It seems an unmanly thing to write of a woman--my own face flushes hotly
as I write the words--but to make my story plain the truth must be
told. I could not help seeing that Coralie d'Aubergne was growing to
like me very much.
To describe how a man woos a woman is a task pleasant enough. It is
natural and beautiful; he is in his place then and she in hers; but who
would not shrink from the hateful task of describing how a woman woos a
man?
God bless all women, say I! My life has been a long one, and my
experience of them bids me say they are almost all angels. I have found
them true, tender and earnest. I could tell stories of women's quiet
heroism that would move any one's heart. God bless them, one and
all--they are the chief comfort in life!
Still even I, who love and respect them so much, am compelled to own
that there are women wanting in purity and goodness, in modesty and
reserve. I grieve to say Coralie d'Aubergne was one of them. She pursued
me, and yet it was all so quietly done that she left me no room to
speak--no ground on which to interfere.
If I went out in the gloaming to smoke a cigar, as I liked best to do
among the sighs of the roses, in a few minutes that beautiful, fair face
was sure to be smiling at my side. She had a pretty, picturesque way of
throwing a black lace shawl over her shoulders and of draping it round
her head, so making her face look a thousand times more fair.
She would come to me with that graceful, easy, dignified walk of hers
and say:
"If I am not intruding, Sir Edgar, I should enjoy a few minutes with
you."
She had a wonderful gift of conversation--piquant, sparkling and
intellectual. If I had been the dullest of the dull, I should have known
that such a woman would not pass her life as a companion unless she had
some wonderful end in view. She was far too brilliant. She would have
made a good ambassadress, for she could make herself all things to all
men. No matter what subject interested you, on that she could speak. She
seemed to understand every one intuitively; one's likes, dislikes,
tastes. She had a wondrous power of reading character. She was worldly
with the worldly, good with the good, romantic with the young, sensible
with the old. To me she was always the same. Sometimes, when I saw her
coming to meet me along those paths where the rose leaves lay dead, I
felt inclined to go away and leave her; but natural politeness came to
my aid. Then when she had talked to me for a few minutes, a strange,
subtle charm would steal over me.
I knew her well-chosen compliments were all flattery. I knew she was
pursuing me for some object of her own. Yet that charm no words can
describe was stronger than my reason. Away from her I disliked her; my
judgment was all against her; in her presence no man could help being
fascinated.
I thank Heaven that I had the shield of a pure and holy love; I was but
a weak man, and nothing else saved me. If there came a wet day, or one
that was not pleasant for walking, she had a thousand ways of making
time fly. She played billiards as well as any man; she read aloud more
beautifully and perfectly than I have ever heard any one else. She made
every room she entered cheerful; she had a fund of anecdote that never
seemed to be exhausted.
But the time she liked best for weaving her spells was after sunset,
before the lamps were lighted.
"You are fond of music, Sir Edgar," she would say to me. "Come, and I
will sing you some songs I used to sing years ago."
And she did sing. Listening to her, I could well believe in the
far-famed Orpheus lute. It was enough to bewilder any man. She had a
sweet, rich voice, a contralto of no ordinary merit, and the way in
which she used it was something never to be forgotten.
There was a deep bay-window in the drawing-room, my favorite nook; from
it there was a splendid view of waving trees and blooming flowers. She
would place my chair there for me and then sing until she sung my senses
away. There was such power, such pathos, such passion, in her voice that
no one could listen to it unmoved.
Then, when she had sung until my very senses were steeped in the sweet
madness of her music, she would come and sit, sometimes by my side,
sometimes on a Turkish cushion at my feet.
And then--well, I do not like to say more, but as women can woo, she
wooed me. Sometimes her hand, so warm and soft, would touch mine;
sometimes, to see what I was reading, she would bend over me until her
hair brushed my cheek and the perfume of the flowers she always wore
reached me.
Thank God, I say again, that I was shielded by a pure love.
"How I love Crown Anstey!" she said to me one evening; "if I were asked
to choose between being crowned Queen of Great Britain or mistress of
Crown Anstey, I should prefer to remain here."
How well I remember that evening! The golden summer was dying then; the
flowers seemed to be yielding all their sweetest perfumes to it; there
was a lovely light from the evening sky that lingered on the tufted lime
trees; the birds were singing a faint, sweet vesper hymn; the time so
soon was coming when they were to cross the sunny seas in search of
warmer climes.
I had been reading to Clare, but she did not seem to be quite so well
and asked to be left alone.
"Let Coralie play and sing for you, Edgar," she said; "I shall hear the
faint sound of it, and it will make me happy, because I shall know you
are well amused." I did not like to tell her how distasteful Coralie's
playing and singing were to me. We went into the drawing-room together.
I saw how everything was prepared for me; there were fresh flowers, my
favorite periodicals, my favorite chair, placed in the nook I liked
best.
"I shall sing to you some gay French chansons," said Coralie, "and we
will leave the door open so that Clare may hear them."
A few moments later and I was in an atmosphere of delight. The rich,
sweet music rose and fell; it cheered me like strong wine.
Then after a time its character changed; it was no longer gay,
triumphant and mirthful. The very spirit of love and pathos seemed to
breathe through it. My heart beat; every nerve thrilled; every sense
answered to these sweet, soft words.
It ceased then, and Coralie came over to the bay-window. She sat down
upon the Turkish curtains, and looked with longing eyes at the light on
the trees and flowers. There was a softened expression on her face, a
flush as of awakened emotion, a new and brighter light in those dark,
dangerous eyes. The white fingers trembled, the white bosom heaved as
though she had felt deeply the words she had been singing.
Then it was said she would rather be mistress of Crown Anstey than Queen
of Great Britain.
I laughed, not knowing what to say.
"Crown Anstey ought to thank you very much," I said. "You pay it a great
compliment."
"My heart is here," she continued, those dreamy eyes still fixed upon
mine. "I think if any one were to say to me, 'You must leave Crown
Anstey,' I should die."
All the music on earth seemed embodied in those few words.
"I should die," she repeated, "just as a flower dies when it is torn
from the soil it has taken deep root."
"Why do you speak of such things?" I asked. "No one thinks of your
going; this is your home."
"In my happiest hours the fear lies heaviest upon me," she replied. "No
one has ever spoken of my going, that is true; but I have common sense,
and common sense tells me if certain events happen I must go."
"What events do you mean?" I asked, all unconsciously.
She sighed deeply.
"If you were to be married, Sir Edgar--Cousin Edgar, I like to say
best--then I must go."
"I do not see the necessity."
"Ah! you do not understand; women are all jealous. I have grown so
accustomed to perform a hundred little services for you, they make the
pleasure and sunshine of my life. To be able to do some little thing to
help you is the highest earthly joy that I can ever know. When you are
married, Sir Edgar, your wife will take all this happiness from me."
"I do not see why," I replied, dryly, inwardly wishing myself safe in
Clare's room.
"Ah! you do not understand--men never can understand the love of women.
Wives, above all, are so very jealous. Fancy, if ever I wanted to make
your tea, or get anything ready for you, she would be angry, and I
should be wretched."
"In that case you must make tea for Clare instead of me."
"If I am anywhere near you, I must always attend to you before every one
and anything in the wide world," she said, impulsively.
"You are making very sure that my wife will not like you," I said. "What
if I have no wife?"
She shook her head gravely.
"You will marry, Sir Edgar. All the Trevelyans of Crown Anstey marry,
as becomes the head of a grand old family. You will marry, and your wife
will be the happiest woman in the world."
"I may be a modern Bluebeard, Coralie."
"No; you will not. Ah, me! To go away and leave Crown Anstey--to leave
you--I shall feel like Eve driven forth from Paradise to die."
My hand lay carelessly on the back of a chair. She bent down swiftly and
laid her burning lips upon it. I would not tell--my face flames as I
write the word--but unless you know all, reader, you will not understand
my story.
She laid her warm, soft lips upon it! And though I did not love her--did
not even trust her--the magnetic touch thrilled every nerve. I took my
hand away.
"Ah, cousin!" she said, looking at me with those dark, dangerous eyes,
"you love even your dog Hector better than me."
She was so near to me that the perfume from her flowers reached me. It
was by a desperate effort I broke the spell.
"This room is insufferably warm," I said; "I am going into the garden.
You had better see if Clare wants anything, Coralie."
So, like many another man, I ran away, not knowing how to meet my fair
adversary on equal grounds.