But when Fay came to the Hall she assumed the duty as her right, and took a great pride and pleasure in her task; and Hugh’s first marital praise was bestowed on the clever little fingers that tidied without disarranging his cherished papers, and after that the work became her daily pleasure. But this morning there was an unusual amount of disorder and confusion. Sir Hugh had sat up late the previous night sorting and destroying his letters; and not only the baskets but the floor was heaped with a profusion of torn paper. Fay felt weak and tired, and she went about her work slowly; but she would not ring for a servant to help her; it would be a long time before she tidied Hugh’s papers again, she thought. And then her attention was attracted by an unfinished letter lying at the bottom of the débris which she first believed had been thrown away by mistake—but on a closer inspection she found it was torn across. But it was in her husband’s handwriting. Fay never knew why the temptation came to her to read that letter. A sentence had caught her eye, and an intense wish suddenly seized her to read the whole and know what it meant. Afterward she owned that her fault had been a great one; but she was to pay dearly for her girlish curiosity.
It was a mere fragment, and was apparently the concluding portion of a long explanatory letter.
“—And now I have told you all frankly, and however much you may condemn me, at least you will be sorry for me.
“For, indeed, I have done all that a man can do, or at least the best that is in me, and have only been beaten and humiliated at every turn. I can do no more. My illness has exhausted me, and taken away all strength of resistance; and though it may seem cowardly to you, I am forced to run away, for my present life is unendurable. Just put yourself in my place, and think what I must suffer.
“So you must not blame me, dear, if I have come to the conclusion that the same place can not hold us both—at least, not for a time. One or other of us must leave; and of course it must be I. The misery of it is too great for my endurance, until I can learn to forget the past; and, as I have told you before, Margaret”—the word lightly scratched through and “I” substituted, only Fay never noticed this—“I think it right to go; and time and absence will help us both. She is so good and gentle; if she knew all, she would own that this is my duty; but—” here the letter was torn across, and Fay read no more. But as she stood there her fingers stiffened over the paper, and an icy chill seemed to rob her of all feeling. She thought that letter was written to Margaret, and now her despair had reached its climax.
Poor, unhappy Wee Wifie; it was a most fatal mistake. That letter had been written by Hugh one night when he could not sleep, and it was addressed to his wife. He had come to the conclusion that he had lived the life of a hypocrite long enough, and that it would be wiser and more honest if he unburdened himself of his unhappy secret and told Fay why he thought it better to go way. He had tried to speak to her once, but she did not seem to understand, and he had grown irritable and impatient; it would be easier to make excuses for himself on paper. He could tell her truly that he was very fond of her, and that he wanted to make her happy. “I mean to make you a good husband,” he had said in a previous portion; “one of these days, if you are patient with me, you shall be the happiest little woman in the world.”
Hugh never finished this letter; something happened to distract his attention, and he never found an opportunity of completing it. The night before he had read it over, and the beginning had not pleased him. “I will write another when I am away,” he said to himself; “I am afraid she will feel herself hurt if she reads this, poor little thing. I have not been sufficiently considerate.” Unfortunately, Fay had come to a different conclusion. She thought the letter had been written to Margaret, and that the “she” who was mentioned was Hugh’s wife. Yes, it was his wife of whom Hugh spoke, when he said the same place could not hold them both, and for “place” the unhappy girl substituted “house.” Hugh could not remain in the same house with her. “She was good and gentle; if she knew all”—ah! and she did know all—“she would own that it was his duty; his present life was unendurable,” and therefore—therefore he was going to Egypt with that dreadful man who would lead him into danger. “One or other of us must leave, and of course it must be I.”
“No, no, my bonny Hugh,” she said at last, with a dim smile, as she lifted up her eyes to his portrait; “if one must be sacrificed it shall not be you—no, my dearest, it shall not be you.” And then, in her childish ignorance, she made up her mind that Hugh should not go to Egypt.
“You are very unhappy, darling,” she went on, pressing the letter in her hands; “you are terribly unhappy because you can not love me and care for your boy; but you shall not be troubled with us any longer; and, indeed, I could not stop—” and here a flush of shame came to her sweet face—“knowing what I know now. No, baby and I will go, and you shall not leave your beautiful home and get lost in those horrible deserts; you shall stay here and learn to forget all your troubles, and presently you will be happy; and it is I who will go, my dearest.”
And it was for this that she had come back to him through “the Valley of the Shadow of Death,” bringing her baby with her.