It is well for some of us that coming events do not always cast their shadow before; that we lie down to rest in happy ignorance of what the next day may bring forth. As Margaret looked out on the moonlight that evening, she little thought that that Sunday was the last day of her happy girlhood—that the morrow held a bitter trial in store for her.
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 fiancée; 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, blushing 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 harassed 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—”