I would not leave the manor house until I had seen Sir John. Agatha did not go back to the drawing-room with me.
"What will mamma think?" she said, in utter dismay. "See how late it is; and the dew has fallen."
"I will tell her why I detained you, Agatha. You are sure that I shall not wake up tomorrow and find all this is a dream?"
"I do not think so," she replied; and then she would not stop for another word, and I went in to meet Lady Thesiger alone.
She was surprised when I told her. No matter what Coralie said about maneuvering, if ever I saw real, genuine surprise in any woman's face, it was in Lady Thesiger's this evening.
"You have asked Agatha to marry you!" she repeated, looking half bewildered; "and pray, Sir Edgar, what did the child say?"
"She promised to marry me," I replied, more boldly; "that is, of course, if Sir John and you, Lady Thesiger, have no objection."
"I am afraid that you have not taken that much into consideration. Asked the child to marry you! Why, Sir Edgar, how long have you been in love with her?"
"From the very first moment I ever saw her."
"Why," cried her ladyship, "Sir John told me you were in love, and had promised to confide in him."
Remembering what I had said to him, I explained to her that in speaking as I had done I referred entirely to Agatha.
"It is so utterly unexpected," she said, "that you must pardon my strange reception of your intelligence."
She sat quite silent for some minutes, then continued:
"It seems so strange for you to fall in love with Agatha. The dearest wish of Sir Barnard's heart was to have her for a daughter-in-law."
A fierce spasm of jealousy almost robbed me of my breath.
"Did she—did she—"
Then I could get no further.
"No, Agatha did not like Miles, if that is what you mean?"
"Did Miles love her?"
"I cannot tell—there was something very mysterious about him. He looked to me like one who had a secret on his mind. I have often wondered what it could be. He was not a happy man of late years."
"You have not told me yet, Lady Thesiger, if I have your good wishes."
She held out her hand with a gracious, kindly smile.
"Shall I tell you the truth—no flattery, but just the simple truth? I would rather Agatha married you than any other man in the nation. She has not only my full consent, but I am pleased, proud and happy."
"And Sir John, shall I have his consent?"
"There is little doubt of it. I hear him now—he has just arrived, I suppose. You shall see him at once."
I rode away from Harden Manor that night a happy man. Sir John, like Lady Thesiger, gave his full, free, unhesitating consent. We had a long, confidential conversation. He told me how his affairs stood. He was a wealthy man, but his expenses were great. He told me frankly that he should not be able to give Agatha a large portion at her marriage, nor could he leave her anything considerable at his death. Harden Manor, with its rich revenues, was all entailed on his son.
"So that I am glad, Sir Edgar," he said, "she is likely to marry a rich man. She has been brought up in all luxury, and would never be able to bear privation. I shall feel satisfied of her future now."
Alas! so did I. I rode home through the sweet, gathering gloom and the starlight, one of the happiest men in England. I had won my love. She loved me whom I loved best.
There seemed to be nothing wanting then. Two short years ago I was poor, my daily life one of monotonous toil, without the least hope of relief. Now the silvery moon fell upon the woods and silvered the roof of the grand old mansion, and all this fair land over which I was riding was mine.
Coralie was waiting for me. She affected to be just crossing the hall, but I knew that she had been waiting there to have the first word with me. She looked eagerly into my face.
"How long you have been away, Sir Edgar! Surely the starlight agrees with you. I have coffee ready for you in the drawing-room—you have dined, I suppose?"
"Yes, I dined at Harden Manor. I have been there all day."
A dark cloud came for a moment over her radiant face.
"All day," she repeated. "Ah, poor Miles! If he rode over in the morning they were always sure to make him stay to the evening, if they could."
"If Miles found the place as pleasant as I do, the length of his visits would not surprise me," I said, laughingly. "I will run up to see Clare first and then try your coffee, Coralie."
I longed to tell my good news to my sister.
"Clare," I said, kneeling by her side, "look at me. Do you know, can you guess, what news I have to tell you?"
She raised her eyes to mine; she laid her dear hand on my brow.
"I can guess," she said, quietly. "You have told Agatha you love her, and have asked her to be your wife. Is that it?"
"Yes. She has promised, Clare. She loves me—she whom I have always looked up to as some queen so far above me."
"Any good woman would love you, Edgar," said my sister. She hesitated, then asked slowly: "Have you said anything to Coralie?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
A delicate color flushed my sister's face.
"To tell you the truth," she replied, "I have fancied of late that Coralie likes you. Nay, I need not mince matters; I am quite sure she loves you."
"She loves us both, because we are all in the world she has to love; but not in the way you mean, Clare."
But Clare shook her head doubtfully.
"I hope I may be mistaken; but, Edgar, I have a nervous feeling about it, difficult to describe and hard to bear, as though evil would come to you through her. I cannot tell you how the thought haunts and perplexes me."
I laughed, little dreaming then how it would be.
"Sheer nervous fancy, Clare. Take it at the very worst, that Coralie does like me, perhaps, a little too well, and is both piqued and angry at my engagement, in the name of common sense, I ask you, what possible harm can she do to me?"
"None that I can see; yet the dread lies heavy upon me, brother."
"You will forget it all, darling, when you hear the chimes of wedding bells. Ah, Clare, if you could get better I should not have a wish left ungratified."
Then, still smiling at Clare's nervous fancy, I went to the drawing-room. Coralie was there awaiting me. The picture, in all its details, rises before me as vividly as though I had only seen it yesterday.
Although the day had been warm, the evening was chilly, and a small fire burned brightly in the grate; the lamps were lighted, and gleamed like huge, soft, warm, pearls; the air of the room was heavy with sweet and subtle perfume. I have seen no woman who could arrange flowers like Coralie. The way in which she gathered them and placed each fragrant flower so that it could be most perfectly seen was wonderful. Great masses of crimson against white, amber and blue. She had the instinctive elegance of a true Parisienne.
It struck me as I entered that I had never seen so many lovely flowers; the vases and the stands were all full. Coralie herself sat in a large velvet fauteuil, the rich color of which formed a magnificent background to her bright face and golden-brown hair. She was dressed with unusual elegance; a robe of soft, black crape fell in graceful folds around her. I never shall understand ladies' dresses, but this was made so that the beautiful, white neck and arms were bare.
I remember, too, that she had great sprays of heliotrope in the bodice of her dress and in her hair. She looked more lovely, more seductive, than any words of mine could describe, if I wrote for six months.
On the table by her side was a tray set with delicate china and silver, over which the firelight played cheerily. It was a picture of luxurious home comfort. She looked up as I entered with a grave, sweet smile.
"Your coffee is ready, Sir Edgar."
There was my favorite chair drawn up to the table. As I sat down I said aloud:
"This is comfortable."
Her smile brightened and deepened.
"You are like Miles, Sir Edgar. No matter where he went, he always said coming home was the most pleasant part of the day."
Then, with her white, jeweled hand, she poured out my coffee, and certainly the aromatic fragrance was very pleasant.
"You must be like Miles in something else," she said. "He always declared that I made better coffee than anyone else—better than he tasted in all his travels. Do you not think the same?" And she looked at me as anxiously as though the making of coffee to please me were the chief aim of life.
"Was Sir John at home?" she asked, after a few minutes.
Then I had to describe my day, to give her a history of the coming fair, in which she affected great interest.
"I should like to go very much," she said. "I have read in fashionable novels of fancy fairs, but I have never seen one. Are you going, Sir Edgar?"
"Lady Thesiger has asked my assistance, and I have promised it. We shall make up a party. If you wish to go, Coralie, you shall."
She thanked me, and when I had finished my coffee, rang the bell and ordered it to be cleared away.
"I am going to sing to you," she said. "I know you are tired. Throw your head back, shut your eyes and listen. Do not speak, because I am going to weave a charm for you."
I declare before Heaven that when I remember the magic of that charm my heart beats even now with fear!
Are you keenly sensitive to music, reader? If so, you will understand. I could neither sing nor play, but I loved music with a perfect passion. There was not a nerve or pulse in my body, not a thrill in my heart, that did not answer it. Listening to beautiful music, sweet, soothing and sad, this world fell from me. I was in an ideal life, with vague, glorious fancies floating round me, beautiful, lofty dreams filling my whole soul.
In this higher world Coralie's music wrapped me; then I came to myself with a sudden start, for there was Coralie half kneeling by my side, covering my hand with kisses and tears.
"Coralie!" I cried, in surprise. "What is the matter? What are you doing?"
She looked up at me, the fire of her eyes flashing through the mist of tears.
"Don't scold me, Edgar; it is the fault of the music. It sent me here to tell you how dearly I love you, and to ask from you one kind word."
I was terribly embarrassed. Could it be possible this beautiful woman was confessing her love for me?
"Do not judge me hastily," she said. "I am not like the fair, cold girls of this northern clime. My father had Spanish blood in his veins, and some of it flows in mine. My music went deep into my heart, and my heart cried aloud for one kind word from you."
"Am I not always kind, Coralie?"
"Ah, yes, with that cold, English kindness which kills even sooner than your keen frost and biting winds. I want something more than this cruel kindness. Oh, cousin, can you not see I love you? I love you—ah, heaven, how dearly!—and I want your love in return."
Believe me, reader, I was speechless. I would fain have raised her, have told her, in short, sharp words, that what she was saying branded her as unmaidenly and indiscreet; but I was powerless either to move or to speak.
"I loved you," she said, "the first moment I saw you. You are not like other men, Sir Edgar. You are so generous, so simply truthful, so noble. No wonder that I love you; no wonder that I look proud of my love. Ah, me! ah, me! would that I knew how to tell you! Give me your love; you shall never repent it. I will make home heaven for you. Men say that I have beauty and talent. Ah, me! I would use every gift I have for you; help you to win high honors that cold, unambitious natures never dream of. Ah, love me; love me, cousin! You will find no one else so true!"
Her face paled with passion; her glorious eyes, dim with tears, were raised to mine.
"Forgive me that I have spoken first. I should have died with my love. I know that other women in my place would have done so. I could not; life is strong within me. I could not die here, tortured to death by inches, without telling you. Ah, say to me that I shall not die!"
Weak words of mine cannot tell the passionate music of her voice, the passionate beauty of her face.
"You do not speak to me; you cannot forgive me that I have not borne my love and sorrow in silence until it killed me. Ah, see what love must mine be to make me to speak to you, to make me kneel to you, asking for my life, my life!" and as she uttered the words her head dropped on my arm, and her wealth of golden-brown hair fell over me.
God knows I would have given worlds to have rushed away. Never was man more unwillingly drawn into an embarrassing situation. And that very day Agatha had promised to be my wife. It was high time I said something. Gently as my patience and embarrassment would allow me, I raised the girl.
"Coralie," I said, gravely, "you are not yourself, I am sure."
"It is for my life," she said. "I am asking for my life!"
"You are easily excited and impulsive," I said; "that music has bewildered you. I do love you, Coralie; so does Clare. You are our kinswoman and our charge. How can we help loving you?"
"Ah, me!" she moaned, "you will not understand; it is not that love, Edgar. I want to pass my life by your side. I want your joys to be mine—your sorrows to be mine, darling; I want to share your interests. Will you not understand?"
"I do understand, Coralie. All the love of my heart is given—gone from me. Only this day I asked Miss Thesiger to be my wife, and she consented. All my love, my faith, my loyalty are hers."
I shall never forget how that fair woman rose and looked at me. The love-light and the mist of tears died from her eyes. All the lovely color faded from her face.
"You have slain me; you have given me, my death-blow!"
"Nay, Coralie; you are too sensible and brave."
She waved her hand with a gesture commanding silence.
"Do not seek to comfort me," she said. "You cannot. I have humiliated myself in vain. I have shown the depth of my heart, the very secrets of my soul, only that you may laugh at me with your fair-faced Agatha."
"Hush, Coralie; you have no right to say such things; what you have just said will never pass my lips. I shall not even think of it. You cannot suspect me of the meanness to talk to Miss Thesiger of anything of the kind."
She looked at me with a dazed face, as though she could barely grasp my meaning.
"Tell me it again," she said. "I cannot believe it."
"Listen, Coralie: I love Agatha Thesiger with all my heart, and hope very soon to make her my wife. I love her so dearly that I have no room in my heart for even a thought of any other woman."
Her face grew ghastly in its pallor.
"That is sufficient," she said; "now I understand."
"We will both forget what has been said tonight, Coralie; we will never think of it, but for the future be good cousins and good friends."
"No," she said, proudly; "there can be no friendship between us."
"You will think better of it; believe me, you have no truer friends than Clare and myself."
"If I ask for bread and you give me a stone, is that anything to make me grateful? But I declare to you, Sir Edgar Trevelyan, that you have slain me; you have slain the womanhood in me tonight by the most cruel blow!"
She looked so wild, so white, so despairing, I went up to her.
"Coralie," I said, "forget all this nonsense and be your own bright self again."
"My own bright self will never live again; a man's scorn has killed me."
Suddenly, before I knew what she was doing, she had flung herself in a fearful passion of tears in my arms. She was sobbing with her face close to mine and her hot hands clinging to me.
"With it all, Edgar, she does not love you; she loved Miles; she loves Crown Anstey, and not you. Forget her, dear; give her up. I love you. She is cold and formal and prudish; she is not capable of loving you as I do. She loves your fortune, not you, and I—oh, I would die if you bid me! Give her up, Edgar, and love me!"
When the passionate outburst of tears had had full vent, I unclasped her arms and placed her in a chair.
"Let us talk reasonably, Coralie. You ask me what is impossible. I shall never, with life, give up my engagement to Miss Thesiger."
A strange, bitter smile parted her white lips. I knew afterward what that meant.
"It is better to speak plainly," I continued, "in a case like this—better for both. Listen to me, and believe, Coralie, that even had I never seen Miss Thesiger, I—forgive me, but it is the truth—I should never have loved you with more than a cousin's love; my friendship, my esteem, my care, are all yours; more I can never give you."
Pray God I may never see another woman as I saw her then. She rose; with her white face and glittering eyes. Then came to mind that line:
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
"You throw the love I have offered you back in my face, Sir Edgar?"
"No, dear; I lay it kindly and gratefully in your hands, to make the joy and happiness of some good man's life."
"You distinctly tell me that you never did—never could love me?"
"I love you as my cousin, Coralie—not in any other way."
"You would never, never, under any circumstances, make me your wife?"
"Why do you pain me so, Coralie?"
"I want a plain answer—you would never marry me? Say 'yes' or 'no.'"
"No—since you force me into ungracious speech."
"Thank you," she said, bitterly; "I am answered—there can be no mistake. Sir Edgar, you speak your mind with honorable frankness. I have given you every chance to correct yourself, should you be mistaken. I am, perhaps, more richly endowed than you think for. Would my dowry make any difference?"
"No," I replied, sternly; "and, Coralie, pray pardon me; it is high time that this should end."
"It shall end at once," she replied. "It is to be war between us, Sir Edgar—war to the knife!"
"There is no need for war," I said, wearily. "Let us forget all about it. There will be no need for you to do anything romantic, Coralie. Stay on at Crown Anstey, and make yourself happy with Clare."
"Yes," she replied, with that strange smile, "I shall remain at Crown Anstey—I have no thought of going away."
She turned as though she would quit the room. I went up to her.
"Good night, Coralie. Shake hands, and let us part friends."
"When I touch your hand again, Sir Edgar, it will be under very different circumstances. Good night."
She swept from the room with the dignity of an outraged queen, leaving me unhappy, bewildered and anxious.
I had the most chivalrous love and devotion for all womankind, and I must confess to feeling most dreadfully shocked. It seemed almost unheard of.
Then I tried to forget it—the passionate words, the pale, tearful beauty of that wonderful face. Strange that Clare's conviction should so soon be realized. What of that nervous conviction she had that evil would come of this fair woman's love? What if that were realized, too?
I sat late that night, dreaming not only of the pure, sweet girl I had won, but of the woman whose burning tears had fallen on my hands. What harm could she do if she tried? What did she mean by being richly dowered? Had she any fortune that I did not know of? Her words were mysterious. Strange to say, the same nervous forebodings that had seized Clare seized me.
Evil would come of it; how or why I could not imagine, but it would come. I felt it gathering round me; then I laughed at myself, at my own foolish fancy.
Yet the same fancy had shaken me so that when I went into Clare's room to say "Good night," she asked me if I were ill, and would not be satisfied until I laughingly told her my happiness had been too much for me.
I felt shy as a girl the next morning at the thought of coming downstairs to meet mademoiselle. Nor was I quite devoid of some little fear. Would she be sorrowful, resigned, pathetic, angry, or what? It was impossible to tell.
Imagine my surprise on opening the breakfast-room door to find her already at the table, looking blooming and beautiful as a June rose. She greeted me gayly, with bright smiles and bright words. I might have thought all the passion, the sorrow and despair of last night a dream.
Only too happy to imitate her, I began to talk of a score of indifferent matters. About everything she had some piquant, bright words to say. By the time breakfast was ended I had really begun to think I must have dreamed the most unpleasant scene.
Yet I thought to myself that I must be guarded. I must continue to be kind to her because she had no other friends, but all kindness shown to her must be of the true, cousinly type.
This morning, instead of lingering with her while she went through the conservatories, as had been my idle fashion, I went at once into Clare's room. Coralie noticed the change, for her face grew pale as I quitted the room.
Some weeks passed without anything happening. I went over to Harden Manor every day. The sun never set without my seeing Agatha, and every day I loved her more and more.
She was so simple, so tender, so true; now that she had promised to be my wife, there was no idle coquetry about her, no affection of shyness. She was simply perfect, and it seemed to me that by some wonderful miracle I had reached the golden land at last.
Then I began to agitate for an early marriage. Why wait? Lady Thesiger told me laughingly that there was much to do at Crown Anstey before I could take my wife home.
"Remember," she said, "that before your sister came there had been no ladies at the Hall for some years. The late Lady Trevelyan died sixteen years ago."
I saw that she had completely forgotten the existence of mademoiselle, and did not care to remind her of it.
"You will want to refurnish a suite of rooms for Agatha," she continued; "and there will really be so much to do that if we say Christmas for the wedding, that will be quite soon enough."
"It seems like an eternity!" I said, discontentedly.
"It is the most picturesque season of the year for a wedding," said Lady Thesiger, "I like the holly and evergreens even better than summer flowers."
So it was settled; Clare agreed with Lady Thesiger that Crown Anstey required preparation for a bride.
"Those reception rooms want refurnishing," said my sister. "Of course, after your marriage you will give parties and balls. You will have to show hospitality to all the county, Edgar."
Half to my consternation, she said this before Coralie. I looked at her hastily, wondering how she would take it. Her beautiful face was quite calm, and wore an expression of pleased interest.
"Do you agree with me, Coralie?" asked my unsuspecting sister.
"Certainly; there is no position in the county equal to that of Lady Trevelyan of Crown Anstey."
"How strange it is, Edgar, that you should be married, and your wife Lady Trevelyan! Sometimes it seems to me all a dream."
"Dreams come and go so lightly," said Coralie, with that smile which always made me slightly afraid.
The remainder of that day we spent in making out a long list of all things needful. Coralie's taste was paramount. She decided upon little matters of elegance we never even thought of. It was she who strongly advised me to send to London for Mr. Dickson, the well-known decorator.
"He will arrange a suite of rooms so perfectly that you will hardly know them," she said.
So it was decided. Mr. Dickson came, and when he found there was to be no limit either to time, expense, money, or anything else, he promised me something that should make Crown Anstey famous. All things went on perfectly. The magnificent preparations making for my darling occupied my time most happily. It was now almost the end of November, and our marriage was to take place on the 26th of December. Mr. Dickson and his army of workmen had taken their departure, and the rooms prepared for my wife were beyond all praise.
The boudoir was hung in blue and silver; it was a perfect little fairyland; nothing was wanting to make it a nest of luxury. The boudoir opened into a pretty little library, where all the books that I thought would please Agatha were arranged. There was a dressing-room, a bath-room and a sleeping-room, all en suite. Mr. Dickson had improvised a pretty flight of stairs leading into a small conservatory, and that opened into the garden.
When the pictures, the flowers, the statues, the rich hangings and the graceful ornaments were all arranged, I was more pleased than I had been for some time. Lady Thesiger came over to look at them, but my darling was not to see them until they were her own.
There was an unpleasant duty to perform. What was to be done with Coralie? Knowing Lady Thesiger's opinion of her, I felt sure she would never allow her daughter to live in the same house. What was to be done with her? Where was she to go? I did not know in the least what to suggest. I was perfectly willing to offer her a very handsome allowance, knowing that, as Sir Barnard's charge, she had some claim on me.
I might have spared myself all the trouble of thinking and deciding. One morning Mrs. Newsham, a pretty young matron, very popular in our neighborhood, paid us a visit.
Coralie, as usual, received her, and did the honors of the house. A very beautiful fountain had just been placed in the lawn, and we went to look at it. I had left the two ladies looking over the basin of the fountain while I raised the branches of a rare and valuable plant.
Stooping down, I did not hear the commencement of the conversation. When my attention was attracted, Mrs. Newsham was concluding a sentence with these words: "If ever you leave Crown Anstey."
I saw Coralie d'Aubergne look up at her with a quiet smile.
"I shall never leave Crown Anstey," she said, "under any possible circumstances."
Mrs. Newsham laughed.
"You may be married, or Lady Trevelyan may not like the place and wish it closed—a thousand things may happen to prevent you remaining here always."
But I saw Coralie d'Aubergne shake her head, while she replied, calmly:
"No, Mrs. Newsham, I shall never leave Crown Anstey."
I cannot tell how the words impressed me. I found myself repeating them over and over again—"I shall never leave Crown Anstey."
Yet she must have known that when my young wife came home, Crown Anstey would be no place for her.
Was there any meaning in the words she repeated so often, or did she say them merely with an idea of comforting herself?
It was that very evening that I sat by myself in the library arranging some papers, and thinking at the same time what I must say to Coralie, and how I must say it, when the door suddenly opened and she entered.
I looked at her, surprised, for she did not often intrude when I was alone and occupied. She was very pale. With quiet determination on her beautiful face, she walked up to me and leaned her arm on the back of my chair.
"So, cousin," she said, "this marriage is going on?"
"Certainly, Coralie. I pray to God nothing may prevent it."
"You would lose your reason, I suppose, if you lost Agatha?"
"I cannot tell. I only know that, no matter how long I lived, life would have no further charm for me."
She bent her head caressingly over me; her perfumed hair touched my face.
"Edgar," she whispered, "once more I lose sight of my woman's pride; once more I come to you and ask you—ah! do not turn from me—I ask you to give up Agatha, and"—
She paused, for very shame, I hope.
"Give up Agatha and marry you, you would say, Coralie?"
"Ah, dear, I love you so! You would never repent it. I would make you happy as a crowned king."
I stopped her.
"Say no more, Coralie! I am grieved and shocked that you should renew the subject. I told you before I should never love any woman, save Agatha Thesiger, were I to live forever."
"Nothing will ever induce you to change your mind?" she asked, slowly.
"No, nothing in the wide world."
She paused for a few minutes, then she quietly lifted her arm from the chair.
"Has it ever struck you," she said, "it may be in my power to do you deadly mischief?"
"I never thought you capable of such a thing, nor do I believe that it is in your power."
"It is," she said; "you and your sister are both in my power. If you are a wise man, you will take my terms and save yourself while there is time. Of course, if I were Lady Trevelyan, my interests would be yours; then, if I knew anything against your welfare, I should keep the secret faithfully—ah! a thousand times more faithfully than if it concerned my own life."
She looked earnestly at me.
"You hold no secrets of mine, Coralie. I have no secrets. Thank God, my life is clear and open—a book any one may read. Supposing I had a secret, I should not purchase the keeping of it by any such compromise as you suggest. I detest all mysteries, Coralie—all underhand doings, all deceit. Speak out and tell me, Coralie, what you mean."
"I shall speak out when the time comes. Once more, Cousin Edgar, be reasonable; save yourself—save me."
She withdrew some steps from me, and looked at me with her whole soul in her eyes.
"I will not hear another word, Coralie. I do not wish to offend you, or to speak harshly to you; but this I do say—if ever you mention this, to me, hateful subject, I will never voluntarily address you again—never while I live."
She made no answer. She turned, with a dignified gesture, and quitted the room.
I never gave one serious thought to her threats, looking upon them as the angry words of an angry woman. They did not even remain upon my mind or disturb my rest.
On the following day Lady Thesiger had arranged to come to Crown Anstey with Agatha, for the purpose of choosing from some very choice engravings that had been sent to me from London. I asked Sir John to accompany them and stay at lunch. It was always a red-letter day to me when my darling came to my house, and I remember this one—ah, me!—so well. It was fine, clear and frosty; the sky was blue; the sun shone with that clear gold gleam it has in winter; the hoar frost sparkled on the leafless trees and hedges; the ground was hard and seemed to ring beneath one's feet.
"A bright, clear day," said Coralie, as we sat at breakfast together.
"Yes," I replied. "Coralie, will you see that a good luncheon is served today? Sir John and Lady Thesiger are coming—Miss Thesiger, too—and they will remain for lunch."
Her face cleared and brightened.
"Coming today, are they? I am very glad."
I looked upon this as an amiable wish to atone for the unpleasantness of last night, and answered her in the same good spirit.
I am half ashamed to confess that when Agatha was coming I seldom did anything but stand, watch in hand, somewhere near the entrance gates. That I did today, and was soon rewarded by seeing the Harden carriage.
Ah, me! will the memory of that day ever die with me? My darling came and seemed to me more beautiful than ever. Her sweet, frank eyes looked into mine; her pure, beautiful face had a delicate flush of delight, and I—God help me!—forgot everything while by her side.
We were all in the library. How I thanked God afterward that Clare had not felt well enough to have the engravings sent to her room, as I proposed! We sat round the large center-table on which the folios lay open, Sir John, who took great delight in such things, explaining to Lady Thesiger. I was showing Agatha those I liked best, when quite unexpectedly, Coralie entered the room.
The moment I saw her face I knew that she meant mischief. Surely, woman's face never had so hard, so wicked a look before.
Sir John rose and bowed. Lady Thesiger looked, as she always did in the presence of mademoiselle, constrained and annoyed. Agatha's look was one of sheer surprise, for Coralie walked up to the table.
"Choosing engravings, Miss Thesiger?" she said, with an easy smile. "I must ask you to give me your attention for a short time. Perhaps you will not think the engravings of much importance after that."
She declined the chair Sir John placed for her with the hauteur of a grand duchess. As she stood there, calmly surveying us, she looked the most beautiful yet the most determined of women.
"May I ask," she said, "the exact date fixed for the marriage?"
Sir John answered her:
"The 26th of December, mademoiselle."
"May I ask," she said, "what Sir Edgar has thought of doing for me? Doubtless Lady Thesiger will have advised him. This has been my home for many years, and is my only home now. Has the question been considered? In the event of Sir Edgar bringing a young wife here, what is to become of me?"
There was a mocking smile on her beautiful face; her dark eyes flashed from one to the other of us; we felt uncomfortable. She had just hit upon the weak point that disturbed us all, the one cloud in a clear sky.
As no one else seemed inclined to speak, I answered:
"Everything will be done for your comfort, Coralie; you may be sure of that, for Sir Barnard's sake."
"And not for my own?" she said. "What is your idea of comfort, Sir Edgar? Do you propose offering me a little cottage and a few pounds per week? That would not content me."
She looked so imperial, so beautiful, that I wondered involuntarily what would content her, she who might have anything.
"Whatever you yourself think right, Coralie, you shall have."
I saw a strong disapproval in Lady Thesiger's face, and Coralie's quick eyes, following mine, read the same.
"Ah!" she said, hastily, "Lady Thesiger does not approve of carte blanche to ambitious cousins."
Lady Thesiger really restrained herself; she was tempted to speak—I saw that—but refrained.
"The best plan," said Sir John, calmly, "would be for Mademoiselle d'Aubergne to say what she herself wishes."
"I will tell you," she replied, "what I claim."
Then, as we looked up at her in wonder, she continued, with bland calmness:
"I claim as my own and right, on the part of my infant son, the whole of the estate and revenues of Crown Anstey. I claim, as widow of the late Miles Trevelyan, Esq., my share of all due to me at his death."
A thunder-bolt falling in our midst would not have alarmed us as those words did. Sir John looked sternly at her.
"In the name of heaven, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say, Sir John. I was the wife, and am now the widow, of the late Miles Trevelyan, Esq."
"But that is monstrous!" he cried. "Miles was never married."
"Miles was married to me, Sir John."
"But we must have proof; your word goes for nothing. There must be indisputable proof of such an assertion."
She smiled with quiet superiority.
"Knowing with whom I have to contend, it is not probable that I should assert anything false. I am prepared to prove everything I say."
My darling's face grew white as death. I was bewildered. If this were true—oh, my God! if it were true—fortune, love and everything else were lost.
"Where were you married?" asked Sir John.
"At Edgerton—St. Helen's, Edgerton. The Rev. Henry Morton married us, and the two witnesses were Sarah Smith, who was my maid, and Arthur Ireton, who was head game-keeper here at Crown Anstey."
It was so quickly told and so seemingly correct, we looked at each other in amaze.
"We must examine into it," said Sir John, "before going any further."
"That will be best," she replied, composedly. "I had better explain that Miles, poor fellow, fell in love with me the first time he saw me. Sir Barnard would not hear of such a thing. He told Miles that if he persisted in marrying me he would curse him. Perhaps he had his own reasons for not liking me. His son tried to obey him, but I am proud to say that the love Miles had for me was far stronger than fear of his father. Still, for pecuniary reasons he did not care to offend him, so we were married privately the second year of my stay at Crown Anstey."
She turned to Lady Thesiger with a mocking smile.
"I know perfectly well," she said, "why your ladyship has never liked me. You met me walking one evening with Miles Trevelyan in the Anstey woods; you saw him kiss me. You know, now, that he was my husband and had a right to kiss me if he chose."
Lady Thesiger bowed very stiffly.
"Two years after our marriage," Coralie continued, "my little son, called Rupert, after the Crusader Trevelyan, was born. Under the pretense of visiting some of my relations, I went to Lincoln. In the registry of the church of St. Morton Friars you will find the proper attestation of my son's birth."
"Where is that son?" asked Sir John, incredulously.
"At Lincoln. I can send for him. You can go there and see him; he is under the care of Sarah Smith, my nurse. He is living and well, and he, not Mr. Edgar, is the heir of Crown Anstey."
"But why," asked Sir John, incredulously, "why have you never told this story before? It seems incredible that you should have waited until now."
"I have my own reasons," she replied. "I waited first to see what Sir Edgar would be like; then, when I saw him—I—I need not be ashamed to own it, even before Miss Thesiger—I liked him, and if he had been reasonable I should never have told my story at all."
"That is," said Sir John, with supreme disgust, "if Edgar had been duped by you and had married you, you would have defrauded your son of his rights?"
"Yes," she replied, with a smile; "it is Crown Anstey I love, and I would rather be the wife than the mother of the master of Crown Anstey."
"You are a wicked woman," he said, sternly.
"I am a successful one," she retorted. "Pray, Sir John, examine all these proofs at your earliest convenience; I am anxious to take my place as mistress of my own house; I am anxious to have my child here in his own home."
We all rose; no words can express my emotions. It was not the fortune, God knows—not the fortune; but I knew when I lost that I lost Agatha.
I felt my face growing white as death itself and my hands trembled.
"One moment," I said. "A year ago the doctor told me if my sister kept up her strength, and had nothing to make her either anxious nor unhappy, she would in all probability recover. Now, whether this story be true or false, I pray you all, for God's sake, keep it from her!"
"I shall not mention it," said Coralie.
"Do not despair, Edgar," said Sir John. "I do not believe—I never shall!"
"I wrote to London last night," continued Coralie, "for Mr. Dempster, who was Sir Barnard's lawyer on one or two occasions. You, of course, Mr. Edgar Trevelyan, will retain the services of the family solicitors."
"I shall need no solicitors if your story be true. I shall not seek to defraud Miles' son of his birthright; I shall yield it to him."
"You will find it true in every particular," she said; "and remember always that it is your own fault I have told it."
With that parting shot she quitted the room.
"My poor boy," said Sir John, "this is a terrible blow to you."
"I am afraid," said Lady Thesiger, "that this abominable woman has spoken the truth. I always thought poor Miles had something on his mind—some secret. I told him so one day, and he did not deny it."
My darling came up to me with her sweet, pale face and outstretched hands.
"Never mind, Edgar," she said. "If you lose Crown Anstey I will try to love you all the more to make up for it."
What could I do but bless her and thank her? Yet I knew—God help me, I knew in losing my fortune I lost her!