Fay had made up her mind to be lost.

Could any one imagine anything so utterly ignorant and childish, and yet so pathetic? She was going to lay down her wifely rights and steal away, friendless and unprotected, into the great lonely world, so that Hugh might come back to his old home in peace.

With the rash impulse of despair—of a despair that hoped nothing and feared nothing—she was taking the most terrible step that a young creature could take. She was doing evil that good might come; she was giving up herself in complete renunciation and self-sacrifice in obedience to a miserable and mistaken idea. If she had been older; if her simplicity of character had been less childish, and her worldly knowledge greater, she must surely have hesitated before taking a step that must anger as well as grieve her husband. How would Sir Hugh’s haughty spirit brook the disgrace of publicity and the nine-days’ wonder of the world when they knew that his wife, Lady Redmond—the successor of all the starched and spotless dames who hung in the old guest-chambers—should so forget herself and him as to tarnish his reputation by an act so improper and incredible.He might forgive his spoiled trip, and all the trouble that awaited him in his empty home; but how will he ever bring himself to forgive that?

But Fay, poor mistaken child, thought of none of these things. She only felt that she must go and take her baby with her. There was no time to be lost, and she must make all her plans very quickly.

Fay’s will was a strong one—there was no fear that she would falter in her purpose; but she never remembered afterward how she carried it out, or from whence came the strange feverish energy that supported her. She was working in a dream, in a nightmare, in a horrible impatience to be gone—to be gone—where? But even this question was answered before many hours were over, for she was to make her poor little plans with the utmost precision. In the quiet evening time, as she paced restlessly through the empty rooms, she thought of a place of refuge where she might rest safely for a little. The moment the carriage had turned the corner, and she could see it no longer, she had taken the letter from the drawer and laid it on the table.

Such an innocent, pitiful little letter it was.

She read through the letter dry-eyed, and kissed it, and laid it on the table. It would touch his hands, she thought. Later on she unsealed it, and added a short postscript. “Do not be anxious,” it said; “I am going to some kind people who will be good to me and the boy.”

She had placed the letter where Hugh would see it at once, and then she went upstairs. She wanted to have her baby in her arms, that its touch might lull the deadly faintness at her heart; and when she felt a little better she sent for Mrs. Heron and Janet.

Sir Hugh had gone off to London, she told them; they had telegraphed for him, and she was to follow him immediately. She would take her luggage with her, of course, for she did not intend to return to the Hall before going down into Devonshire; but they would see Sir Hugh again for a few hours—he would probably run up the following evening to give his final orders.

And would she be long away? asked Mrs. Heron. She thought my lady looked very ill, and required a thorough change.

“Yes,” returned Fay, quickly; but she turned away as she spoke. She should most certainly be away all the time Sir Hugh was in Egypt. Janet must set to work at once, for they would have to start early. And then she explained that the cottage at Daintree was very small, and that Sir Hugh had begged her to dispense with Janet’s services, and only take nurse.

Janet looked very disappointed when Fay said this, for she adored her gentle little mistress. “I don’t know what master is thinking about,” she grumbled, in confidence, to Mrs. Heron. “This new nurse has only been here six weeks, and does not know my lady’s ways. And who will wait upon her, I should like to know, if I am to be left behind? but it is all of a piece with his selfishness.” But she worked with a will for all that, and all the time her boxes were being packed, Fay wandered about with her baby on her arm collecting her little treasures, and dropping them in the boxes as she passed. Now it was a book Hugh had given her, or a picture, or the withered flower he had worn in his button-hole; an odd glove he had left on his dressing-table, and which she clutched with the greediness of a miser; and even a silk handkerchief he had worn round his neck—she put them all in. Such a strange little assortment of odds and ends. Janet thought she was daft.

And she would have none of her evening dresses packed up, or indeed any of her costly ones—she would not require them in the country, she said, quietly; but she would have all her jewels—not those Hugh had given her, or the old family jewels that had been reset for her, but those that had belonged to her mother, and were exceedingly valuable; there was a pearl necklace that was worth five hundred pounds. Hugh had drawn out a large sum of money that he had given in charge to her—he meant to have left it for domestic expenses while he was away. Fay wrote out a receipt, and put it with her letter. It would be no harm to keep it, she thought; Hugh could help himself to her money. There would be enough to keep her and the boy for more than a year, and after that she could sell her necklace. She was rich, but how was she to draw any more money without being traced to her hiding-place?

The last act before the daylight closed was to go to the stables and bid Bonnie Bess good-bye. The groom, who knew that he was to follow in a few days with Bonnie Bess and another horse—for Sir Hugh had been very mindful of his wife’s comfort—was rather surprised to see her kissing the mare’s glossy neck, as though she could not bear to part with her; when she had left the stables, Nero, who had followed her about all day with a dog’s instinctive dread of some impending change, looked up in her face wistfully.

“Do you want to come with me, Nero?” she asked, sadly; “poor fellow, you will fret yourself to death without me. Yes, you shall come with me; we will go to Rowan-Glen together.”

For all at once the thought had come to her of a beautiful spot in the Highlands where she and her father had stayed many years ago. If she remained in England, Hugh would find her, and she had a dread of going abroad. Besides, what could she do with baby, for of course she must leave nurse behind; she would have to engage a stranger who did not know she was Lady Redmond. And then she bethought herself that she would call herself by her husband’s second name, St. Clair—she would be Mrs. St. Clair.

Yes, she and her father had had a very happy time at Rowan-Glen. They had been to Edinburgh, and to the Western Highlands, and had then made their way to Aberdeen, as Colonel Mordaunt had some old Indian friends there; and, as they had still some weeks to spare, they had come down to the Deeside, and had fallen in love with Rowan-Glen.

But they could not obtain a lodging in one of the cottages, so the Manse opened its hospitable doors to them. The minister, Mr. Duncan, was old, and so was his wife, and they had no children; so, as there was room and to spare, and their income was somewhat scanty, the good old people were quite willing to take in Colonel Mordaunt and his little daughter. Fay had forgotten their existence until now; but she remembered how kind Mrs. Duncan had been to her; and she thought she would go to her, and tell her that she was married, and very unhappy, and then she would let her and baby stop there quietly in the old gray house.

Nobody ever came there, for they were quiet folk, and Mr. Duncan was an invalid; and there was a dear old room, looking out on the old-fashioned garden, where her father had slept, that would just do for her and baby.

Fay had a vague sort of feeling that her strength would not last very long, and that by and by she would want to be cared for as well as baby. Her poor brain was getting confused, and she could not sleep—there was so much to plan before the next day.

Ah, what a night that was. If it had not been for the soft breathing of her infant in the darkness, Fay must have screamed out in her horror, as thoughts of the desolate future came over her; and yet it was easier for her to go away than to stay on at the Hall an unloved wife—a millstone round her husband’s neck.

When Janet called her at the proper time, she found her up and dressed and beginning her baby’s toilet.

“Here, Janet,” she said, with an unsteady laugh, “I don’t think I am putting on baby’s things very nicely, but I wanted to try, so nurse let me; but he cries so that he confused my head.” And then she gave him up and went wandering through the rooms, saying a silent good-bye to everything; and last of all she went into her husband’s library.

Ellerton found her there when he summoned her to breakfast. She would come in a minute, she said, quietly; she was only arranging Sir Hugh’s papers as he liked to have them. Yes, she knew the carriage would be round directly; but Ellerton need not fear that she would be late. And then, when the old servant had closed the door, she went up to her husband’s chair, leaning over it and embracing it with her two arms, while she rested her cheek against the carved ebony back. “This is where he will sit this evening,” she said. “Good-bye, God bless you, dear;” and then she left the room.

But she would eat nothing, and only asked for her baby. But just before she got into the carriage she called Mrs. Heron to her, and bade her take care of the aged people at the Pierrepoint almshouses, and see they had their little packets of tea and grocery as usual; and then she shook hands with her and Ellerton.

“Good-bye to you all,” faltered the poor child, hurriedly. “You have been good friends to me, all of you. Good-bye—good-bye;” and then she drew her veil over her face, and leaned back in the carriage, while Nero licked her little ungloved hand.

Sir Hugh had sworn to love and cherish her until death, and yet he had brought her to this.

The journey was a very short one; but nurse afterward remembered that Lady Redmond did not appear surprised, when they arrived at Euston, to find that Sir Hugh was not waiting at the station. “What are we to do, my lady?” she asked, rather helplessly, for she was young and a country woman, and the din and bustle were overwhelming to her; but Fay was helping to identify her luggage, and did not answer. She told nurse to go into the waiting-room with baby, and she would come to her presently. And then she had her luggage put on to a cab.

“Nurse,” she said, quickly, when she came back a few minutes afterward, “will you give me baby a moment, and go to the refreshment-room—it is just a little way down the station. I should like some sandwiches and sponge-cakes, and perhaps you had better get something for yourself, there is plenty of time;” and the woman obeyed her at once. Her lady looked faint, she thought; most likely she was disappointed that Sir Hugh was not there.

As soon as she had left the waiting-room, Fay went up to the person in charge, and asked her to give a sealed note to her nurse when she came back. “You remember her—the young woman with reddish hair who held baby just now; tell her I have gone to look after the luggage, and ask her to read it.” And though the woman thought the request a little strange, she took the sealed packet without demur.

As Fay and Nero went outside the station, the porter who had loaded the cab was standing a little way off, Fay told the cabman hastily to drive off to King’s Cross, as she wanted to take the Scotch express; and as the porter came up to claim his gratuity he found the cab driving off, but Fay flung him a shilling. By a strange fatality the cabman who drove them met with an accident that very day, from the consequences of which he died in two or three weeks’ time; and this one thing checked all clew. When the inquiries were set afloat, the porter certainly remembered the little lady and baby and the big black dog, but he had not heard her instructions to the cabman.

Fay only took her ticket to York; she dared not go straight to her destination. When she arrived there she would not put up at the station hotel, but had herself driven to a quiet little hotel for the night. It was an unpretending place, kept by very honest folk; but Fay found herself very comfortable. She made some excuse about not bringing her nurse, and the chamber-maid helped her undress baby. She was almost too stupefied with grief and fatigue by this time to do anything but sleep helplessly; but she made the girl promise to call her early, and ordered a fly to the station; and when the morning came she got into it without telling any one where she was going, and took the midday train for Edinburgh. It would be impossible to describe the nurse’s feelings when she opened the packet in the waiting-room and read her mistress’s note. “Dear nurse,” it said, “I am really very sorry to treat you so badly, but I can not help it. I have gone away with baby, and I could not take you. Please go back to Singleton by the next train; you will find your box on the platform, and the porter will help you. Sir Hugh will tell you what to do when he arrives this evening.—Your affectionate mistress, F. Redmond.” And inclosed were two months’ wages. In spite of her youth, Fay had excellent business capabilities, only her husband had never found them out.

But unfortunately for the bewildered household at Redmond Hall, Sir Hugh never arrived that evening. First came a hazy telegram, informing them of a change of programme, and later on a special messenger came down from him bringing a letter from Sir Hugh—a very affectionate farewell letter.

Fitzclarence had acted on impulse as usual, and he and Sir Hugh had started that very night, leaving Powis and Egerton to follow them.