It was about fourteen months before Raby had stood in the large porch waiting for his glass of milk that one summer’s morning the little church-yard was full of loitering villagers, waiting for the bells to stop before they hurried into their places.
The white Lady from the Grange, as some of the children called her, had just passed into the porch, after stopping to reprove some noisy urchins eating small sour apples on the tombstones; and old Granny Richardson had just hobbled in after her in her red cloak and neat black bonnet, and her prayer-book folded in a blue and white checked handkerchief with a little bunch of sweet-william and southern-wood—old man they called it in those parts—to keep it company. After granny came old Samuel Tibbs, the patriarch of the village, in his clean smock and scarlet handkerchief, followed by his youngest grandson in all the glories of corduroys and hob-nailed boots. Young Sam, as they called him, was the youngest of fifteen, who had all grown up strong and healthy under the thatched eaves of the low, whitewashed cottage down by the pond. There the fifteen young Tibbses had elbowed, and jostled, and kicked, and metaphorically pecked at each other like young rooks in a nest, and had grown up strong and hearty on a diet of bread and treacle alternating with slices of bread and dripping, running barefoot over the grass and splashing like young ducks in the pond, until promoted to hob-nailed boots and bird-scaring, with a promise of riding the plow-horses to water, and an occasional bird-nesting expedition on their own account.
The bell had stopped, and the last loiterer had taken his place on the oak bench, when as usual two strangers took their places in a seat that was usually occupied by any chance worshiper.
Most of the little congregation were familiar with the features of the younger man, and every one in the village knew that the tall, broad-shouldered man with the fair beard and handsome, aristocratic face was the young master from Redmond Hall, who was to marry Miss Margaret, the vicar’s sister.
But even young Sam Tibbs leaves off admiring his hob-nailed boots to stare at the brown, sickly-looking gentleman with the white mustache that occupies the other end of the seat; and Margaret, sitting with the school-children, looks curiously in the same direction, for this is the first time that she has seen Sir Wilfred Redmond since his return from Persia.
Both father and son are wonderfully alike, she thinks; they have both the same heavy-lidded, blue-gray eyes, the same proud carriage of the head and stately presence; but the bright, sunshiny smile that greeted her from Hugh Redmond is certainly not reproduced on his father’s somber face. Sir Wilfred looked ill and saddened; and evidently the report that ill-health had brought his researches to a speedy end was probably true.
Sir Wilfred listened with grave attention to Mr. Ferrers’s eloquent sermon. The deep, musical voice, and fine delivery seemed to rivet him; he sat motionless, with his thin hands grasping each other, his eyes fixed on the pale, powerful face which the morning sunshine touched with a sort of glory.
As usual, Hugh Redmond’s attention strayed to the corner where Margaret sat, the light from the painted window reached her, staining her white gown with patches of prismatic color—a bordering of crimson and blue and violet—and giving a golden tinge to her dead-brown hair; and as Hugh looks at her he tells himself again that he has never seen any one to compare with her—his pearl among women.
When the service was over, and the small congregation had streamed out of the church, Sir Wilfred left his seat and walked up the aisle to inspect the chancel. He evidently thought his son was following him, for he turned round once to address him; but Hugh had noticed that Margaret had quietly slipped through a side door, and he hastily followed her.
She was standing under the shade of a willow, looking at a newly made grave, but she turned with a smile when she saw him striding over the grass, with the sun shining on his golden-brown head.
“Margaret,” he said, reproachfully, “why have you not waited to speak to my father? Raby has just joined him.”
A quick blush crossed Margaret’s face—her lover’s question seemed to pain her—but she answered with her accustomed gentleness.
“Surely you must-know dear; how could I meet Sir Wilfred when he is still in ignorance of our engagement?”
“Ah, true, I forgot,” with a short, uneasy laugh; but it was Hugh’s turn now to look uncomfortable. “What a little puritan you are, darling, as though half a dozen civil words would have mattered.”
“But I could not have said them, Hugh,” with quiet firmness; “I should have felt awkward and constrained in your father’s presence; I should have betrayed our secret by my very silence.”
“Ah, well, it will be a secret no longer,” with an impatient sigh. “You look at me very reproachfully this morning, Margaret, but indeed I have not been to blame so much as you think; my father was tired from his journey yesterday. I am afraid he is in very bad health. I confess I am anxious about him. We had so much to talk about, and he is so full of that wonderful book of his. Come, cheer up, dear; I will not have you look so serious; I will promise you that he shall know of our engagement before I sleep to-night.”
“Really and truly, Hugh?”
“Really and truly, dear; now say something kind to me before I go.”
Ten minutes afterward Margaret walked slowly down the church-yard to join Raby, who was waiting for her at the gate. He heard her footstep, and held out his hand to her.
“I was wondering what had become of you, Margaret. Sir Wilfred has been talking to me for a long time; he asked after you, but of course I made some excuse; I think I know why you hid yourself.”
“That could only be one reason, Raby.”
“Ah, I was right, then. I said to myself, depend upon it, Madge means to stand on her dignity, and read Hugh a lesson, and I hope he will profit by it. I do believe Hugh’s favorite motto is ‘Never do to-day what you can put off until to-morrow.’ ”
“I think you are a little hard on Hugh; he has promised that he will speak to his father to-day.”
“I am glad of that,” very gravely. “I confess that this procrastination has made me very uneasy; it was not treating you fairly, Margaret, to leave his father all these months in ignorance of the engagement.”
“Yes, but you forget,” interposed his sister, eagerly, “he did write telling Sir Wilfred everything, but the letter never reached him. You are generally so charitable. Raby, and yet you misjudge poor Hugh so readily.”
There was an injured tone in Margaret’s voice that made Raby smile; he knew that she was blind to Hugh’s faults—that she believed in him with all a loving woman’s credulity: and yet as he smiled he sighed.
He knew his sister well, the simplicity and strength of her nature, the unselfishness and purity of her aims—few women had so high a standard—and he reverenced as well as loved her, for every day showed him new beauties in her character. But his knowledge of his sister made him doubt the wisdom of her choice; in his heart he had never really approved of her engagement with Hugh Redmond. Hugh was a capital fellow, he told himself; a pleasant companion, lovable in his way, and not without his special gifts, but he was not worthy of Margaret.
Raby had not always been blind, and his intimacy with Hugh Redmond had given him plenty of opportunity to judge truly of his friend’s defects. He knew Hugh was manly and generous, but he was also weak and impulsive, hot-tempered and prone to restlessness; and he marveled sadly how Margaret’s calm, grand nature should center its affections and hopes on such an unstable character as Hugh Redmond.
“She will never be happy with him,” he said to himself; “one day he must disappoint her. Oh, I know well there is no harm in him; every one would call him a good fellow; he is clever, he has plenty of pluck, he has gentlemanly feelings, and he