It was all over. The morning, with its sad office, had passed; the
servants had gone back to their work; the blinds were drawn up, and
light once more found its way into the darkened house. The will was read
in the library; the whole of the property, entailed and unentailed, was
left to his only son, Miles, and after him to his heirs. There was
several legacies to his servants, but no mention was made of
mademoiselle. I thought it strange at the time, afterward I understood
it.
Of course, as the poor young Miles was dead without heirs, I, as next of
kin, took his place. I faithfully carried out every wish expressed in
the will. That same evening I sent orders to London for a splendid
memorial window to be placed in the church, and while I sat wondering
whether I had remembered everything that required attention, there came
a rap at the library door. Mademoiselle would be glad if I could see her
for five minutes.
I went at once to the drawing-room, knowing she would be there. She was
dressed in the deepest mourning, and her face was very pale.
"I knew you would spare me a short time," she said. "I want to ask you a
question that I could not ask any one else. Of course you were present
when the will was read to-day?"
She raised her eyes to mine. I knew not what magnetism, what spell lay
in them; but no other eyes were like them. They compelled attention; a
man could no more release himself from their glance than he could fly. I
was not at all in love with her, yet those eyes held me spell-bound.
"I want you to tell me," she said, "if there was any other will.
Did--did Miles leave one?"
As she put the question to me I saw that her lips were parched and
burning, her white fingers so tightly clenched that they left great red
marks.
"No," I replied; "there was only one will, and that was Sir Barnard's."
A great calm fell over her. After some minutes she looked at me again.
"Was there any mention in that will of me?"
I told her none. Once more she raised those resistless eyes to mine.
"Then I am, indeed, alone in the world--alone and forsaken."
"Nay, nay!" I cried, eagerly; "do not say so. Clare will take care of
you."
"And you?" she asked, in a voice that must have melted an anchorite.
"I will help her--or, rather, I will take care of you both."
"What is your sister like?" she asked, eagerly. "Is she very
clever--very beautiful? Shall I be frightened at her?"
"She is the sweetest and most gentle of girls--doubly gentle from her
great affliction."
"What affliction?" she asked eagerly, "you did not tell me there was
anything the matter with her."
"She has a spinal complaint," I replied, "and is unable to move."
"Is it quite incurable?" she asked again.
"We hope not; perhaps a change of air may do something for her; but even
at the best, it will be years before she is able to go about."
"I am so sorry," she said; "so very sorry. How sad for you and for her.
I can understand why you want a companion for her; she can take no
active share in the management of a large establishment like this."
"No, no share at all. We will not decide anything until my sister comes;
but it seems to me that she will be most thankful to have you here, that
you will be more useful to her than I can say. She would not be able to
see guests, give orders or anything of that kind."
There was a strange light in her eyes, a strange, suppressed glitter in
her face.
"When will your sister come?" she next inquired.
"I am going to-morrow to fetch her. There will be no need for you to
make any alterations. You spoke of going away; there will be no need of
that. I leave here to-morrow, and when my sister comes I suppose the
sternest British propriety will be satisfied."
She smiled.
"I suppose so, too. And Sir Barnard has not even left me a
mourning-ring? Well, I have so much less to be grateful for. The old
servants were all remembered, I hope?"
"All of them. I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I have much to attend
to. I shall hope to find you well when I return."
What a strange fascination her beauty had! I remember it with a shudder.
Her face haunted me all night; I could not forget it.
The following morning I returned to London. I had yet to break the news
of our fortune to Clare, and make arrangements for our journey to Crown
Anstey.
People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is nothing. Certainly,
as far as the spiritual and higher, holier interests of life go, it is
not; but as far as this world is concerned, it is almost everything. I
had been poor and friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a
desert; now I had money, it was another place--bright, cheerful, every
one kind and friendly. I seemed to float in sunshine; the very air
around me was elastic, full of hope; every step was a pleasure. What
made the difference? I was poor, and now I had money.
Clare was pleased to see me; she cried out in astonishment at my black
clothes, so new and glossy.
"Edgar," she said, "I cannot understand you. You have money, clothes.
How is it? What has happened?"
I knelt down by her side and took her in my arms.
"Clare," I said, "God has been very kind to us. All of our poverty and
privations are ended. Will you be calm and brave if I tell you what it
is?"
"They have taken you into partnership!" she cried, rapturously. "They
have found out how clever and good you are!"
In the midst of my agitation I laughed at this very unbusiness-like
idea.
"It is better than that, Clare. There need be no more business, no more
work for me. You remember hearing my mother speak of my father's cousin,
Sir Barnard Trevelyan, of Crown Anstey?"
"Yes, I remember it," she said. "I had almost forgotten."
"He is dead, and, sad to say, both his sons are dead. One died with him,
and one died years ago. Now do you understand?"
"No," she replied. "They cannot have left us anything, because they did
not know us."
"Sir Barnard and his only son died together, and the heir to Crown
Anstey, the title and the whole of that vast fortune is--myself."
"You are not jesting, Edgar?"
"No; I am telling you the simple, perfect truth." And then, when she had
recovered from what to her was really a shock, I gave her the whole
history.
"I hope you will like Mademoiselle, Clare. She is so utterly friendless
and alone that, unless we keep her with us, I do not know what is to
become of her."
"I shall be sure to like her," she said. "My heart is so full of
happiness that I shall love every one. O, Edgar, if I could but get
well!"
Yes, that was the one drawback to our happiness. The bright, sweet
sister, who would have enjoyed our prosperity so much, was a helpless
invalid.
That same afternoon I went to the office and invited all my fellow
clerks to a sumptuous dinner at a far-famed restaurant. I made some sad
hearts light and happy with my money, thank God! Poor Stephen Knowsley
had a sick mother and was three quarters behind with his rent. I gave
him fifty pounds, and the tears that stood in his eyes were the sweetest
thanks man could have. What gives such pleasure as plenty of money to
help one's friends?
A comfortable invalid carriage was provided for Clare, and the journey
did not fatigue her. We said good-by to the old life, the old
privations, the old trials, and embarked on a new, smiling and sunny
sea.
Another week saw us comfortably settled at Crown Anstey. The first
bewilderment of our new position passed away, I began to feel more at my
ease as master of that magnificent mansion, and on my sister's calm face
I saw already signs of returning health.
We had a grand reception when I returned with Clare to Crown Anstey. The
Anstey church bells pealed out merrily; the servants were all assembled;
mademoiselle, fresh and beautiful as a morning star, was in the hall.
I saw the kindly looks of commiseration that followed my sister. All the
servants in the house vied with one another who should he the most
attentive. Coralie looked at me, with sweet, sisterly anxiety shining in
her eyes.
The following day Coralie suggested we find two nice, large, lofty
cheerful rooms for my sister's use. We decided upon two in the western
wing--they both looked on the Queen's Terrace--large, lofty rooms, with
the sun shining on them all day, each one containing two large windows,
from which could be seen a glorious vista of trees and flowers.
Without saying one word to Clare, they were prepared for her. Books,
music, pictures, statues, flowers, were all arranged in order;
everything bright and beautiful was brought there. A small part of the
room was partitioned off and made into a conservatory, where she could
see the flowers bloom and hear the birds sing all the day long.
I have seen many lovely places since then, but none that looked to me so
bright and beautiful as my sister's rooms. All that money could do to
alleviate her sufferings was done. I ordered the easiest reclining
chair, on which she could be gently moved from room to room, resolving
in my own mind, no matter what went on in other parts of the house, that
in her rooms there should be always sunshine and happiness.
Her joy when she was carried into them was most pretty and pathetic to
see. Then, when she was fairly installed, I wrote to London for the
celebrated Dr. Finlaison, and I placed her under his care. He gave me
some little hope.
In the course of time, he said, with the best of attention, the most
tender care and cheerful society, she would, he believed, recover so as
to be once more able to take her place in the world; and the hour in
which I heard that was, I do not hesitate to say, one of the very
happiest of my life.
This part of my story has been, perhaps, commonplace. There was coming
for me a different phase. If my reader thinks it too romantic, I can
only say--it is true.