“But they were not out of the wood yet,” as Mrs. Heron observed to Ellerton.

When, he had reached a certain point Sir Hugh failed to make any further progress.

The London physician, Dr. Conway, frankly owned that Sir Hugh’s case completely baffled his medical skill and experience.

Just when they had least expected it the fever had abated, and he had begun to amend, and now he as steadily refused to get well.

Day after day he lay in an extremity of weakness that was pitiable to witness; and ever, as time went on, seemed sinking slowly from sheer inanition and exhaustion. After all there must be some strange mischief at work, he said; but Dr. Martin was of a different opinion.

He had seen enough of his patient by this time to be sure that there was sickness of heart as well as of brain, and that it needed some other healing power than theirs before the man could throw off the load of oppression that was retarding his recovery and, gathering up his wasted energies, take up his life again.But now he seemed very far from recovery.

Day after day he lay with that far-off look on his face that it made Fay weep to see, for she thought that he must surely die.

Hugh thought so too.

Hour by hour he felt himself drifting nearer to the dark valley which, to his tired eyes and heart, seemed only like some still haven of repose. Only to sleep, he said, to sleep—to rest—and with his white lips he murmured, “and may God have mercy on my soul.” And ever he longed and prayed that he might see Margaret again.

And one night he dreamed of her.

He dreamed that he was dying—as he surely believed he was—and that Margaret came to his bedside and looked at him. He could see her distinctly; the pale, beautiful face, the folds of her dress, the wave of her dead-brown hair. And when he awoke and saw only the spring sunshine filling the room, and quivering light under his eyelids, and knew that the fresh day was dawning brightly to all but him, he could not suppress the groan that rose to his lips, “Margaret, Margaret.”

Fay was sitting by him, but the curtain concealed her; she had been curled up for hours in the big arm-chair that stood at the head of the bed. It was her habit to rise early and go to her husband’s room and send the nurse to rest; indeed, Dr. Martin had to use all his authority to induce her to take needful exercise, for Fay begrudged every moment spent out of the sick-room.

She was looking out at the avenue and listening to the soft soughing of the spring breezes in the tree-tops, and thinking of the summer days that were to bring her a marvelous gift; but at the sound of Hugh’s agonized voice her day-dream vanished. “Margaret, Margaret,” he had said, and then almost with a sob, “my one and only love, Margaret.”

No! she was not asleep, the words were ringing in her ears. Hugh, her Hugh, had spoken them, “My one and only love, Margaret.”

He must take back those words, that was her first thought. Oh, no, he could not mean them; it would not be possible to go on living if she thought he meant them; but he was ill, and she must not agitate him, she must speak to him very quietly for fear the fever had returned, and his poor head was confused again.

“You have been dreaming,” she said, gently—oh, so gently. “What is it you want, my dearest.”

And Hugh, folding his wasted hands together as though he were praying, looked up to her with unutterable longing in his eyes, and panted out “Margaret.”

“Margaret,” she repeated, slowly; “what Margaret do you mean, Hugh?”

“Margaret Ferrers,” he whispered. “Oh, Fay, dear Fay, if I have wronged you, forgive me. In the old times before I knew you, Margaret and I were engaged—she had promised to be my wife, and then she took back her promise. Child, I meant to tell you, I always meant to tell you, but I did not like to grieve you by what was over and gone; but I am dying—God knows I can not live in this weakness—let me see Margaret once, and bid her goodbye before I go.”

Ah, there was no doubt now! slowly, but surely, the color faded out of the sweet face.

If he had raised that helpless arm of his, and felled her to the ground, she could not have felt so stunned and bruised and giddy as she stood there, winding and unwinding the fringe of the quilt between her cold fingers, with that strange filmy look in her eyes.

She understood it now. The arrow so feebly winged had sped to the depths of that innocent heart, and what she would not have believed if an angel had told it her, she had heard from her husband’s lips.

Margaret was beloved and not she, and Fay must bear it and live.

And the fair child-face grew whiter and whiter, but she only took the nerveless hands in hers and kissed them.

“Do not fret, Hugh, it shall be as you wish,” she said, in a voice so low that he only just heard her, for a sobbing breath seemed to impede her utterance; “it shall be as you wish, my dear husband,” and then, not trusting herself to look at him, she left the room.

In the corridor she met Saville.

“Please find the nurse and send her to Sir Hugh,” she said, hurriedly, “and tell Ford I want him to take a note over to Sandycliffe,” and then she went into the library and wrote a few words.

And then she remembered that she had not ordered the pony-carriage, and that Ford would be saddling one of the horses; so she rang for Ellerton, and made him understand very carefully, that Ford was to drive over to the Grange and take the note, and that he must wait and bring Miss Ferrers back with him. “For you must know, Ellerton,” she said, with pathetic dignity, but not looking at the old servant, “that Sir Hugh feels himself worse, and wants to say good-bye to his old friend;” “for of course,” thought Fay, when Ellerton had left the library with tears in his eyes, “if Hugh and she were engaged, all the servants must know, and it was better for me to speak out like that.”

When Margaret read that poor little note the tears fell fast and blotted the page. “Thank God she knows at last,” she said to herself as she folded it up, and then hurriedly prepared to obey the summons.

She hoped that she would not see Lady Redmond before that parting with Hugh were over, for she needed all her strength for that; and to her great relief only Ellerton received her. She was ushered for a few minutes into the empty drawing-room, and then Sir Hugh’s nurse came down to her, and said Dr. Martin had just left the house, and her master would see Miss Ferrers now.

And there was no one in the sick-room when she entered it, though the nurse had told her that she would be in the dressing-room within call. There was no one to see the flash of joy in the sick man’s eyes, when Margaret’s cold lips touched his forehead, or to hear his low “Margaret, darling,” that greeted her.

But when she had looked in his face she knew he would not die, and that her work was before her; and while poor weak Hugh panted out words of passionate longing and despair, she was girding up her strength for what she had to say, and praying for help that she might be able to comfort him.

And no one knew what passed between them but their guardian angels; only Hugh’s miserable selfish passion sunk down abashed as he listened to this brave sweet woman who was not ashamed to tell him how she loved him, and how she would love him to her life’s end. And as he saw into the depths of that pure heart, its stainless purity, its unrepining sorrow, he trembled and was silent.

“What am I that I should touch even the hem of her garment?” he said to himself afterward.

And she told him what he had never guessed, that were he free she would never marry him or any man, for in her trouble long ago she had vowed herself to Heaven; and with a few forcible words she showed him the plan and purpose of her future life—when Raby should have ceased to need her; drawing such calm pictures of a tender ministry and a saintly sisterhood, that Hugh, looking at her with dazzled eyes, thought he could almost discern a faint halo round her head.

“You were always too good for me, Margaret,” he muttered, but she only smiled at him, and still holding his hands as she knelt beside him, she whispered that her prayers were heard, and that she knew he would not die, that it was only his weakness, and he would soon struggle back to life again.

“But what good is life to me without you, Margaret?” he asked, in a despairing voice.

“What good? Have you forgotten your wife, Hugh?”

“No,” he murmured, restlessly, “but she is only a child;” but Margaret shook her head.

“You are wrong, she is not a child, nor ever will be again.” And then very gently she urged him when he was stronger to tell Fay the whole story of their engagement; for she was afraid those few words that he confessed were all he had said must have made her very unhappy; but Hugh would not allow this. He told Margaret that she did not understand Fay, or how young and innocent she really was; she had not seemed agitated or disturbed when he had asked to see Margaret—she had answered him quite tranquilly; he was sure she would not suffer from the knowledge of their engagement, for he was always kind to her and she loved him; and then he added bitterly that the suffering was his, but when he got well, if he ever did get well, he would go away, for he could not go on living like this.And when Margaret saw how it was she did not dissuade him; perhaps, after all, it would be better for him to go away for a little, and come back and begin his life anew, doing a man’s work in his generation.

“One day you will love your wife,” she said to him, “and indeed you can not fail to love her, and then you will only remember that you have a sister Margaret praying for you every day of her life. No, do not look at me like that, Hugh. Up in heaven it will be no sin to love you—I can keep my love till then.” And she then tried to leave him, for, strong as she was, she could not have borne this scene much longer, and Hugh was terribly exhausted.

“Will you kiss me once more, Margaret?” he had asked, faintly, and she had stooped over him again and kissed his forehead and eyes, and then gently bade God bless him.

Was this a woman he had loved or an angel, Hugh wondered, as she closed the door and left him alone in the sunlight; but he was too weak to carry out the thought. When the nurse came to his side he had fallen into a refreshing sleep.

As Margaret crossed the threshold of the dressing-room she caught sight of a listless little figure sitting in one of the deep window-seats of the corridor. There was something in her attitude that struck Margaret—an air of deep dejection, of utter forlornness, that went to her heart. The beautiful little head seemed drooping with weariness; but as she went closer and saw the wan face and the baby mouth quivering, with the under lip pressed like a child’s in pain, she gave an involuntary exclamation. She would not suffer, Hugh had said, she was so young and innocent; and now—the angels comfort your broken heart, sweet Fay.

“Hush!” she said, turning round as she heard Margaret’s voice; “we must not talk here, it would disturb him, and he must be kept very quiet—oh! very quiet, Doctor Conway says. Come in here, if you wish to speak to me,” and she led the way into her little room. “Will you sit down?” she went on, with the same passive gentleness; “you were good to come, but—but—it must have tired you.”

“Oh! Lady Redmond—” But here Margaret could say no more. She seemed to have no strength left for this; she felt as though her calmness and fortitude were deserting her.

“I told Doctor Conway that you were coming, and he thought it would do no harm, and Doctor Martin said the same. He knows you, he says, and he was sure that you would be very wise and quiet, that you would not excite him. No, do not tell me anything about it. I—I can trust you, and Hugh would not like me to know.”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” began Margaret, eagerly, but Fay checked her with a little dignity.

“Never mind that. Do you know, Miss Ferrers, that Doctor Conway says that my husband is better, that he will not die, it is only weakness and a nervous fancy; but though he is so slow in getting well, they notice a gradual improvement.”

“Thank God, for your sake, Lady Redmond.” But as she said this a painful flush mounted to Fay’s forehead.

“You should say for his sake,” she returned, quietly. “What does it matter about me? Perhaps before the summer is over we may be at rest together, baby and I.”

“Lady Redmond! Oh! I can not bear it;” and here Margaret burst into tears. Yes, she who had parted dry-eyed from her lover wept bitterly for the deceived and unhappy wife.

“Why do you cry, Miss Ferrers?” asked Fay, in the same subdued voice. “It seems to me that if God would take us both it would be so much better for us all. Nobody wants us”—and here her lips quivered—“and I should not like my baby to live without me. What could Hugh do with it, you know?”

“My child,” replied Margaret, checking her sobs, “is this your faith? is this your woman’s courage? Would you who love him so be content to die without winning your husband’s heart?”

Fay looked at her wonderingly.

“It is yours to win,” she continued. “Oh! do not look at me like that, as though I have murdered your happiness. What have you done, you poor child, that you should suffer like this for my sake. For the sake of my future peace of mind I entreat you to listen to me.”

And then, as Fay did not refuse, Margaret took the listless little hand and told her all. And she judged wisely in doing so, for it was out of her great pity for him that Fay learned to forgive her husband, and that the vague hope arose in her heart that she might comfort and win him back. And when Margaret had finished her sad story, Fay put her arms round her and kissed her.

“Oh, I am so sorry for you; how unhappy you must have been when you gave him up; but it was noble of you, and you did it for his sake. Forgive me if I wronged you, for when you were in that room talking to him, I felt angry and bitter with him and you too; but I see it is no one’s fault, only we are all so unhappy, please forgive me, for indeed you are better than I.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” replied Margaret, gently. “Yes, I tried to do my duty, and if your husband has failed in his, remember that he is not patient by nature, that men are not like us. One day he will be yours, and yours solely, and then you will be able to think of me without bitterness.” Then, taking the little creature in her arms, she added, “Good-bye, be brave and patient and generous for your husband’s sake, and it will all come right,” and with a low word of blessing she let her go.

And when Hugh woke that evening from his long trance-like sleep he found his Wee Wifie as usual beside him.

She had been sitting there all day, with her great tearless eyes fixed on vacancy; refusing to take rest or food, never moving except to drop her head still lower over her clasped hands.

“You are tired, Wee Wifie,” he said, as she stooped over him and asked how he felt. “You will wear yourself out, my child;” and he felt for the little hand that generally lay so near his own. Fay put it in his, and bent over him with an unsteady smile.

“I am not so very tired, and I like to take care of you,” she said, with a quiver in her sweet voice. “I promised in sickness as well as health, you know; let me do my duty, dear,” and Hugh was silent.

But that night, while Hugh slept, and Margaret knelt praying pitiful prayers for Fay, Fay, tossing in her lonely chamber, sobbed in the desolate darkness:

“Oh, if it would please God that, when the summer has come, baby and I might die together; for if Hugh can not love me, my sorrow is greater than I could bear.”