Chapter 10 of Coralie by Charlotte M. Braeme

CHAPTER X

"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."

"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.