense anger--all his Redmond blood was at fever-heat. She had sinned beyond all mercy; she had compromised his name and his reputation, and he would never forgive her.

He had confided his honor to a child, and she had played with it, and cast it aside; she had dared to leave him and her home, and with his child, too, and to bring the voice of scandal about them; she--Lady Redmond, his wife--wandering like a vagabond at the world's mercy! His feelings were intolerable. He must get back to England; he must find her and hush it up, or his life would be worth nothing to him. Ah, it was well for Fay that she was safely hidden in the old Manse, for, if he had found her while this mood was on him, his anger would have killed her.

When his pa.s.sion had cooled a little, he went to Fitzclarence and told him abruptly that he must return home at once--affairs of the utmost importance recalled him.

Fitzclarence thought he looked very strange, but something in his manner forbade all questioning. Two hours afterward he was on his way to England.

There is an old proverb, often lightly quoted, and yet full of a wise and solemn meaning, "_L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose_." Poor, angry Hugh, traveling night and day, and cursing the tardy railways and steamers, was soon to test the truth of the saying.

He had reached Ma.r.s.eilles, and was hurrying to the post-office to telegraph some order to Mrs. Heron, when he suddenly missed his footing, and found himself at the bottom of a steep, dark cellar, with his leg doubled up under him; and when two pa.s.sers-by who saw the accident tried to move him, they discovered that his leg was broken; and then he heard that he fainted.

And so fate, or rather Providence, took the reins from the weak, pa.s.sionate hands that were so unfit to hold them, and threw him back, helpless and baffled, on his bed of pain; there to learn, week by week, through weary sickness and still more weary convalescence, the lesson that only suffering could teach him--that it were well to forgive others their sins, even as he hoped his might be forgiven.

And yet he learned another thing, as his anger slowly burned itself out and only profound wretchedness and intolerable suspense remained as to his wife's fate--something that startled him with a sense of sweetness, and yet stung him with infinite pain; when the haunting presence of his lost wife seemed ever with him, and would not let him rest; when his remorse was terrible; and when he would have given up all he had in the world just to hear her say in her low, fond voice, that she forgave him all.

For he knew now that he had wronged her, and that his neglect and coldness had driven her from her home.

The uncertainty of her fate sometimes nearly drove him wild. How could she have laid her plans so accurately that no traces of her or the child could be found? Could evil have befallen them? G.o.d help him if a hair of those innocent heads had been touched. In his weakness he could not always control the horrible imaginations that beset him.

Often he would wake from some ghastly dream and lie till dawn, unable to shake off his deadly terror. Then all of a sudden he would remember that hasty postscript, "Do not be anxious about me. I am going to some kind people who will be good to me and the boy;" and he would fall asleep again while vainly trying to recall if he had ever heard Fay speak of any friends of her childhood. But though Erle and Miss Mordaunt tried to help him, no name occurred to any of them.

It was an added burden that Erle could not come to him; but there was trouble at Belgrave House, and the shadows were closing round it. Erle could not leave his uncle, but he wrote very kindly to poor conscience-stricken Hugh, and said all he could to comfort him.

It was in those hours of dreary helplessness that Hugh learned to miss his Wee Wifie. In those long summer afternoons, while his foreign nurse nodded drowsily before him, and the hot air crept sluggishly in at the open window, how he longed for the small cool hand that used to be laid so softly on his temples, or put the drink to his parched lips before they could frame their want. He remembered the hours she had sat beside him, fanning the flies from his pillow or bathing his aching head. She had never left him--never seemed tired or impatient, though her face had grown so pale with watching. Others would have spared her; others told him that she was spent and weary, but he had never noticed it. "And, brute that I was," he thought, "I left her alone in her trouble with only strangers and hirelings about her, to fight her way through the very Valley of the Shadow of Death." He took out her letter and smoothed it out--it was a trick of his when he thought no one would see him. He had read it over until he knew every word by heart. Ah! if Heaven would but spare him this once and give him back the strength he had misused, that he might find her, poor child, and bring her home, and comfort her as only he could comfort her. He would love her now, he thought; yes, if she would only bear with him and give him time, he knew from the deep pity and tenderness which he felt that he would love her yet, for the merciful Providence that had laid the erring man low was teaching him lessons that no other discipline could have inculcated.

The cold December wind was whirling through the bare branches of the oaks and beeches in the Redmond avenue when Sir Hugh came home, a changed and saddened man.

Yes, changed outwardly as well as inwardly. Good Mrs. Heron cried when she saw him enter the hall on Saville's arm, looking so thin and worn, and leaning on his stick.

His youth seemed to have pa.s.sed away; his smooth forehead was already furrowed like that of a middle-aged man, and his fair hair had worn off it slightly, making him look ten years older; and yet there was that in Hugh Redmond's face, if Margaret could have seen it, that would have filled her pure heart with exceeding thankfulness.

For though the pallor caused by suffering was still there, and those who saw him said Sir Hugh was a broken man, yet there was a n.o.bler expression than it had ever worn in happier days. The old fretful lines round the mouth were gone; and, though the eyes looked sadly round at the old familiar faces, as though missing the truest and best, still, there was a chastened gravity about his whole mien that spoke of a new and earnest purpose; of a heart so humbled at last that it had fled to its best refuge, and had found strength in the time of need.

Many years afterward he owned, to one who was ever his closest friend, that a whole life-time of suffering had been compressed into those few short years that had followed his father's death. The whole plan and purpose of his youth had been marred; his heart wasted by a pa.s.sion that was denied satisfaction; and lastly, just as he was beginning to turn to his neglected wife with a sympathy and interest that promised well for her future happiness, suddenly he found his name outraged and his home forsaken, and the load and terror of an unbearable remorse laid heavily upon him.