“The time was when a word from Catharine would have contented you, Miss Crystal,” replied the woman, sorrowfully, and her honest face grew overcast. “Do you think Miss Margaret’s own foster-sister, who was brought up with her, would deceive you now? But it is like enough that sorrow and pride have turned your head, and the mistake of having made the first false step beside.”
“Forgive me,” returned the girl, hoarsely; and she took the work hardened hand and pressed it between both her own. “I will try to believe you, though I can not realize it that Margaret—my Margaret—has been jilted.”
“No, nor that either, dearie. We must not blame the poor young master beyond his deserts. He loved her true, Miss Crystal; he loved her that true that his heart was like to break; but for all that he was forced to give her up.”
“I can not understand it,” in a bewildered voice. “When I left the dear old home that summer’s day a year ago they had been engaged nine months; yes, it was nine months, I remember, for it was on her birthday that he asked her to be his wife, and they had loved each other long before that. Do you think I can ever forget that time?”
“I dare say not. Anyhow, things went on well for a time; the young master was always at the Grange, or Miss Margaret and Mr. Raby at the Hall; and when he was away, for he was always a bit roving, he wrote her a heap of letters; and all was as right as it could be till the old master came home.”
“Ah, true! I had forgotten Sir Wilfred.”
“Ay, he had been away for more than two years in the East, working for that fine book of his that folks talk about so much; but he was in bad health, and he had a strange hankering to die in the old Hall. There is an awful mystery in things, Miss Crystal; for if it had pleased Providence to have taken the poor old master before he reached the Hall, our dear Miss Margaret might have been happy now.”
“Do you mean that Sir Wilfred objected to the match?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know what happened, but Martin and me think there is some mystery at the bottom. Folks say, who know the young master, that he has a way of putting off things to the morrow as should be done to-day, and either ha did not tell his father of his engagement to Miss Margaret, or his letters went astray in those foreign parts; but when the old master heard that Mr. Hugh had promised to marry Miss Margaret, he made an awful scene, and swore that no Ferrers should be mistress of Redmond Hall.”
“Good Heavens! what reason could Sir Wilfred have for refusing his consent? Margaret was beautiful, rich, and well-born. Do you mean to say that Sir Hugh was so poor a creature as to give her up for a whim?”
“No, no, Miss Crystal, dear, we don’t understand the rights of it. When Mr. Hugh left the old master he just rushed up to the Grange to see Miss Margaret, and to tell her of his father’s opposition; but she had a right brave spirit of her own, and she heartened him up, and bade him wait patiently and she would win over the old man yet. Well, it is a sad story, and, as I told you, neither Martin nor me know what rightly happened. Sir Wilfred came up to talk to Miss Margaret, and then she sent for Mr. Hugh, and told him they must part, that she would never marry him. That was before the old master had that stroke that carried him off, but she held firm to it after his death, and nothing that Mr. Hugh could say would move her.”
“And yet, if ever woman loved man, Margaret loved Hugh Redmond.”
“I know it, dearie, no one could look at her and not see that the light had gone out of her life, and that her heart was just breaking—how white you have gone, Miss Crystal!”
“I am so sorry for Margaret. Oh! Catharine, Catharine, if I had any tears left I think I could shed them all for Margaret.”
“Keep them for yourself, my dearie, may be they will cool the fever in your heart, and make you see clear, and bring you back to us again.”
“Hush, hush! I will not hear you. I will only talk of my poor Margaret. She would not marry him you say.”
“No, she was like a rock, not all the poor young master could say could change her resolution. I know she told him that his father was right to forbid their marriage, and though it was a cruel trouble to them both, they must bear it, for it was God’s will, not Sir Wilfred’s, that separated them; but he would never listen to her, and at last he just flung away in a rage and married the other.”
“The other!—whom do you mean, Catharine?”
“Well, you have heard of Colonel Mordaunt, who lived up at Wyngate Priory, the big place, up yonder, some of the land adjoins the Hall lands, but the house is no better than a ruin.”
“Yes, I know; Colonel Mordaunt died in India.”
“Well, may be you did not know that the colonel had a daughter, a bit bonny lass, who was brought up by an aunt in the country. It seems Sir Wilfred and the colonel had always hoped to bring about a match between the young people, and after Sir Wilfred’s death they found a letter with the will, charging Mr. Hugh by all that was sacred not to marry Miss Margaret, and begging him to go down to Daintree, and see Colonel Mordaunt’s beautiful young daughter. Miss Margaret told me with tears in her eyes what a loving fatherly letter it was, and how it prayed Mr. Hugh, to forgive him for crossing his will; but told him at the same time that no blessing could ever follow his marriage with Margaret Ferrers.”
“No blessing? There is some mystery here, Catharine.”
“That is what I say, Miss Crystal, but reason or not, the poor young master was half-crazed with the disappointment; he was for setting aside everything, and going on reckless-like, but Miss Margaret she was like a rock—she could not and would not marry him; and in his anger against her, and because he did not care what became of him, he went down to Daintree and settled the matter with Miss Mordaunt, and that is all I know, Miss Crystal.”
“One—two—three—four,” counted the girl with a bitter smile, “four broken hearts, four mutilated lives, and the sun shines, and the birds sing—one hungers, thirsts, sleeps, and wakes again, and a benignant Creator suffers it; but hush! there are footsteps Catharine, hide me, quick.”
“My dearie, don’t look so scared like, it is only Mr. Raby—he passed an hour ago with the parson; but there is only wee Johnnie with him now.”
“Is he coming in? I am sure I heard him lift the latch of the gate; you will keep your faith with me, Catharine?”
“Yes—yes, have I ever failed you; bide quiet a bit, he can not see you. He is only standing in the porch, for a sup of milk. I’ll fetch it from the dairy, and he’ll drink it and go.”
“If only Johnnie were not there,” murmured the girl, anxiously.
“No, no, he has sent him on most likely to the vicarage.”
“My good Catharine,” observed a quiet voice from the porch, “how long am I to wait for my glass of milk?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed,” answered Catharine’s cheery tones in the distance.
“Don’t be sorry,” returned the same voice; “waiting will do me good.” And then there was silence.
The stranger stole out and peeped through the half-opened door.
There was a tall man standing in the porch; a man so tall that the clustering ivy round the trellis-work quite trailed about him and touched his forehead; a man broad-shouldered and strong, but with a stooping gait like a giant worn out with labor; he was in clerical dress, but his soft felt hat was in his hand, and the grand powerful head with its heavy dead-brown hair and pale face were distinctly visible under the shadow of the ivy. He did not more at the sound of the stealthy footstep or at the light shadow that fell across him, though the girl crept so close that he could have touched her with his right hand; but on Catharine’s reappearance she shrunk back with a gesture of mingled entreaty and command.
“There