Raby felt as though he were listening to a child’s innocent prattle as Fay chattered on in her light-hearted way. In spite of his deep knowledge of human nature he found himself unaccountably perplexed. Margaret had spoken to him, as they sat together over their luncheon, of the flower-like loveliness of the little bride, and yet he found himself unable to understand Hugh Redmond’s choice; his thoughtful, prematurely saddened nature could not conceive how any man of Hugh’s age could choose such a child for his life-companion. With all her sweet looks and ways he must grow weary of her in time.

Perhaps her freshness and innocence had bewitched him; there was something quaint and original about her naÏve remarks. The disappointed man might have found her brightness refreshing—her very contrast to Margaret might have been her attraction in his eyes. Well, Raby supposed that it was all right; no doubt she was an idolized little woman. Hugh seemed to keep her in a glass case; nothing was allowed to trouble her. She will be thoroughly spoiled by this sort of injudicious fondness, thought Raby, perfectly unconscious how far he was from grasping the truth.

It was Margaret who began to feel doubtful; her womanly intuition perceived that there was something wanting; she thought Lady Redmond spoke as though she were often alone.

“I suppose you are never dull?” she asked, gently.

“Oh, no,” returned Fay, with another gay little laugh. “Of course we have plenty of callers; just now the snow has kept them away, but then I have had our cousin Erle. Oh, he is such a pleasant companion, he is so good-natured and full of fun. I shall miss him dreadfully when he goes back to London next week.”

“You will have to be content with your husband’s society,” observed Raby, smiling. It was a pity that neither he nor Margaret saw the lovely look on Fay’s face that answered this; it would have spoken to them of the underlying depths of tenderness that there was in that young heart.

“Oh, yes,” she returned, simply, “but then, you see, Hugh, I mean my husband, is so extremely busy, he never comes in until luncheon has been waiting ever so long, and very often he has to go out again afterward. Sometimes, when I know he has gone to Pierrepoint, I ride over there to meet him. He used to ride and drive with me very often when we first came home,” she continued, sorrowfully, “but now he has no time. Oh, he does far too much, every one tells him so; he is so tired in the evening that he is hardly fit for anything, and yet he will sit up so late.”

Raby’s sightless eyes seemed to turn involuntarily to the window where Margaret sat, her pale face bending still lower over her work. This last speech of Lady Redmond’s perplexed him still more. The Hugh who had courted Margaret had been a good-natured idler in his eyes; he had heard him talk about his shooting and fishing with something like enthusiasm; he had been eager to tell the number of heads of grouse he had bagged, or to describe the exact weight of the salmon he had taken last year in Scotland, but Raby had never looked upon him as an active man of business. If this were true, Hugh’s wife must spend many lonely hours, but there was no discontented chord in her bright voice.

“I feel dreadfully as though I want to help him,” continued Fay. “I can not bear to see him so tired. I asked him to let me go and visit some of the poor people who belong to us—he is building new cottages for them, because he says that they are living in tumble-down places only fit for pigs—but he will not hear of it; he says I am too young, and that he can not allow me to go into such dirty places, and yet he goes himself, though he says it makes him feel quite ill.”

Margaret’s head drooped still lower, her eyes were full of tears; he had not forgotten then! he had promised to build those cottages when she had begged him to do so. She remembered they had chosen the site together one lovely September evening, and he had told her, laughing, that it should be his marriage-gift to her. They had planned it together, and now he was carrying it out alone; for Fay owned the moment afterward that she did not know where the new cottages were; she must ask Hugh to take her one day to see them, but perhaps he would rather that she waited until they were finished.

Margaret was beginning to feel strangely troubled; a dim but unerring instinct told her that Fay was more petted than beloved. It was evident that Hugh lived his own life separate from her, submerged in his own interests and pursuits, and her heart grew very pitiful over Fay as she realized this. If she could only meet Hugh face to face; if she could only speak to him. She felt instinctively that things were not altogether right with him. Why did he not try to guide and train the childish nature that was so dependent on him? why did he repress all her longings to be useful to him, and to take her share of the duties of life? Surely her extreme youth was no excuse, she was not too young to be his wife. Margaret told herself sadly that here he was in error, that he was not acting up to his responsibilities, to leave this child so much alone.

Fay’s frankness and simplicity were touching Margaret’s heart; even this one interview proved to her that under the girlish crudities there was something very sweet and true in her nature; the petty vanities and empty frivolous aims of some women were not to be traced in Fay’s conversation. Her little ripple of talk was as fresh and wholesome as a clear brook that shows nothing but shining-pebbles under the bright current; the brook might be shallow, but it reflected the sunshine.

Margaret’s thoughts had been straying rather sorrowfully, when a speech of Fay’s suddenly roused her.

“I do wish we could be friends,” she observed, rather piteously. “I am sure my husband must like you both, for he spoke so nicely about you; it is such a pity when people get to misunderstand each other.”

“My dear Lady Redmond,” returned Raby, kindly, “it is a pity, as you say; and we have no ill feeling to your husband; but, I dare say he is wise if he does not think it possible for us to have much intercourse. Sir Hugh and I do not agree about things,” went on Raby after a slight hesitation; “perhaps he will tell you the reason some day; but you may be sure that on this point your husband knows best,”—for he felt himself in a difficulty.

“Of course Hugh is always right,” returned Fay with much dignity. “When I said it was a pity, it was only because I like you both so much, and that I know I shall want to see you again.”

“You are very good,” replied Raby, but there was embarrassment in his tone; it was evident that Hugh’s wife knew nothing about his previous engagement to Margaret. It was a grievous error, he told himself, for one day it must come to her ears; why, the whole neighborhood was cognizant of the fact. She would hear it some day from strangers, and then the knowledge that her husband had not been true to her—that he had kept this secret from her—would fill her young heart with bitterness; and as these thoughts passed through his mind, Margaret clasped her hands involuntarily: “The first mistake,” she murmured; “the first mistake.”

Just then the sound of carriage wheels was distinctly audible on the gravel sweep before the house, and the next moment Erle entered the room.

“I am sorry to have been so long,” he said, apologetically, and Fay thought he seemed a little flurried, “but Hugh asked me to go round and put off those people; they all seemed dreadfully sorry to hear of your accident, Fay.”

“And Hugh?” with a touch of anxiety in her voice.

“Oh, Hugh seemed rather put out about the whole business. I think he wanted to pitch into me for not taking better care of you. How is the foot, Fay—less painful?”

“Oh, yes, and I have been so comfortable; Mr. and Miss Ferrers have been so good to me. I suppose I ought to go now,”—looking regretfully at Margaret, who had laid aside her work.

“Well, I don’t think we ought to lose any more time,” observed Erle; “the days are so awfully short, you know, and really these roads are very bad.”

“And your husband will be waiting,” put in Raby.

“Poor Hugh, of course he will,” returned Fay quickly. “Erle, I am afraid you will have to carry me to the carriage, unless you ask George to do so;” but Erle stoutly refused to deliver up his charge, so Fay bade good-bye to her new friends.

“Thank you so much, Miss Ferrers,” she said, putting up her face to be kissed. “I shall tell Hugh how good you have been to me. I am so sorry it is good-bye, Mr. Ferrers.”

“Then we will not say it at all,” he returned, heartily, as his big hand seemed to swallow up Fay’s little soft fingers. “I will wish you God-speed instead, Lady Redmond. I dare say your cousin, Mr. Huntingdon, will be good enough to let us know how you are if he ever passes the Grange.”

“To be sure I will,” was Erle’s reply to this, and then he deposited Fay in her corner of the carriage and took his place beside her. Both of them leaned forward for a parting look at the brother and sister as they stood together in the porch.

“What a grand-looking pair they are,” observed Erle, as they turned into the road; “don’t you think Miss Ferrers is a very handsome woman, Fay? I admire her immensely.”

“Oh, yes, she is perfectly lovely,” replied Fay, enthusiastically; “she looks so sweet and good; it quite rests one to look at her. But there is something sad about them both. Mr. Ferrers does not look quite happy; once or twice he sighed quite heavily when we were talking. I suppose his being blind troubles him.”

“He is a very uncommon sort of man,” returned Erle, who had been much struck by the brother and sister. “He made himself very pleasant to me while you were having your foot doctored. By the bye, my Fairy Queen,”—his pet name for her—“Miss Dora gave me a message for you: she says she shall come up and see you to-morrow, as you will be a prisoner.”

“That will be nice; but oh, Erle, what a pity we shall have no more delightful walks together. I hope Hugh was not really vexed about our going to the Grange.”

“He was just a trifle testy,” remarked Erle, quietly suppressing the fact that his cousin had surprised him much by a fit of regular bad temper. “He thinks I am not to be trusted with your ladyship any more;” and he changed the subject by a lively eulogium on the young ladies at the vicarage, one of whom he declared to be almost as handsome as Miss Selby; and he kept up such a flow of conversation on this topic that Fay had no opportunity to put another question.

Sir Hugh was waiting for them at the Hall door, but Fay thought he looked very grave and pale as he came to the carriage to lift her out.

“This is a very foolish business,” he said, as he carried her up to her room, his strong arms hardly conscious of her weight; “how did it happen, Fay?” and she knew at once by his tone that he was much displeased.

“Erle ought to have taken better care of you; I told him so,” he continued, as he placed her on the couch. “I can not let you go running about the country with him like this; of course the lanes were slippery, he ought to have known that.”

“You are vexed with me, Hugh,” she said, very gently. “You think that I ought not to have gone to the Grange, but indeed I could not help myself.”

“There were other houses,” he stammered, not caring to meet her clear look. “I thought that you would have respected my wishes, but I see I am mistaken.”

“Oh, Hugh,” returned the poor child, quite heart-broken at this stern rebuke; “indeed, indeed, I never meant to disobey you, but my foot was so painful, and I felt so faint, and Erle was so peremptory with me.”

“Well, well, you need not cry about it,” observed her husband impatiently; “you are such a child, Fay, one can never say a word to you; I have a right to be displeased, if my wife goes against my wishes.”

“I am very sorry,” she answered, meekly, trying to keep back those troublesome tears; “please do not be so angry, Hugh, you know I care for nothing but to please you, and—and I don’t feel quite well, and your voice is so loud.”

“Very well, then, I will take myself off,” in rather a huffy tone, but he relented at the sight of her pale little face, and some of his bad humor evaporated. “The fact is, you are such a child that you don’t know how to take care of yourself,” he continued, sitting down by her, and letting her rest comfortably against him. “You will do yourself a mischief some day, Fay. I shall get Doctor Martin to come up and see your foot, and then, perhaps, he will give you a lecture.”

“Oh, no,” she returned, charmed at this change of tone, for his anger had frightened her; “there is no need for that, dear, it is only a sprained ankle, and Miss Ferrers has bandaged it so beautifully, a day or two’s rest will put it all right.”

“But all the same, I should like to have Doctor Martin’s opinion,” he answered, quickly. “I am afraid you must have found it very awkward, Fay, being cast on the compassion of strangers.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” was the eager answer; “they were so good and kind to me, Hugh; they welcomed me just as though I were an old friend. I was a little faint at first, my foot hurt me so; but when I opened my eyes, I found myself in such a lovely old room, on such an easy couch, and Miss Ferrers gave me some wine, and actually bathed my foot and bound it up herself.”

“What sort of a room was it, Wee Wifie?”

Fay thought there was something odd in her husband’s voice, but she had her head on his shoulder, and could not see his face, the winter dusk was creeping over the room, and only the fire-light illumined it. Hugh felt himself safe to put that question, but he could not quite control his voice.

“Oh, it was Miss Ferrers’s morning-room, she told me so, and it had a bay window with a cushioned seat overlooking the garden. Oh, how lovely Miss Ferrers is, Hugh. I have never seen any one like her, never. I am sure she is as sweet and good as an angel, only I wish she did not look so sad: there were tears in her eyes once when we were talking; let me see, what were we talking about? oh, about those cottages you are building, she did look so interested—did you speak, dear?”

“No—go on,” he said, huskily; but if only Fay could have seen his face.

“I feel I should love her so if I could only see more of her. I could not help kissing her when I came away, but she did not seem at all surprised. Mr. Ferrers wished me God-speed in such a nice way, too. Oh, they are dear people; I do wish you would let me know them, Hugh.”

“My dear child, it is impossible,” but Hugh spoke fast and nervously; “have I not already explained to you that there can be no intimacy between Redmond Hall and the Grange. When old friends quarrel as we have, it is a fatal blow to all friendship.”

“You were old friends, then?” in some surprise, for he had never said as much to her before.

“Yes,” he returned, reluctantly, for he had not meant to admit this fact.

“But quarrels can be made up, Hugh; if it be only a misunderstanding, surely it could be put right.” But he silenced her somewhat haughtily.

“This is my affair, Fay—it is not like you to go against my wishes in this way; what can a child like you know about it? I should have thought a wife would have been willing to be guided by her husband, but you seem to think you know best.”

“Oh, no, Hugh”—very much ashamed at this—“I am quite sure you are always right; only”—hesitating a little as though she feared to offend him—“I should like you to tell me what the quarrel was about.”

For a moment Sir Hugh remained absolutely dumb with surprise; it was as though a dove had flown in his face; he had never known Fay persistent before. If only she had asserted herself from the beginning of their married life, she would have gained more influence over her husband; if she had entrenched herself in her wifely dignity, and refused to be treated like a child, kept in the dark about everything, and petted, or civilly snubbed according to her husband’s moods, she would have won his confidence by this time.

Sir Hugh was quite conscious that he had been guilty of a grievous error in not telling Fay about Margaret before she became his wife; he wished he had done so from the bottom of his heart; but procrastination made the duty a far more difficult one; he felt it would be so awkward to tell her now, he could not tell how she might take it: it might make her unhappy, poor little thing; it would be a pity to dim her brightness.

He was sheltering his moral weakness under these plausible excuses, but somehow they failed to satisfy his conscience. He knew he had done a mean thing to marry Fay when his heart was solely and entirely Margaret’s; what sort of blessing could attach to such a union?

But when Fay begged him to tell her the cause of his estrangement from the Ferrers, he positively shrunk from, the painful ordeal—he was not fit for it, he told himself, his nerves were disorganized, and Fay looked far from well; some day he would tell her, but not now; and the old sharpness was in his voice as he answered her.

“I can not tell you; you should not tease me so, Fay. I think you might have a little faith in your husband.”

“Very well, dear, I will not ask,” she replied, gently; but the tears sprung to her eyes in the darkness. She would not think him hard if she could help it; of course she was young—ah, terribly young—and Hugh was so much older and wiser. The “Polite Match-Maker” had told her that husbands and wives were to have no secrets from each other; but she supposed that when the wife was so much younger it made a difference—perhaps when she got older, and knew more about things, Hugh would tell her more. She longed to grow older—it would be years before she would be twenty; why? she was only seventeen last month.

Hugh thought his Wee Wifie was tired, and tried to coax her to go to sleep; he brought her another cushion, and attended to the fire, and then went away to leave her to her nap. Fay would rather have had him stay and talk to her, but she was too unselfish to say so; she lay in her pretty room watching the fire-light play on the walls, and thinking first of her husband and then of Margaret. She longed with a vague wistfulness that she were more like that lovely Miss Ferrers, and then, perhaps, Hugh would care to talk to her. Were the creeping shadows bringing her strange thoughts? Fay could not have told any one why there were tears on her cheeks; was the consciousness beginning to dawn upon her that she was not close enough to her husband’s heart?—that she was his pet, but not his friend—that other wives whom she knew were not kept outside in the cold?

“I am not too young to understand, if Hugh would only think so,” she said to herself plaintively. “How could I be, when I love him so?”

When Sir Hugh returned to the room an hour later, he was sorry to see Fay look so flushed and weary. “We shall have you ill after all this,” he said, reproachfully; “why have you not been a good child and gone to sleep as I told you?”

“Because I was troubling too much. Oh, Hugh!” clasping him round the neck, and her little hands felt hot and dry, “are you sure that you are not angry with me, and that you really love me?”

“Of course I am not angry with you,” in a jesting tone. “What an absurd idea, Wee Wifie.”

“I like you to call me that,” she answered, thoughtfully, drawing down one of his hands and laying her cheek on it; and Hugh thought as Margaret had, what a baby face it was. “I mean to grow older, Hugh, and wiser too if I can; but you must be patient with me, dear. I know I can not be all you want just at present—I am only Wee Wifie now.”

“Well, I do not wish to change her,” replied Sir Hugh, with a touch of real tenderness in his voice, and then very gently he unloosed the clinging arms. Somehow Fay’s voice and look haunted him as he went down-stairs. “She is a dear little thing,” he said to himself, as he sat in his library sorting his papers; “I wish I were a better husband to her,” and then he wondered what Margaret had thought of his Wee Wifie.