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.