“You foolish birdie,” he said, laughing, but he kissed her more fondly than he had done yet. “There, you will take care of yourself, my own Wee Wifie, will you not, and write long letters to me, and tell me how you are getting on.”
“Yes, Hugh,” she replied, quietly; and then he put her down from his arms. She had taken the flower from his button-hole, and stood fondling it long after he had driven off.
“Had you not better lie down, my lady?” Mrs. Heron said to her a little while afterward, when she found her still standing in the middle of the room; and she took hold of her gently, for she did not like the look in my lady’s eyes at all; and then she laid her down on the couch, and never left her until she had fallen asleep, like a child, for very trouble.
And then she went down and spoke put her mind to Janet; and the substance of her speech might be gathered from the concluding sentence.
“And I am sorry to say it, Janet, of any one to whom I am beholden for the bread I eat, and whom I have known since he was a baby; but, in spite of his bonny looks and pleasant ways, Sir Hugh is terribly selfish; and I call it a sin and a shame for any man to leave a sweet young creature like that at such a time. What can he expect if she goes on fretting herself to death in this way?”
Fay could not tell why she felt so strangely weak the next, day when she woke up, and Mrs. Heron could not tell, either. She did not fret; she did not even seem unhappy; she was too tired for anything of that sort, she said to herself; but day after day she lay alone in her little room with closed eyes and listless hands; while Nero lay at her feet wondering why his little mistress was so lazy, and why she wasted these lovely summer mornings in-doors instead of running races with him and Pierre.
No, she was not ill, she assured them, when Mr. Heron and the faithful Janet came to look after her, and to coax her with all kinds of dainties; she was only so tired, and would they not talk to her, for she felt as though she could never sleep enough; and would some one tell Sir Hugh so when they wrote to him, for he would get no long letters from her now—she had tried to write, but her hand was too weak to hold the pen. But for all that she would not own she was ill; it was only the heat that made her so lazy, she said again and again. No, they must only tell Sir Hugh that she was very tired.
But when a few more days had passed, Mrs. Heron thought she had been tired long enough, and sent for Dr. Martin.
He looked very grave when he saw her, and Fay smiled to herself, for she said, “The time is very near now, and then he thinks that I shall die.”
But Margaret’s reproachful speech came back to her—“Would you wish to die without winning your husband’s love?” and to the alarm of the good housekeeper she suddenly became hysterical and begged her to send for Sir Hugh.