Hugh scarcely knew why he went, or what he intended to do; in his heart he was willing to forget his trouble in any new excitement; his one idea during all these months had been to escape the misery of his own thoughts. Yes, he would see the young heiress whom his father had always wished him to marry; he remembered her as a pretty child some seven or eight years ago, and wondered with a listless sort of curiosity what the years had done for her, and whether they had ripened or destroyed what was certainly a fair promise of beauty.
Poor Hugh! It would have been better for him to have traveled and forgotten his disappointment before such an idea had come into his head. Many a one in his case would have shaken off the dust of their native land, and, after having seen strange countries and undergone novel experiences, have returned home partially or wholly cured—perhaps to love again, this time more happily. But with Hugh the time had not yet come. He was terribly tenacious in his attachments, but just then anger against Margaret had for a little time swallowed up love. He said to himself that he would forget her yet—that he would not let any woman spoil his life. If he sinned, circumstances were more to blame than he. Fate was so dead against him, his case was so cruelly hard. Alas, Hugh Redmond was not the only man who, stung by passion, jealousy, or revenge, has taken the first downward step on the green slippery slope that leads to Avernus.
Hugh almost repented his errand when he came in sight of the little Gothic cottage with its circular porch, where Miss Mordaunt and her niece lived.
The cottage stood on high ground, and below the sloping garden lay a broad expanse of country—meadows and plowed fields—that in autumn would be rich with waving corn, closed in by dark woods, beyond which lay the winding invisible river. As Hugh came up the straight carriage drive, he caught sight of a little girl in a white frock playing with a large black retriever on the lawn.
The dog was rather rough in his play, and his frolics brought a remonstrance from his little mistress; “Down, Nero! down, good dog!” exclaimed a fresh young voice; “now we must race fairly,” and the next moment there were twinkling feet coming over the crisp short turf, followed by Nero’s bounding footsteps and bark.
But the game ended abruptly as a sudden turn in the shrubberies brought the tall, fair-bearded stranger in view.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed the same voice, rather shyly; and Hugh took off his hat suddenly in some surprise, for it was no child, but an exceedingly pretty girl, who was looking up in his face with large wondering blue eyes.
“I hope I have not startled you,” returned Hugh, courteously, with one of his pleasant smiles. What a diminutive creature she was; no wonder he had taken her at first sight for a child; her stature was hardly more than that a well-grown child of eleven or twelve, and the little white frock and broad-brimmed hat might have belonged to a child too.
But she was a dainty little lady for all that, with a beautifully proportioned figure, as graceful as a fairy, and a most lovely, winsome little face.
“Oh!” she said, with a wonderful attempt at dignity that made him smile—as though he saw a kitten on its best behavior, “I am not at all startled; but of course Nero and I would hardly have had that race if we had known any one was in the shrubbery. Have you lost your way?” lifting those wonderful Undine-like eyes to his face, which almost startled Hugh with their exceeding beauty and depth.