“And yet, if ever woman loved man, Margaret loved Hugh Redmond.”
“I know it, dearie, no one could look at her and not see that the light had gone out of her life, and that her heart was just breaking—how white you have gone, Miss Crystal!”
“I am so sorry for Margaret. Oh! Catharine, Catharine, if I had any tears left I think I could shed them all for Margaret.”
“Keep them for yourself, my dearie, may be they will cool the fever in your heart, and make you see clear, and bring you back to us again.”
“Hush, hush! I will not hear you. I will only talk of my poor Margaret. She would not marry him you say.”
“No, she was like a rock, not all the poor young master could say could change her resolution. I know she told him that his father was right to forbid their marriage, and though it was a cruel trouble to them both, they must bear it, for it was God’s will, not Sir Wilfred’s, that separated them; but he would never listen to her, and at last he just flung away in a rage and married the other.”
“The other!—whom do you mean, Catharine?”
“Well, you have heard of Colonel Mordaunt, who lived up at Wyngate Priory, the big place, up yonder, some of the land adjoins the Hall lands, but the house is no better than a ruin.”
“Yes, I know; Colonel Mordaunt died in India.”
“Well, may be you did not know that the colonel had a daughter, a bit bonny lass, who was brought up by an aunt in the country. It seems Sir Wilfred and the colonel had always hoped to bring about a match between the young people, and after Sir Wilfred’s death they found a letter with the will, charging Mr. Hugh by all that was sacred not to marry Miss Margaret, and begging him to go down to Daintree, and see Colonel Mordaunt’s beautiful young daughter. Miss Margaret told me with tears in her eyes what a loving fatherly letter it was, and how it prayed Mr. Hugh, to forgive him for crossing his will; but told him at the same time that no blessing could ever follow his marriage with Margaret Ferrers.”