“Mrs. St. Clair,” observed Fergus one day, looking up from his writing, “don’t you think people will be talking if you stay away from your husband any longer?” for he had once before said a word to her on the subject, only Fay had been hysterical and had begged him not to go on.
“Oh,” she said, turning very pale, and dropping her work, “why will you speak to me of my husband, Mr. Fergus?”
“Because I think you ought to go back to him,” he replied, in a quiet, business-like tone; “it is a wife’s duty to forgive—and how do you know that your husband has not bitterly repented driving you away from him. Would you harden your heart against a repentant man?”
“My husband does not want me,” she returned, and a spasm crossed her face. “Should I have left him if he wanted to keep me? ‘One of us must go,’ that is what he said.”
“Are you sure you understood him?” asked Fergus, but he felt at the moment as though it would relieve his feelings to knock that fellow down; “a man can say a thing when he is angry which he would be sorry to mean in his cooler moments.”
“I saw it written,” was the low answer; then, with an effort to silence him, “Mr. Fergus, you do not know my husband—you can not judge between us. I was right to leave him; I could not do otherwise.”
“Was his name St. Clair?” he asked, somewhat abruptly; and as Fay reddened under his scrutinizing glance, he continued, rather sternly, “please do not say ‘Yes’ if it be untrue; you do not look as though you could deceive any one.”
“My husband’s name is St. Clair,” replied Fay, with as much displeasure as she could assume. “I am not obliged to tell you or any one else that it is only his second name. I have reasons why I wish to keep the other to myself.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair,” answered Fergus, moved to admiration by this frankness and show of spirit; “believe me, it is through no feeling of idle curiosity I put this question, but because I want to help you.”
“Yes, I know you are very good,” replied Fay, more gently.