The man she hated

Three weeks passed before Bayard Lorraine knew of the flight of Fair from the villa.

For more than two weeks he had been critically ill, and it required all the strength of a superb constitution, combined with the best medical skill and nursing, to bring him through the terrible ordeal that had followed upon the shock of that night when Fair had made the bitter confession that she was Prince Gonzaga’s wife.

For a time in the delirium of fever he had entirely forgotten the past, but after two weeks he began to grow slowly better, and then memory returned with all its bitter pain.

Mrs. Howard was at his bedside daily, although she was far from looking well herself. The events of the last month had told severely on her health, and she grew more pale and delicate-looking daily, while her harassing cough had returned with almost the same severity that characterized it in foggy London.

When Bayard first revived to full consciousness and found her sitting by his side, he tried to question her about Fair, but she gravely tabooed the subject.

“Doctor Gavinzel left strict orders that you must not talk, nor be talked to, on exciting subjects,” she said, and for a week longer he was forced to endure the suspense and bitterness of not knowing the fate of the girl for whose sake he was lying here so ill, with only bitter memories as his reward for having saved her life.

He wondered often if she had become reconciled to her husband and gone away with him.

“He is rich and titled now. He has all that she married him to gain, so she would not have any excuse for persisting in her separation,” he thought, with inexpressible pain.

But in spite of his wearying thoughts, his health improved daily, and one day, when he had been lying quite still for a long time, he suddenly raised his blue eyes to Mrs. Howard, and said:

“How still and quiet it seems at the villa now. As I lie here dozing and dreaming day by day, I seldom hear a sound. Have they all gone away?”

Last night Doctor Gavinzel had told her that his patient was strong enough to hear all she had to tell him, and at this question she resolved to tell him everything.

But at first she answered him evasively:

“The Fraynes went away more than two weeks ago. We all thought it best, as the doctors desired to keep you very quiet.”

“And—Fair?”

His voice faltered over the familiar name. She averted her eyes, that she might not see his emotion, and answered gently:

“She is gone, too.”

He sighed faintly, and asked:

“How long?”

“Three weeks. Ever since the day after you were wounded.”

He could not ask another question. She had gone with her husband, of course. What did she care if she left him dying—him, whom she had confessed to love! Pshaw! It had been nothing but clever acting. She wished to marry a rich man, that was all, and as things had turned out she was best suited perhaps to have a title added to the wealth. Princess Gonzaga! It had a lofty sound. What a rise it was for the poor sewing girl!

Mrs. Howard read what was passing in his mind, and said:

“Prince Gonzaga is gone, too.”

“Of course!” he answered, with a sneer he could not repress, and again she read his bitter thought, and answered it:

“But they did not go together, Bayard. You will not understand it. Neither did I, but Fair absolutely refused to have anything to say to her husband. She never saw him again.”

And as briefly as she could, she told him the story of the day after the interrupted wedding, of the stand she had taken against Fair, and of her successful flight from the villa.

Bayard Lorraine looked at Mrs. Howard in angry wonder.

“She hated and feared the prince—she was not willing to live with him,” he said, “and she begged you to take her part and defend her against his claim? Yet you hardened your heart against her—you tried to drive her into his arms. Oh, Mrs. Howard, how could you do it? How could you be so cruel and so heartless?”

She started in surprise, and exclaimed:

“Do you mean that I did wrong in trying to make peace between Fair and the husband she had treated so badly?”

He flushed slightly, but did not hesitate to answer:

“Yes, I mean that. If she hated and feared him, it was not right to force her to live with him.”

“I did not force her. I only washed my hands of the whole matter,” she replied, with natural resentment.

“You refused her your protection, and thus virtually gave her over into a bad man’s power. Yes, he must have been a bad man, or, ambitious as she was, she would not have refused all that he was able to bestow upon her. Mrs. Howard, what if that poor girl has been misjudged and wronged?”

She started uneasily, but, after a moment’s reflection, answered:

“That could not be. You read the story in a newspaper, and I heard it from him, and both corresponded in detail. She owned it all, confessed to its truth that night, you remember. It is true, she said something to me afterward about explaining it so that I would take her part, but I would not listen. She could not possibly have said anything to condone her fault.”

“There is some mystery here,” he said thoughtfully. “I wish that you had listened to her story.”

“I wish so, too, if it would have been any comfort to you, Bayard; but I do not think it would have made any difference. It is your love that makes you so lenient to a bad girl,” she answered.

He flushed, and exclaimed:

“Please do not call her that. It may be true, but I cannot think of her that way. Her flight from her husband into a cold and heartless world has softened my heart toward her, and I would give the world to find her and to help her in her sore distress.”

“It would be better for you both if you did not interfere,” she said. “Remember that nothing but her love for you stands between a reconciliation with her husband,” and she flung down before him Fair’s pathetic note, which until now she had resolved not to show him.

He read it with burning eyes and deepening color, and the sorrowful words, “Ask him to pity me at least, for my love for him has been my fate,” went to his heart.

“You can see how it is,” she said. “She loved you, and she repented her folly when too late. Her awakened conscience would not permit her to go to him while her heart belonged to another. But let her alone, Bayard, and she will forget you and make it up with him. Perhaps, indeed, he has found her ere this.”

“Found her!” he repeated questioningly, and she answered:

“I forgot to mention that he had gone to seek her. He was enraged at her flight, and swore he would find her again, although she wrote him——” She stopped suddenly, as if she had said too much.

“She wrote him—what?” asked Bayard sharply, and, knowing that there could be no evasion now, she repeated the words Fair had written to Prince Gonzaga. In his wrath, he had shown her the note, and the words had burned themselves indelibly on her memory.

A bitter groan burst from his tortured heart, and he exclaimed:

“I do not know how to forgive you for your hardness to that persecuted child. Yes, I feel subtly that she was in some way wronged, and that her follies were not all of her own seeking.”

She shook her head incredulously, but he continued vehemently:

“That wretch may not have found her, and driven her to self-destruction. As soon as I can, I will begin a search for her, and if I can persuade some noble woman to stand her friend the law shall free her from her hated fetters.”

She stared at him, aghast.

“You mean you will try to get a divorce for her?” she cried out, in surprise.

“Yes,” he replied, without shrinking from her disapproving gaze.

“And then?” she queried meaningly.

He hesitated a moment, then some defiance of her disapproval made him say boldly:

“Then? If I get at the bottom of the mystery that infolds her, and if I can prove her all that I vaguely believe, I shall make her my wife.”

“You are mad!” she cried, but in the depths of her soul she respected him for his noble faith in the girl he loved, and for his desire to help her out of her trouble. A vague repentance began to stir at her heart.

“Was I too hard?” she asked herself uneasily, and a memory of the girl’s sweetness, gentleness, and gratitude stole over her with such power that a dimness crept over her eyes.

He looked at her sadly and reproachfully, but she did not speak. She wanted time to think.

“Have you any idea, any suspicion, where she went?” he asked.

“None.”

“Did she go away penniless?”

“She took one set of jewels—the diamonds I gave her for a wedding gift; but she left all your presents.”

It seemed to him that there was a graceful delicacy in the act.

“She feared I would hate her memory,” he said to himself, and then he closed his eyes and remained silent a long time, communing with his own thoughts.

Very sad and hopeless they were, but the jealous misery had passed from them, also the contempt that had inspired him when he believed that Fair had gone from the bedside where he lay suffering for her sake straight to the arms of the man who had wounded him.

“She was more noble than I believed, and she loved me, she really loved me. For that love’s sake, I must think kindly of her, must try to help her in her trouble, even though she may never be nearer to me than now.”

Unclosing his eyes, he looked at Mrs. Howard. She was still sitting quietly in her easy-chair, staring into vacancy with troubled eyes. As he stirred, she started and met his glance.

“You think me a fool, or a madman?” he said, blushing slightly.

“No—only rash and imprudent,” she replied.

“Oh, you do not understand,” sighed Bayard Lorraine. He sighed again, and added: “She said that her love for me was her fate, and I cannot doubt but that my love for her is mine. Yes, my heart and soul have been full of her since the first day her beautiful eyes looked into mine. I have never loved any woman but her, and I never shall.”

“Yet it seems to me that long before I ever saw you, Bayard, I read in the New York papers repeated announcements of your approaching marriage with some society belle,” she remarked.

“Mere newspaper stories, in which there was no truth,” he replied. “I was fancy free until I met Fair Fielding, and, having lost her, I do not believe I can ever love again. Our love was fate, as she said—a most cruel fate it seems now, yet the memory of our once happy love will stay with me forever.”

His impetuous love, his despairing grief touched her very heart. In the light of his words, her repressed love and longing for the girl who had so bitterly deceived her surged again over her heart, and swept away like a rushing river all her resentment and indignation. She held out her hand suddenly to him, saying falteringly:

“Bayard, I am sorry for my hardness to that unhappy girl. Only find her, and I will be the friend you desire for her while you defend her against the man she fears and hates.”