“Perhaps not, and it is my painful task to enlighten you, Miss Ferrers,” hesitating a little, “I do not wonder at my son’s choice, now I see you; I am quite sure that you are all he represents you to be; that in all respects you are fitted to be the wife of a wealthier man than Hugh. But for my boy’s sake I am compelled to appeal to your generosity, your sense of right, and ask you to give him up.”
“I can not give your son up,” returned Margaret, with noble frankness; “I am promised to him, and we love each other dearly.”
“I know that,” and for a moment Sir Wilfred’s eyes rested on the beautiful face before him with mingled admiration and pain, and his voice softened insensibly. “My dear, I know how my boy loves you, how his whole heart is centered on you. I can do nothing with him—he will not listen to reason; his passion for you is overmastering, and blinds him to his best interest. I have come to you to help me save him in spite of himself.”
At this solemn adjuration Margaret’s face grew pale, and for the first time her courage forsook her.
“I can not bear this,” she returned, and her young voice grew thin and sharp. “Why do you not speak plainly and tell me what you mean? Why do you ask me to save Hugh—my Hugh—when I am ready to give up my whole life to him? You speak as if his marriage with me would bring him a curse.”
“As it most surely would to him and to his children, Miss Ferrers. Margaret—I may call you Margaret, for I knew you as a child—it is no fault of yours if that be the truth. My dear, has no one told you about your mother?”
She looked at him with wide-open, startled eyes. “My mother, Sir Wilfred! no, I was only seven when she died. I think,” knitting her white brows as though she were trying to recall that childish past, “that she was very ill—she had to go away for a long time, and my poor father seemed very sad. I remember he cried dreadfully at her funeral, and Raby told me I ought to have cried too.”
“I loved your mother, Margaret,” returned the old man, and his mouth twitched under his white mustache. “You are not like her; she was dark, but very beautiful. Yes, she was ill, with that deadly hereditary illness that we call by another name; so ill that for years before her death her husband could not see her.”
“You mean—” asked Margaret, but her dry white lips refused to finish the sentence. Sir Wilfred looked at her pityingly, as he answered—
“She was insane. It was in the family—they told me so, and that was why I did not ask her to marry me. She was beautiful, and so many loved her—your father and I among the number. Now you know, Margaret, that while my heart bleeds for you both, I ask you to release my son.”