Fay clasped his neck with a little sob.
“Yes, you shall call me that. I know I am only a silly ignorant little thing, and you are so grand and wise; but you love your foolish little wife, do you not, Hugh?”
“Yes, of course;” but as Hugh hushed the rosy lips with that silencing kiss, his conscience felt an uneasy twinge. Did he really love her? Was such fondness worth the acceptance of any woman, when, with all his efforts, he could scarcely conceal his weariness of her society, and already the thought of the life-long tie that bound them together was becoming intolerable to him? But he shut his ears to the accusing voice that was ever whispering to him that his fatal error would bring its punishment. Well, he was responsible, humanly speaking, for the happiness of this young life; as far as he knew how, he would do his duty.
“Well, sweetheart,” he observed, glancing enviously at Fay’s bright face, now quite forgetful of fatigue—how could she be tired while Hugh talked to to her!—“what other amusing rules does this marvelous book contain?”
“I do think it is a marvelous book, though it is somewhat obsolete;” and here Fay stammered over the formidable word. “I know it said in one place that married people ought to have no secrets from each other, and that was why I told you about Frank Lumsden;” and here Fay blushed very prettily.
“Frank Lumsden,” observed Hugh, in some perplexity; “I don’t think I remember, Fay.”
“Not remember what I told you that Sunday evening in the lane—the evening after we were engaged! How Mr. Lumsden wanted to tell me how he admired me, but I cried and would not let him; and he went away so unhappy, poor fellow. As though I could ever have cared for him,” continued, Fay, with innocent scorn, as she looked up into Hugh’s handsome face. He was regarding her attentively just then.
Yes, she was pretty, he knew that—lovely, no doubt, to her boy lovers. But to him, with the memory of Margaret’s grand ideal beauty ever before him, Fay’s pink and pearly bloom, though it was as purely tinted as the inner calyx of a rose, faded into mere color prettiness. And as yet the spell of those wonderful eyes, of which Frank Lumsden dreamed, had exercised no potent fascination over her husband’s heart.
“Hugh,” whispered Fay, softly, “you have not kept any secrets from me, have you? I know I am very young to share all your thoughts, but you will tell your little wife everything, will you not?”
No secrets from her! Heaven help her, poor child. Would she know—would she ever know? And with a great throb of pain his heart answered, “No.”