“Shall we soon be home, Hugh?”

“Very soon, Wee Wifie.”

“Then please put down that great crackling paper behind which you have been asleep the last two hours, and talk to me a little. I want to know the names of the villages through which we are passing, the big houses, and the people who live in them, that I may not enter my dear new home a perfect stranger to its surroundings;” and Lady Redmond shook out her furs, and settled herself anew with fresh dignity.

Sir Hugh yawned for the twentieth time behind his paper, rubbed his eyes, stretched himself, and then let down the window and looked absently down the long country road winding through stubble land; and then at the eddying heaps of dry crisp leaves now blown by a strong November wind under the horses’ feet, and now whirling in crazy circles like witches on Walpurgis’s night, until after a shivering remonstrance from his little wife he put up the window with a jerk, and threw himself back with a discontented air on the cushions.

“There is nothing to be seen for a mile or two, Fay, and it is growing dusk now; it will soon be too dark to distinguish a single object;” and so saying, he relapsed into silence, and took up the obnoxious paper again, though the words were scarcely legible in the twilight; while the young bride tried to restrain her weariness, and sat patiently in her corner. Poor Hugh, he was already secretly repenting of the hasty step he had taken; two months of Alpine scenery, of quaint old German cities, of rambling through galleries of art treasures with his child-bride, and Hugh had already wearied of his new bonds. All at once he had awakened from his brief delusion with an agony of remembrance, with a terrible heart longing and homesickness, with a sense of satiety and vacuum. Fay’s gentleness and beauty palled on him; her artless questioning fatigued him. In his secret soul he cried out that she was a mere child and no mate for him, and that he wanted Margaret.

If he had only told his young wife, if he had confided to her pure soul the secret that burdened his, child as she was, she would have understood and pitied and forgiven him; the very suffering would have given her added womanliness and gained his respect, and through that bitter knowledge, honestly told and generously received, a new and better Fay would have risen to win her husband’s love.

But he did not tell her—such a thought never entered his mind. So day by day her youth and innocent gayety only alienated him more, until he grew to look upon her as a mere child, who must be petted and humored, but who could never be his friend.

Yes, he was bringing home his bride to Redmond Hall, and that bride was not Margaret. In place of Margaret’s grand face, framed in its dead-brown hair and deep, pathetic eyes, was a childish face, with a small rosebud mouth that was just now quivering and plaintive.

“Dear Hugh, I am so very tired, and you will not talk to me,” in a sad babyish voice.

“Will talking rest you, Birdie,” asked Hugh, dropping his paper and taking the listless little hand kindly.

Fay drooped her head, for she was ashamed of the bright drops that stole through her lashes from very weariness. Hugh would think her babyish and fretful. She must not forget she was Lady Redmond; so she answered without looking up,

“We have been traveling since day-break this morning, you know, Hugh, and it is all so fresh and strange to me, and I want to hear your voice to make it seem real somehow; perhaps I feel stupid because I am tired, but I had an odd fancy just now that it was all a dream, and that I should wake up in my little room at the cottage and find myself again Fay Mordaunt.”

“Is not the new name prettier, dear?” observed her husband, gently.

Fay colored and hesitated, and finally hid her face in shy fashion on Hugh’s shoulder, while she glanced at the little gold ring that shone so brightly in the dusk.

“Fay Redmond,” she whispered. “Oh yes, it is far prettier,” and a tender smile came to her face, an expression of wonderful beauty. “Did ever name sound half so sweet as that?”

“What is my Wee Wifie thinking about?” asked Hugh at last, rousing himself with difficulty from another musing fit.

Fay raised her head with a little dignity.

“I wish you would not call me that, Hugh.”

“Not call you what?” in genuine astonishment. “Why, are you not my Wee Wifie? I think it is the best possible name I could find for you; is it not pretty enough for your ladyship?”

“Yes, but it is so childish and will make people smile, and Aunt Griselda would be shocked, and—” but here she broke off, flushed and looking much distressed.

“Nay, give me all your reasons,” said Hugh, kindly. “I can not know all that is in my little wife’s heart yet.”

But Hugh, as he said this, sighed involuntarily, as he thought how little he cared to trace the workings of that innocent young mind.

The gentleness of his tone gave Fay courage.

“I don’t know, of course—at least I forget—but I am really sure that—that—‘The Polite Match-Maker’ would not consider it right.”

“What?” exclaimed Hugh, opening his eyes wide and regarding Fay with amazement.

“‘The Polite Match-Maker,’ dear,” faltered Fay, “the book that Aunt Griselda gave me to study when I was engaged, because she said that it contained all the necessary and fundamental rules for well-bred young couples. To be sure she smiled, and said it was a little old-fashioned; but I was so anxious to learn the rules perfectly that I read it over three or four times.”

“And ‘The Polite Match-Maker’ would not approve of Wee Wifie, you think?” and Sir Hugh tried to repress a smile.

“Oh, I am sure of it,” she returned, seriously; “the forms of address were so different.”

“Give me an example, then, or I can hardly profit by the rule.”

Fay had no need to consider, but she hesitated for all that. She was never sure how Hugh would take things when he had that look on his face. She did not want him to laugh at her.

“Of course it is old-fashioned, as Aunt Griselda says; but I know the ‘Match-Maker’ considered ‘Honored Wife,’ or ‘Dearest Madame,’ the correct form of address.” And as Hugh burst out laughing, she continued, in a slightly injured tone—“Of course I know that people do not use those terms now, but all the same, I am sure Aunt Griselda would not think Wee Wifie sufficiently respectful,”—and here Fay looked ready to cry—“and though the book is old-fashioned she said many of the rules were excellent.”

“But, Fay,” remonstrated her husband, “does it not strike you that the rules must be obsolete, savoring of the days of Sir Charles Grandison and Clarissa Harlowe? Pshaw!” with a frown, “I forgot I was gauging a child’s intellect. Well,” turning to her, “what is your busy little mind hatching now?”

“Dear Hugh?” stammered Fay, timidly, “I know I am very ignorant, and I ought to know better, and I will look in the dictionary as soon as I—but I do not know the meaning of the word obsolete.”

“Pshaw!” again muttered Sir Hugh; then aloud, “The term, honored madame, signifies disused, out of date, ancient, antiquated, antique, neglected, and so on.”

“Ah, Hugh, now I know you are laughing at me; but,” rather anxiously, “the ‘Match-Maker’ can not be all wrong, can it? It is only what you call obsolete.”

“My dear child,” answered Hugh, gravely, “you can trust your husband’s judgment, I hope, before even this wonderful book—in this matter I am sure you can; and in my opinion the prettiest name I could have selected is this ‘Wee Wifie.’ It pleases me,” continued Hugh, his fine features working with secret pain. “It is no name of the past, it touches on no hoped-for future, and it reminds me of my little wife’s claim to forbearance and sympathy from her extreme youth and ignorance of the world. To others you may be Lady Redmond, but to me you must ever be my Wee Wifie.”

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.”

“Why are you so silent, Hugh; you have no secrets surely?”

“Hush, dear, we can not talk any more now; we have passed the church and the vicarage already—we are nearly home;” and as he spoke they came in sight of the lodge, where Catharine was waiting with her baby in her arms.

Fay smiled and nodded, and then they turned in at the gate, and the darkness seemed to swallow them up.

The avenue leading to Redmond Hall was the glory of the whole neighborhood.Wayfarers, toiling along the hot and dusty road that leads from Singleton to Sandycliffe, always paused to look through the great gate at the green paradise beyond.

It was like a glade in some forest, so deep was its shadowy gloom, so unbroken its repose; while the arrowy sun-shafts flickered patterns on the mossy footpaths, or drew a golden girdle round some time-worn trunk.

Here stood the grand old oaks, under whose branches many a Redmond played as a child in the days before the Restoration—long before the time when Marmaduke, fifth baronet of that name, joined the forces of Rupert, and fell fighting by the side of his dead sons.

Here too were the aged beeches; some with contorted boles, and marvelously twisted limbs, like Titans struggling in their death-throes, and others with the sap of youth still flowing through their woody veins, as they stood clothed in the beauty of their prime. Fay had often played in this wonderful avenue. She remembered, when she was a child, rambling with her nurse in the Redmond woods, with their copses of nut-trees and wild-rose thickets; and their tiny sylvan lawns, starred over with woodland flowers, such as Spenser would have peopled “with bearded Fauns and Satyrs, who with their hornÈd feet do wear the ground, and all the woody nymphs—the fair Hamadryades;” but though she peered eagerly out in the darkness, she could see nothing but the carriage lamps flashing on some bare trunk or gaunt skeleton branches.

“Dear Hugh,” she whispered, timidly, “how gloomy and strange it looks—just like an enchanted forest.”

“They have not thought fit to cut down the trees to give light to your ladyship,” observed her husband, laughing at her awe-struck tone. “Give me your hand, you foolish child; when we have passed the next turning you will see the old Hall. There will be light enough there;” and scarcely had the words passed his lips before the Hall burst upon them—a long low range of building, with its many windows brilliantly illuminated and ruddy with firelight, while through the open door the forms of the assembled servants moved hither and thither in a warm background of light.

“What a lovely old place,” cried Fay, breathless with excitement. “I had almost forgotten how beautiful it was, but I shall see it better by daylight to-morrow.”“Yes,” he returned, with a sigh, “I shall have plenty to show you, Fay, but now let me help you off with those furs, and lift you out.”

Fay shook herself free of the heavy wraps, and then sprung lightly to the ground; and with her head erect like a little queen, stepped over the threshold of her new home with her hand still in her husband’s.

The circle of men and women gathered in the great hall, with the housekeeper and gray-haired butler at their head, thrilled with a vague surprise and wonder at the sight of the childish figure beside their master.

“Good evening to you all,” said Hugh, trying to speak cheerfully, though there was a huskiness in his pleasant voice that was foreign to it. “You see I have brought home your new mistress at last, Ellerton. Mrs. Heron,” shaking hands with her, “you must give Lady Redmond a hearty welcome.”

“Yes, indeed, Sir Hugh,” and the stately housekeeper folded her plump hands and looked complacently at the pretty face before her. “A thousand welcomes both to you and her ladyship, Sir Hugh, and a long life and a happy one to you both.”

But the housekeeper, as she ended her little speech with an elaborate courtesy, was marveling in her kindly heart what on earth had possessed her master to bring this lovely child to be the mistress of Redmond Hall.

“Thank you, very much,” returned Fay, timidly, and her sweet face flushed as she spoke. “I trust we shall soon become good friends. I know how you all love my dear husband, and I hope in time that you will be able to love me too for his sake.”

“There can be no doubt of that, I should think, Mrs. Heron,” returned Sir Hugh, moved in spite of himself; and at his tone the shy fingers closed more tightly round his. Those who were standing by never forgot Fay’s look, when the girl-wife raised her beautiful eyes to her husband’s face.

“And now,” continued Sir Hugh, “you are very tired, Fay, but our good Mrs. Heron will show you your rooms, that you may rest and refresh yourself after your long journey. This is your maid, I believe,” turning to a fresh, bright-looking girl behind him; then, as Fay obediently left him, “What time will dinner be served, Ellerton?”“At a quarter to eight, Sir Hugh.”

“Very well; I hope there are lights and a fire in the study.”

“Yes, Sir Hugh, and in the damask drawing-room as well.” But his master did not seem to hear him, as he walked slowly across the hall on his way to his dressing-room.