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 worships Margaret. But in my opinion the wife should not be superior to the husband; if there must be weakness, it should be on the other side.” And here Raby sighed and gave himself up to melancholy and more personal broodings, and he thought how strange and baffling were the perversities of human nature, and how hearts cleaved to each other—in spite of a hundred faults and blemishes—as Margaret’s cleaved to Hugh Redmond.
No, there was no love without suffering, he thought; even happy love had its thrills and tremors of doubt, its hours of anticipatory fears. A little while ago and his own life had stretched before him, bright, hopeful and full of enjoyment, and then a cloud had blotted out all the goodly land of promise, and he had been left a poor prisoner of hope on the dim borders, led in paths that he truly had not known—mysterious paths of suffering and patience.
Raby had not answered his sister’s reproachful speech, but he had taken her hand and pressed it, as though asking her pardon.
“I wish you thought better of Hugh,” she said softly, as she felt his caressing gesture; and Raby smiled again.
“I do think well of him. Who am I that I should judge my fellows? But I have not seen the man yet who is worthy of my Margaret. Come, is not that a lover-like speech; Hugh himself might have said it. But here we are at home; I can smell the roses in the porch; they are a sweet welcome to a blind man, are they not, Madge?”
CHAPTER III.
UNDER THE OLD WALNUT-TREE.
Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for confession’s smart,