No matter what I did, that face was always before me. If I read it
looked up at me with sweet, serene eyes from the pages of my book. It
rose between me and the blue heavens. I saw it in every flower. It
haunted me until I could have cried out for respite from the pleasure
that was yet half pain.
Poets sing of the joy and the rapture of love. Who knows its pain? For
pain it surely is when no sleep comes near you, and the every-day duties
of life only weary you, and your sole desire is to dream over looks and
words you cannot forget. It is surely pain when a thousand doubts assail
you, when you weigh yourself in the balance and find yourself wanting.
A hundred times each day I found myself wondering whether Sir John would
think me good enough for his daughter. She was not his heiress, I knew,
for he had a son at college, but she was lovely, high-born,
accomplished, and my one great puzzle was whether he would think me a
good match for her.
Other doubts came to madden me. Perhaps she was already engaged. She had
doubtless a number of admirers. Who was I that I should dare to hope for
her favor?
It was only two days since I had seen her, and I longed to see her
again. A fierce, wild desire to look once more into that sweet face took
possession of me. When my longing was gratified the very gates of
Paradise seemed opened to me. One beautiful morning Lady Thesiger and
Agatha came over to Crown Anstey. It so happened that I was in Clare's
room when they arrived, and Coralie, too, was there, attending to the
flowers, giving them fresh water, cutting off dead leaves and gathering
the fairest buds.
Lady Thesiger and Miss Thesiger were suddenly announced. Clare looked
eagerly, and I just caught the dark, bitter expression on Coralie's
face; then they entered. As a matter of course, I introduced Lady
Thesiger first. She stooped down to kiss the sweet face that seemed to
win universal love. Then I remember taking Agatha's hand and leading her
up to Clare. What could they have thought of me? I forgot everything
except that the two women I loved best were there together.
Lady Thesiger then turned toward mademoiselle. There was no kindly hand
extended, no warm greeting, no friendly words. Lady Thesiger made the
most formal of bows, Coralie returned it by one more formal still,
Agatha did the same, and a strange, constrained silence fell upon us
all.
Without a word mademoiselle quitted the room. The beauty of her face was
not pleasant in that moment; there was a glitter in her eye, a
compression of her lips that might have told any one to beware. Lady
Thesiger became her own natural self after Coralie's departure; she
talked so kindly to Clare that I could have kissed her hand in
gratitude.
I took Miss Thesiger to show her my sister's flowers; for no word of
mine would those lovely eyes look up. She was not shy; her grace of
manner was too perfect for that, but she was evidently afraid to look at
me, and I reproached myself that I had perhaps frightened her at first.
Patiently I showed her flower after flower, perfect bud and perfect
blossom, the little white doves I had tamed, the birds of bright plumage
I had bought to amuse my sister. I showed her the little fountains that
rippled all day, the rocks and ferns. She admired everything.
"Your sister must be happy in spite of her illness," she said to me.
But I could bear those drooping eyes no longer.
"Miss Thesiger," I said, hurriedly, "do not be unkind to me. I know I am
very presumptuous, but do, pray do, give me one kind look before you
go."
Then she raised her eyes and looked at me. Alas! my tell-tale face. They
fell again, and the crimson flush mounted to her white brow. I could say
no more to her after that. She went to her mother's side, and they
talked to Clare until it was time for lunch.
I asked if they would remain and take lunch with my sister. They
consented, and when it was arranged I sent to ask Coralie if she would
join us. Her answer was that she was busily engaged and begged we would
excuse her. Again I felt sure that Lady Thesiger looked considerably
relieved.
Every moment I was falling more deeply and more helplessly in love, and
yet across all my rapturous thoughts of Agatha came doubt and wonder as
to why they did not like Coralie.
Strange; she had the beauty of a siren, the grace and wit of a queen of
society, the talents and accomplishments of a complete woman of the
world, yet no one seemed to like her. How could it be?
Lady Thesiger rose at last, declaring that she was ashamed at the length
of her visit. When they were gone I went back to Clare. She looked up
at me with a smile; there was a bright flush of animation on her face.
"How much I like them, Edgar! How kind Lady Thesiger is, and Agatha! Oh,
brother, how I wish I had a sister like her!"
I thought I would ask her to solve my doubt.
"Clare," I said, gravely, "I want you to explain something to me. You,
being a woman, can understand women. Tell me how it is no one likes
Coralie. She is beautiful and clever; why is it no one cares for her?"
My sister looked at me uneasily.
"I cannot tell. I wish you would not ask me, Edgar."
"Nay; tell me what you think?"
"Then I fancy it must be because she is not quite sincere. I do not like
saying anything so unkind. You must not let it prejudice you against
her; but she gives me always the impression of a person who leads two
lives--one that everybody sees and one that nobody understands save
herself."
"How old should you imagine her to be?" I asked; and again my sister
looked uneasily at me.
"We have been in the habit of considering her a young girl," she
replied, "but do you know, Edgar, I believe she is more than thirty?"
"It is impossible!" I cried. "Why, Clare, she does not look a day more
than eighteen."
"She is what the French people call well preserved. She will look no
older for the next ten years. She has a girl's figure and a girl's face,
but a woman's heart, Edgar, I am sure of it."
"She is thirty, you say, and has been here for five years; that would
make her a woman of twenty-five before she left France. A French woman
of twenty-five has lived her life."
"That is just what I mean," she replied. "Rely upon it, for all her
girlish face and girlish ways, Coralie d'Aubergne has lived hers."
"Clare," I asked, half shyly, "how do you like Miss Thesiger?"
A look bright as a sunbeam came over my sister's face.
"Ah! hers is a beautiful nature--sweet, frank, candid, transparent--no
two lives there, Edgar. Her face is as pure as a lily, and her soul is
the same. No need to turn from me, dear; I read your secret when she
came in. If you give me such a sister as that I shall be grateful to
you."
"Then you think there might be some chance for me if I asked her to
become my wife?"
"Assuredly. Why not?"
She said no more, for at that moment Coralie returned; she had been in
the garden gathering some flowers for Clare. The brightest bloom was on
her face; the brightest light was in her eye. Looking at her, it was
impossible to believe that she was anything but a light-hearted happy
girl.
She glanced round the room.
"Your visitors are gone," she said. "I felt sure they were staying for
dinner."
"Coralie," I asked, "Lady Thesiger tells me she has been here a good
deal, yet you do not seem to be on very intimate terms with her?"
"No," she said, with that frank smile that was lovely enough to charm
any one. "I neither like nor admire Lady Thesiger."
Clare uttered a little cry of astonishment.
"Why not?" I asked.
"I should not like to prejudice you against them, Sir Edgar; but as you
ask me, I will tell you. The Thesigers have but one object."
"What is it?" I inquired for she had paused abruptly, and seemed to be
entirely engrossed in her flowers.
"The one aim they have had in view for several years past is to see
Agatha mistress of Crown Anstey. She was educated solely and entirely
for that purpose."
"I do not believe it!" cried Clare, indignantly.
"I should never expect you to do so. You are too unworldly--too good;
you know nothing of the manners of fashionable people. Sir Barnard knew
it. They fairly hunted him down; they were always driving over here, or
asking Sir Barnard and Miles there; they were continually contriving
fresh means to throw Miles and Agatha together."
I would not please her by showing my anger.
"Perhaps," I said, carelessly, "Miles admired her; he may even have been
her lover."
She turned to me with a strange, glittering smile, a look I could not
fathom on her face.
"No," she replied: "Miles knew all about it; he was too sensible to be
caught by the insipid charms of a mere school-girl. Sir Barnard was not
so wise; he would have liked to join the two estates--he spoke of it
very often--but Miles never gave the matter a serious thought."
There was such unconcealed bitterness in her words and look--such malice
in that glittering smile, I turned away half in disgust.
"All our neighbors understand Lady Thesiger's politics," she continued;
"they have been a source of great amusement for some time."
"Miss Thesiger is not a day above eighteen," I said, fairly angry at
last; "so that there can not have been much time for manoeuvring."
"Ah!" she said, "how I admire you, Sir Edgar. That simple, noble faith
you have in women is most beautiful to me; one sees it so seldom in
those who have lived always among fashionable men and women."
A little speech that was intended to remind me how strange and fresh I
was to this upper world. I began to find something like dislike to
mademoiselle growing up in my mind; but I spoke to her of the Thesigers
no more.