Wee Wifie Part 5

Margaret--his Margaret--refuse to be his wife! His whole impetuous nature rose against such a cruel sentence--neither G.o.d nor man had decreed it; it was unreasonable, untrue, to suppose such a thing. How could he think of the consequences to his unborn children, of the good of future generations of Redmonds, when he could hear nothing but the voice of his pa.s.sion that told him no other woman would be to him like Margaret? The news had indeed been a shock to him, but, as he had told his father, nothing should prevent his marrying Margaret.

But he little knew the woman with whose will he had to cope.

Margaret's very love for him gave her strength to resist--besides, she could not look at things from Hugh's point of view. If she had married him she would never have known a moment's peace. If she had had children and they had died, she would have regarded their death as a punishment. She would have seen retributive justice in every trouble that came upon them, till she must have pined and withered in her remorse. But she would never marry him. In that calm, loving heart there was a fund of strength and endurance truly marvelous. In her spirit of self-sacrifice she belonged to the n.o.ble army of women of whose ranks the proto-martyr, Mary of Nazareth, was first and chief; who can endure to suffer and to see their beloved suffer: who can thrust, uncomplainingly, the right hand--if need be--into the purifying flame, and so go through life halt or maimed, so that their garments may be always white and stainless.

And so looking upon him whom she loved, she gave him up forever; and Hugh's anguish and despair failed to shake her resolution. The Divine Will had forbidden their union; she had promised his father that she would never marry him; she had vowed in last night's bitter conflict never to be the wife of any man. This was what she told him, over and over again, and each time there was a set look about her beautiful mouth that told Hugh that there was no hope for him.

He came to believe it at last, and then his heart was very bitter against her. He said to himself, and then aloud--for in his angry pa.s.sion he did not spare her, and his hard words bruised her gentle soul, most pitilessly--he said that she did not love him, that she never had, that that cold, pure soul of hers was incapable of pa.s.sion; and he wondered with an intolerable anguish of anger whether she would suffer if he took her at her word and married another; and when he had flung these cruel words at her--for he was half-maddened with misery--he had turned away from her with a groan, and had hidden his head in his hands. His wishes had ceased to influence her; she had given him up; she would never be his wife, and all the sunshine and promise of his youth seemed dimmed.

But Margaret would not leave him like this; the next moment she was kneeling beside him on the sand. They say there is always something of the maternal element in the love of a good woman; and there was something of this protecting tenderness in Margaret's heart as she drew Hugh's head to her shoulder. He did not resist her; the first fierceness of his anger had now died out, and only the bitterness of his despair remained.

"Hugh, before we part to-night, will you not tell me that you forgive me?"

"How am I to tell you that," he answered, in a dull weary voice, "when you are robbing my life of its happiness?"

"Oh, Hugh, when I loved you."

"You are proving your love"--with the utmost bitterness; but she answered him with the same gentleness.

"You are still angry with me. Well, I must bear your anger; it will only make it all a little harder for me. If you could have said a word that would have helped me to bear it--but no--you are too unhappy; by and by you will do me justice."

"I am not a saint like you," he answered, harshly; "I have a man's feelings. You have often told me I am pa.s.sionate and willful--well, you were right."

"Yes, you were always willful, Hugh; but you have never been cruel to me before; it is cruel to doubt my love because my duty compels me to give you up. Ah," with a sudden pa.s.sionate inflection in her voice, "do you know of what self-sacrifice a woman can be capable? for your dear sake, Hugh, I am content to suffer all my life, to stand aside and be nothing to you--yes, even to see another woman your wife, if only you will be brave and true to yourself, if you will live your life worthily. Will you promise me this, Hugh?"

"I will promise nothing," was the reckless answer; "I will take no lie upon my lips even to please you, Margaret."

"Then it must be as G.o.d wills," she returned with white lips; "this pain will not last forever. One day we shall meet where it will be no sin to love each other. Good-bye until then, Hugh--my Hugh."

"You are not leaving me, Margaret," and Hugh's arms held her strongly; but the next moment they had dropped to his side--she had stooped and kissed him on the forehead, and the touch of those cold lips seemed his death-warrant; the next moment he was alone, and Margaret was walking swiftly along the little path hollowed out of the cliff. The sunset clouds had long ago faded, and only a gray sky and sea remained.

Half an hour later, as Margaret turned in at the gate of the Grange, a dark figure standing bare-headed under the trees came in groping fashion to meet her.

"Is that you, Margaret?"

"Yes, it is I," and Margaret stood still and motionless until Raby touched her.

"Have you seen him, dear?"

"Yes, it is all over." And then she said a little wildly, "I have done my duty, Raby; I have broken his heart and my own;" but even as she spoke, Raby took her in his arms and low words of blessings seemed to falter on his lips. "My brave sister, but I never doubted for a moment that you would do the right thing. And now be comforted; the same Divine Providence that has exacted this sacrifice will watch over Hugh."

"I know it," she said, weeping bitterly; "but he will have to suffer--if I could only suffer for both!"

"He will not suffer one pang too much," was the quiet answer; "but you are worn out, and I will not talk more to you to-night. Go to your own room, Margaret; tomorrow we will speak of this again." But before she left him he blessed her once more.

CHAPTER V.

THE LITTLE PRINCESS.

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.

SUCKLING

One lovely spring afternoon Hugh Redmond walked through the narrow winding lanes that lead to the little village of Daintree.

The few pa.s.sers-by whom he encountered glanced curiously at the tall handsome man in deep mourning, but Hugh did not respond to their looks--he had a grave preoccupied air, and seemed to notice little; he looked about him listlessly, and the beautiful country that lay bathed in the spring sunlight did not seem to excite even a pa.s.sing admiration in his mind; the budding hedge-rows, the gay chirpings of the unseen birds, busy with family cares, were all unheeded in that hard self-absorbed mood of his. Things had gone badly with Hugh Redmond of late; his broken engagement with Margaret Ferrers had been followed by Sir Wilfred's death. Hugh's heart had been very bitter against his father, but before Sir Wilfred died there had been a few words of reconciliation. "You must not be angry with me, Hugh," the old man had said; "I did it for the best. We were both right, both she and I,--ah, she was a fine creature; but when one remembered her poor mother's end--well, we will not speak of that," and then looking wistfully at his son's moody face, he continued plaintively, "My boy, you will be brave, and not let this spoil your life. I know it is hard on you, but you must not forget you are a Redmond. It will be your duty to marry. When I am gone, go down and see Colonel Mordaunt's daughter: people tell me she is a pretty little creature; you might take a fancy to her, Hugh;" and half to pacify the old man, and half because he was so sick of himself that he did not care what became of him, Hugh muttered a sort of promise that he would have a look at the girl, and then for a time he forgot all about it.

Some months after, a chance word spoken by a friend brought back this promise to his memory.

He had been spending a few days at Henley with some old college friends, when one of them mentioned Daintree, and the name brought back his father's dying words.

"I may as well do it," he said to himself that night; "the other fellows are going back to London; it will not hurt me to stop another day"--and so he settled it.

Hugh scarcely knew why he went, or what he intended to do; in his heart he was willing to forget his trouble in any new excitement; his one idea during all these months had been to escape the misery of his own thoughts. Yes, he would see the young heiress whom his father had always wished him to marry; he remembered her as a pretty child some seven or eight years ago, and wondered with a listless sort of curiosity what the years had done for her, and whether they had ripened or destroyed what was certainly a fair promise of beauty.

Poor Hugh! It would have been better for him to have traveled and forgotten his disappointment before such an idea had come into his head. Many a one in his case would have shaken off the dust of their native land, and, after having seen strange countries and undergone novel experiences, have returned home partially or wholly cured--perhaps to love again, this time more happily. But with Hugh the time had not yet come. He was terribly tenacious in his attachments, but just then anger against Margaret had for a little time swallowed up love. He said to himself that he would forget her yet--that he would not let any woman spoil his life. If he sinned, circ.u.mstances were more to blame than he. Fate was so dead against him, his case was so cruelly hard. Alas, Hugh Redmond was not the only man who, stung by pa.s.sion, jealousy, or revenge, has taken the first downward step on the green slippery slope that leads to Avernus.

Hugh almost repented his errand when he came in sight of the little Gothic cottage with its circular porch, where Miss Mordaunt and her niece lived.

The cottage stood on high ground, and below the sloping garden lay a broad expanse of country--meadows and plowed fields--that in autumn would be rich with waving corn, closed in by dark woods, beyond which lay the winding invisible river. As Hugh came up the straight carriage drive, he caught sight of a little girl in a white frock playing with a large black retriever on the lawn.

The dog was rather rough in his play, and his frolics brought a remonstrance from his little mistress; "Down, Nero! down, good dog!"

exclaimed a fresh young voice; "now we must race fairly," and the next moment there were twinkling feet coming over the crisp short turf, followed by Nero's bounding footsteps and bark.

But the game ended abruptly as a sudden turn in the shrubberies brought the tall, fair-bearded stranger in view.

"Oh! I beg your pardon,' exclaimed the same voice, rather shyly; and Hugh took off his hat suddenly in some surprise, for it was no child, but an exceedingly pretty girl, who was looking up in his face with large wondering blue eyes.

"I hope I have not startled you," returned Hugh, courteously, with one of his pleasant smiles. What a diminutive creature she was; no wonder he had taken her at first sight for a child; her stature was hardly more than that a well-grown child of eleven or twelve, and the little white frock and broad-brimmed hat might have belonged to a child too.

But she was a dainty little lady for all that, with a beautifully proportioned figure, as graceful as a fairy, and a most lovely, winsome little face.

"Oh!" she said, with a wonderful attempt at dignity that made him smile--as though he saw a kitten on its best behavior, "I am not at all startled; but of course Nero and I would hardly have had that race if we had known any one was in the shrubbery. Have you lost your way?"

lifting those wonderful Undine-like eyes to his face, which almost startled Hugh with their exceeding beauty and depth.

"Is Nero your dog?" returned Sir Hugh, patting the retriever absently; "he is a fine fellow, only I am afraid he is rather rough sometimes; he nearly knocked you down just now in his play. I see you do not remember me, Miss Mordaunt. I am Sir Hugh Redmond. I have come to call on you and your aunt."

"Oh!" she said, becoming very shy all at once, "I remember you now; but you looked different somehow, and the sun was in my eyes; poor Sir Wilfred--yes, we heard he was dead--he came to see Aunt Griselda once before he went away. It must be very lonely for you at the Hall," and she glanced at his deep mourning, and then at the handsome face that was looking so kindly at her. What a grand-looking man he was, she thought; it must have been his beard that altered him so and prevented her from recognizing him; but then, of course, she had never seen him since she was a little girl, when her father was alive, and they were living at Wyngate Priory.

Hugh Redmond! ah, yes, she remembered him now. She had made a cowslip ball for him once, and he had tossed it right into the middle of the great elms, where the rooks had their nest; and once she had harnessed him with daisy chains and driven him up and down the bowling-green, while her father laughed at them from the terrace--what a merry little child she used to be--and Hugh Redmond had been a splendid playfellow; but as she moved beside him down the graveled walk leading to the cottage her shyness increased, and she could not bring herself to recall these old memories; indeed, Hugh could not get her to look at him again.

"There is Aunt Griselda," she said, suddenly, as a tall lady-like woman with a gentle, subdued-looking face appeared in the porch, and seemed much surprised at Hugh's apparition. "Auntie, Sir Hugh Redmond has come to see us," and then without waiting to see the effect of this introduction on her aunt, Nero's little playfellow slipped away.

Hugh found himself watching for her reappearance with some anxiety, as he sat in the porch talking to Aunt Griselda.