As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way,
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
Suckling
One lovely spring afternoon Hugh Redmond walked through the narrow winding lanes that lead to the little village of Daintree.
The few passers-by whom he encountered glanced curiously at the tall handsome man in deep mourning, but Hugh did not respond to their looks—he had a grave preoccupied air, and seemed to notice little; he looked about him listlessly, and the beautiful country that lay bathed in the spring sunlight did not seem to excite even a passing admiration in his mind; the budding hedge-rows, the gay chirpings of the unseen birds, busy with family cares, were all unheeded in that hard self-absorbed mood of his. Things had gone badly with Hugh Redmond of late; his broken engagement with Margaret Ferrers had been followed by Sir Wilfred’s death. Hugh’s heart had been very bitter against his father, but before Sir Wilfred died there had been a few words of reconciliation. “You must not be angry with me, Hugh,” the old man had said; “I did it for the best. We were both right, both she and I,—ah, she was a fine creature; but when one remembered her poor mother’s end—well, we will not speak of that,” and then looking wistfully at his son’s moody face, he continued plaintively, “My boy, you will be brave, and not let this spoil your life. I know it is hard on you, but you must not forget you are a Redmond. It will be your duty to marry. When I am gone, go down and see Colonel Mordaunt’s daughter: people tell me she is a pretty little creature; you might take a fancy to her, Hugh;” and half to pacify the old man, and half because he was so sick of himself that he did not care what became of him, Hugh muttered a sort of promise that he would have a look at the girl, and then for a time he forgot all about it.
Some months after, a chance word spoken by a friend brought back this promise to his memory.
He had been spending a few days at Henley with some old college friends, when one of them mentioned Daintree, and the name brought back his father’s dying words.
“I may as well do it,” he said to himself that night; “the other fellows are going back to London; it will not hurt me to stop another day”—and so he settled it.