It was some little time before I asked Clare how she liked Coralie, then
the answer was most diplomatic.
"I am so very sorry for her, Edgar, and so pleased that she has a home
with us."
She never said more than that, or less. Knowing her amiable character, I
came to the conclusion that she did not like her, but was too
good-natured and kind-hearted to say so.
Mademoiselle, as she was called in the household, was very kind to my
sister. She engaged a maid, whose only business was to wait upon her;
and more than that, she spent some hours, at least, every day in her
room. She attended to her flowers, fed her birds, selected her books,
played and sang to her, read to her, talked to her in her bright, lively
way, superintended her dress, so that I always saw my darling
exquisitely attired; and yet I could not see that Clare liked her.
She soon made herself almost indispensable. She gave orders to the
housekeeper and cook, she managed everything; she received our visitors
and entertained them with marvelous grace and courtesy; she understood
all the affairs of the estate; in fact, she was, to all intents and
purposes, mistress of the house.
I insisted upon making her a very handsome allowance, which, after a
little resistance, she accepted.
For a time everything went on most prosperously. How I loved my new life
no words of mine can tell. The luxury of having plenty of money, of
being able to do what I liked with my time, of seeing my sister so
happy, of being altogether without those dark fears for the future which
so often beset those whose lot is hard work and very limited means--I
thanked God for it all.
I had made the acquaintance of most of the tenants on the estate, and my
neighbors had begun to call upon me. It was surprising how every one
liked, or, I may say, loved, my sister Clare. That invalid couch of hers
became a kind of center of society.
One morning I saw some cards lying on the hall table. Coralie was
standing near when I took them up. "Sir John Thesiger," "Lady Thesiger."
"That is a new name," I said to mademoiselle.
When she took the card from my hand and saw it, a dark look came over
her face; I saw her lips close more firmly.
"Have you not heard of the Thesigers? I thought every one knew Sir John.
They live at Harden Manor, about five miles from here."
"Are they old friends of the family?" I asked.
Again the darkening look and the tightening lips.
"Both Sir Barnard and Miles knew them, but I cannot say whether they
were very great friends. Shall you call?"
She asked the question carelessly, but I saw that she was awaiting my
reply with painful anxiety.
"Yes, I shall go; I like to be on friendly and intimate terms with all
my neighbors. Sir John is the Tory member for Chingwell, is he not?"
"Yes," she replied, shortly.
"And next year I hope to be returned for Anstey, so that, of all men, I
shall probably find him the most useful of acquaintances."
She turned away, and a sudden conviction came over me that, for some
reason or other, Coralie d'Aubergne did not like the Thesigers. I rode
over to Harden Manor on the day following, and found Sir John at home.
I liked him at first sight--a frank, kind-hearted English gentleman. He
was pleased to see me, and we spent some time talking over the late
baronet and his son. He told me something I had not heard from
Coralie--that there had been some slight misunderstanding between father
and son. He asked me if I would join the ladies, who were in the
drawing-room. I was only too pleased.
"Lady Thesiger was Sir Barnard's confidant. He consulted her about
everything--indeed, we were such near and dear friends that you must
forgive me if I cannot look upon you as a stranger."
Entering a very pretty drawing-room, long low and old-fashioned, I saw
two ladies, one a matron, the other a lovely young girl. Sir John
introduced me to his wife and then to Agatha, his daughter.
Looking up, I saw my fate. Never believe those cold-natured,
cold-hearted people who tell you that love grows from respect. It does
not. It comes into existence all at once--suddenly, as a flower is
kissed into color by the sun. When I entered Harden Manor, I was
heart-whole, fancy-free, loving no one but Clare; after one upward look
in Agatha Thesiger's face, I loved her with a love that was my doom.
Sir John looked at me in amazement.
"I--I did not know you had a daughter, Sir John."
"Ah! but I have, and a very precious one, too. Poor Sir Barnard was very
fond of Agatha; he used to call her his sunbeam. I was almost jealous of
him at times."
"There was no need, papa," said a sweet voice, the very sound of which
made me tremble.
Why had mademoiselle never mentioned this young girl, so fair, so
lovely? Why had she told me nothing about her? I should like to describe
her, reader, so as to make you love her. She was tall, very little above
the medium height, slender, graceful, with a delicate, arched neck and
the "fairest face the sun e'er shone on." Not beautiful--that word would
not describe her; fair, sweet and lovely. She had no brilliant or vivid
coloring; her complexion was clear, with the faintest rose-bloom; her
eyes large and blue, her lips sweet and sensitive; a white brow and a
wealth of soft, brown hair. She was no queenly beauty; she had not
Coralie's brilliancy and bright coloring, but she was the fairest and
most lovable girl who ever made a man's heart glad.
I did not know how the next few minutes passed. Sir John and Lady
Thesiger were talking about the neighborhood, and I was thinking that if
Agatha bid me lie down there at her feet and die for her sweet sake, I
should do so with a smile.
When I came to my senses, Lady Thesiger was asking me if I would dine
with them the week following; they were expecting some visitors from
London. I am sure she must have thought me almost an imbecile, I
answered her in such a confused, hesitating way.
All the time Agatha sat opposite to me, her lovely eyes drooping over
the drawing on which she was engaged when I entered. I could bear it no
longer; come what might, I must see those eyes. I went over and stood by
her side.
Alas! I had rarely, if ever, spoken to any young ladies except Clare and
Coralie. I had crossed the room purposely to speak to her. Standing by
her chair, every word I had ever known in my life died from memory, I
could not think of one thing to say.
Bending over the picture, I asked if she were fond of drawing, and then
I hated myself for the utter imbecility of the question.
When at once the blue eyes were raised to mine all constraint died away;
they kindled a fire in my heart that nothing could ever extinguish.
"Miss Thesiger," I said, "I should be so pleased if I could excite your
interest in my sister."
"Have you a sister?" asked Lady Thesiger. "I did not know it; I am
afraid she will think me very remiss."
I told them all about Clare, speaking, as was my fashion, with my heart
upon my lips, telling them of her sweetness, her patience, her long
illness, her cheerful resignation. Agatha forgot her reserve, Lady
Thesiger looked deeply interested, and when I had finished speaking, the
tears were in my eyes.
Lady Thesiger held out her hand.
"You have quite touched my heart, Sir Edgar; I shall not rest until I
have seen Miss Trevelyan."
"Nor I," added the daughter.
I turned eagerly to her.
"You will come over to see my sister? I should be so grateful; she would
welcome you so warmly. I have always longed for her to have a friend."
There was a slight constraint in the faces of mother and daughter. I
wondered what it meant. Lady Thesiger was the first to speak.
"We shall be delighted to do all that lies in our power to soften Miss
Trevelyan's terrible affliction. Pray, pardon me, Sir Edgar, but is
Mademoiselle d'Aubergne still at Crown Anstey?"
"She is staying there as a companion to my sister, who is utterly
incapable of taking any share in the management of the house."
"You must find a wife," said Sir John. "I should say myself that Crown
Anstey requires a mistress."
I longed to say there and then how I should pray him to give me his
daughter for a wife. Our eyes met. She must have read my thoughts, for
her face grew crimson, nor did I catch another glimpse of those lovely
eyes during my visit.
It was with difficulty I could tear myself away. Sir John, who was a
great connoisseur in horses, went with me to see Bonnie Prince. While we
stood on the lawn he turned to me with a constrained smile.
"So mademoiselle is still at Crown Anstey?" he said. "I suppose she is
as beautiful as ever?"
"Tastes differ," I replied, oddly. "Her beauty is not according to my
idea."
His kindly face cleared.
"That is right; she is of the siren order; some people would find her
irresistible. Now, pardon me if I say one word. I have known the lady
for five years, and know nothing against her, still mistrust her without
knowing why. You are young, new to the world; new, perhaps, to the
influence of great womanly beauty; keep your heart safe. Do not let
Mademoiselle d'Aubergne take it from you."
"There is no fear," I replied, with a light laugh. "Some day, Sir John,
I will tell you where my heart has found its home."
"I am glad you know how to take a hint given in all kindness," he said,
cordially. "As my old friend's heir and representative, my heart warms
to you."
I left Harden Manor a changed man. The very earth around seemed changed
to me; the sky wore a deeper blue; the grass a fairer green; there was
new music in the birds' songs and in the whisper of the wind, new hope
in my own heart, new beauty all around me. That was the beginning of the
glamour posts call frenzy, men call love.
Mademoiselle was out on the lawn as I rode up to the door. She came to
meet me, her glittering eyes on my face.
"Have you enjoyed your visit?" was the first question she asked.
"More than I ever enjoyed anything in my life. You did not tell me what
a beautiful neighbor I had at Harden Manor."
"I never thought of it," she replied, carelessly. "Agatha Thesiger is
only a school-girl."
"Then school-girls are very different from what I thought them," was my
reply, and mademoiselle turned away with a strange smile.