“I am on my way; shall be at the Manse to-morrow afternoon. No doubt of identity; unmarried name Mordaunt.
“H. Redmond.”
“Aunt Jeanie must be taken into counsel now,” was Fergus’s first thought as he read the telegram; his second was, “better sleep on it first; women are dreadful hands at keeping a secret. She would be fondling her with tears in her dear old eyes all the evening, and Mrs. St. Clair is none so innocent, in spite of Jean and Lilian calling her a woman-angel. Ay, but she is a bonnie lassie, though, and brave-hearted as well,” and the young minister’s eyes grew misty as he shut himself up in the study to keep himself safe from the temptation of telling Aunt Jeanie.
He had a sore wrestle for it, though; but he prided himself on his wisdom, when, after breakfast the next morning, he led the old lady into the study, and, after bidding her prepare for a shock, informed her that Mrs. St. Clair’s husband, Sir Hugh Redmond, would be down that very afternoon.
He might well call Aunt Jeanie soft, to see her white curls shake tremulously, and the tears running down her faded cheeks.
“Eh, my lad—eh, Fergus,” she sobbed, “Mrs. St. Clair’s husband—the father of her bairn. Oh, whatever will Jean say? she will be for running away and hiding them both—she can not bide the thought of that man.”
“Aunt Jeanie,” broke in Fergus in his most masterful voice, “I hope you will not be so foolish as to tell Jean; remember I have trusted this to you because I know you are wise and sensible, and will help me. We have made ourselves responsible for this poor child, and shall have to account to Sir Hugh if we let her give us the slip. I have said all along that no doubt there were faults on both sides, only you women will take each other’s parts. Now, I am off to the farm to see Lilian. Just tell Jean that I am expecting a friend, and she had better choose a fine plump pair of chicks for supper; she will be for guessing it is Lothian or Dan Ambleby, or one of the old lot, and she will be so busy with her scones and pasties that one will hardly venture to cross the kitchen.” And then, begging her to be careful that Mrs. St. Clair might not guess anything from her manner, Fergus strode off to the farm to share his triumph and perplexities with Lilian.
It was well for Aunt Jeanie that Fay was extremely busy that day, finishing a frock for her baby; so she sat in her own room all the morning at the window overlooking the orchard, and baby Hugh, as usual, crawled at her feet.
He was a beautiful boy now, with the fresh, fair complexion of the Redmonds, with rough golden curls running over his head, and large, solemn gray eyes. Fay had taught him to say “dada,” and would cover him with passionate kisses when the baby lips fashioned the words. “Yes, my little boy shall go home to his father some day, when he can run about and speak quite plain,” she would tell him; and at the thought of that day, when she should give him up to Hugh, she would bury her face in the fat creasy neck, and wet it with tears. “How would she ever live without her little child?” she thought; but she knew, for all that, that she would give him up.
When Fergus returned to luncheon, he found Aunt Jeanie had worked herself almost into a fever—her pretty old face was flushed and tremulous, her eyes were dim when Fay came into the room carrying her boy.