A pained, surprised look passed over Hugh’s handsome face. It was evident that he had not expected this. The next moment he gave a short derisive laugh.
“So my father has made mischief between us; he has actually made you believe it would be a sin to marry me. My darling, what nonsense; I know all about your poor mother—many families have this sort of thing; do you think that ever keeps people from marrying? If we had known before, as I told my father, well, perhaps it might have made a difference, but now it is too late, nothing would ever induce me to give you up, Margaret; in my eyes you are already as bound to me as though you were my wife. My father has nothing to do with it—this is between you and me.”
“Hugh, listen to me; I have promised Sir Wilfred that I will never marry you.”
“Then your promise must be null and void; you are mine, and I claim you, Margaret.”
“No, no!” she returned, shrinking from him; “I will never be any man’s wife. I have told Raby so, and he says I am right.”
“Margaret, are you mad to say such things to me? I am not a patient man, and you are trying me too much,” and Hugh’s eyes flashed angrily. “Do you want me to doubt your love?”
“Do not make it too hard for me,” she pleaded. “Do you think this costs me nothing—that I do not suffer too? You will not be cruel to me, Hugh, because I am obliged to make you unhappy. It is not I, but the Divine Will that has interposed this barrier to our union. Ah, if Raby or I had but known, all this would have been spared you.”
“It is too late,” returned Hugh, gloomily; “you have no longer the right to dispose of yourself, you are mine—how often am I to tell you that? Do you think that I will ever consent to resign you, that I could live my life without you. What do I care about your mother? Such things happen again and again in families, and no one thinks of them. If I am willing to abide by the consequences, no one else has a right to object.”
Poor Hugh! he was growing more sore and angry every moment. He had anticipated some trouble from Margaret’s interview with his father; he knew her scrupulous conscience, and feared that a long and weary argument might be before him, but he had never really doubted the result. Life without Margaret would be simply insupportable; he could not grasp the idea for a moment.
Margaret—his Margaret—refuse to be his wife! His whole impetuous nature rose against such a cruel sentence—neither God 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 passion 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 noble 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 passion 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 passion; 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 passionate 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 passionate 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 God 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