Part 4 (1/2)
She was sitting alone in the morning-room, the next afternoon, when Sir Wilfred Redmond was announced, and the next moment the old man entered the room.
A faint blush came to Margaret's cheeks as she rose to greet him. This visit meant recognition of her as his son's _fiancee_; and yet, why did he come alone--why was not Hugh with him? Hugh's father was almost a stranger to her. He was a man of reserved habits, who had never been very sociable with his neighbors, and Margaret had seen little of him in her girlish days.
”It is very good of you to come so soon, Sir Wilfred,” she said, blus.h.i.+ng still more rosily under his penetrating glance. ”I am so sorry that my brother is out; he has gone over to Pierrepoint.”
”I came here to see you and not your brother,” returned Sir Wilfred; but he did not look at her as he spoke, and Margaret noticed that he seemed rather nervous. ”My business is with you, Miss Ferrers; I have just heard strange news--that you and my son are engaged; is that true?”
Margaret bowed her head. She thought Sir Wilfred's manner rather singular--he had met her with coldness; there was certainly no trace of warmth, no cordiality in the loose grasp of her hand. She wondered what made him speak in that dry, measured voice, and why, after his first keen glance at her, he had averted his eyes. He looked older than he had done yesterday, and there was a hara.s.sed expression in his face. ”It is rather strange,” he went on, ”that Hugh should have left me in ignorance all these months, but that”--as Margaret seemed about to speak--”is between me and him, I do not include you in the blame.
On the contrary,”--speaking now with some degree of feeling--”I am sorry for you, Miss Ferrers, for I have come to tell you, what Hugh refuses to do, that I can not consent to my son's marrying you.”
Margaret started, and the proud indignant color rose to her face; but she restrained herself.
”May I ask your reason, Sir Wilfred?”
”I have a very good, sufficient reason,” returned the old man, sadly; ”Hugh is my only son.”
”I do not understand--”
”Perhaps not, and it is my painful task to enlighten you, Miss Ferrers,” hesitating a little, ”I do not wonder at my son's choice, now I see you; I am quite sure that you are all he represents you to be; that in all respects you are fitted to be the wife of a wealthier man than Hugh. But for my boy's sake I am compelled to appeal to your generosity, your sense of right, and ask you to give him up.”
”I can not give your son up,” returned Margaret, with n.o.ble frankness; ”I am promised to him, and we love each other dearly.”
”I know that,” and for a moment Sir Wilfred's eyes rested on the beautiful face before him with mingled admiration and pain, and his voice softened insensibly. ”My dear, I know how my boy loves you, how his whole heart is centered on you. I can do nothing with him--he will not listen to reason; his pa.s.sion for you is overmastering, and blinds him to his best interest. I have come to you to help me save him in spite of himself.”
At this solemn adjuration Margaret's face grew pale, and for the first time her courage forsook her.
”I can not bear this,” she returned, and her young voice grew thin and sharp. ”Why do you not speak plainly and tell me what you mean? Why do you ask me to save Hugh--my Hugh--when I am ready to give up my whole life to him? You speak as if his marriage with me would bring him a curse.”
”As it most surely would to him and to his children, Miss Ferrers.
Margaret--I may call you Margaret, for I knew you as a child--it is no fault of yours if that be the truth. My dear, has no one told you about your mother?”
She looked at him with wide-open, startled eyes. ”My mother, Sir Wilfred! no, I was only seven when she died. I think,” knitting her white brows as though she were trying to recall that childish past, ”that she was very ill--she had to go away for a long time, and my poor father seemed very sad. I remember he cried dreadfully at her funeral, and Raby told me I ought to have cried too.”
”I loved your mother, Margaret,” returned the old man, and his mouth twitched under his white mustache. ”You are not like her; she was dark, but very beautiful. Yes, she was ill, with that deadly hereditary illness that we call by another name; so ill that for years before her death her husband could not see her.”
”You mean--” asked Margaret, but her dry white lips refused to finish the sentence. Sir Wilfred looked at her pityingly, as he answered--
”She was insane. It was in the family--they told me so, and that was why I did not ask her to marry me. She was beautiful, and so many loved her--your father and I among the number. Now you know, Margaret, that while my heart bleeds for you both, I ask you to release my son.”
CHAPTER IV.
”WHEN WE TWO PARTED.”
Nay--sometimes seems it I could even bear To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear, Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, And see another queen it at the door-- If only that the king had done no wrong, If this my palace where I dwelt so long Were not defiled by falsehood entering in.
There is no loss but change; no death but sin; No parting, save the slow corrupting pain Of murdered faith that never lives again.
MISS MULOCK.
The following evening Margaret walked down the narrow path leading to the sh.o.r.e. It was a glorious evening, warm with the dying sunset, gorgeous with red and golden light.