I was tortured with impatience. Had I been waiting for a verdict over life or death, my agony would not have been one-half so great.

The long ordeal of dinner had to pa.s.s.

"You will allow me to go to the drawing-room with you," I said to the mistress of the house. "I could not sit here alone."

Then I saw a chance. Agatha went to the piano and played one of Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words." The difference between the pure, sweet, high-bred English girl and the brilliant, seductive French woman never appeared to me so great as when they were at the piano. Coralie's music wrapped one's soul, steeped one's senses, brought one nearer to earth; Agatha took one almost straight to heaven. Listening to her, pure and holy thoughts came, high and n.o.ble impulses.

Then, seeing that Lady Thesiger looked tired, I suggested that she should rest upon the sofa while I took Miss Thesiger for a little stroll through the gardens. The evening was beautiful, warm and clear, the golden sun lingering as though loath to leave the fair world to darkness.

At last, at last! My hands trembled with impatience as I drew the black lace mantilla over her white shoulders. At last, at last I had her all to myself, only the birds and flowers around us, only the blue sky overhead.

Then, when I would have given worlds for the power of speech, a strange, dull silence came over me.

"Agatha," I said at last, "I came over today on purpose to see you. I want to ask you something, a favor so great my lips can hardly frame the words."

She looked at me. There was infinite wonder, infinite gentleness in her eyes. I took courage then, and told my tale in burning words. I cannot remember now, but I told her how I had loved her from the first moment I had ever seen her, and had resolved upon winning her, if she was to be won.

Never mind what pa.s.sed. I only know the sun never shone so brightly, the flowers were never one-half so fair, the world so bright, no man ever one-half so happy.

For she--well, she had listened to me, and her sweet lips quivered, her beautiful face had grown tender and soft; she laid her little, white hands in mine and said she loved me.

I have wondered since that the weight of my own happiness did not break my heart, the suspense had been so great.

"You love me? Say it again, Agatha. I cannot believe it. Oh, my darling, it seemed to me easier to reach the golden stars than to win you!"

"You did not try," she said, with a smile half sweet, half divine. "You always looked frightened at me."

"So I was, but I will grow bolder now. Such beauty, such purity, such goodness as yours would awe anyone. I can hardly believe now in my own good fortune. Say it again, darling."

She raised her sweet face to mine.

"I love you," she said, simply; and it seemed to me the words died away in the summer wind more sweetly than an echo from heaven would die.

"And you will be my wife? Agatha, promise me."

"I will be your wife," she said; and then, to my thinking, we went straight away to fairyland.

I do not remember the sun setting, although it must have set; for when my senses returned to me a servant was standing before us, saying that Lady Thesiger was afraid it was growing cold.

There lay the dew shining on the trees and flowers, yet we had not even seen it fall.

CHAPTER IX.

I would not leave the manor house until I had seen Sir John. Agatha did not go back to the drawing-room with me.

"What will mamma think?" she said, in utter dismay. "See how late it is; and the dew has fallen."

"I will tell her why I detained you, Agatha. You are sure that I shall not wake up tomorrow and find all this is a dream?"

"I do not think so," she replied; and then she would not stop for another word, and I went in to meet Lady Thesiger alone.

She was surprised when I told her. No matter what Coralie said about maneuvering, if ever I saw real, genuine surprise in any woman's face, it was in Lady Thesiger's this evening.

"You have asked Agatha to marry you!" she repeated, looking half bewildered; "and pray, Sir Edgar, what did the child say?"

"She promised to marry me," I replied, more boldly; "that is, of course, if Sir John and you, Lady Thesiger, have no objection."

"I am afraid that you have not taken that much into consideration. Asked the child to marry you! Why, Sir Edgar, how long have you been in love with her?"

"From the very first moment I ever saw her."

"Why," cried her ladyship, "Sir John told me you were in love, and had promised to confide in him."

Remembering what I had said to him, I explained to her that in speaking as I had done I referred entirely to Agatha.

"It is so utterly unexpected," she said, "that you must pardon my strange reception of your intelligence."

She sat quite silent for some minutes, then continued:

"It seems so strange for you to fall in love with Agatha. The dearest wish of Sir Barnard's heart was to have her for a daughter-in-law."

A fierce spasm of jealousy almost robbed me of my breath.

"Did she--did she--"

Then I could get no further.

"No, Agatha did not like Miles, if that is what you mean?"

"Did Miles love her?"

"I cannot tell--there was something very mysterious about him. He looked to me like one who had a secret on his mind. I have often wondered what it could be. He was not a happy man of late years."

"You have not told me yet, Lady Thesiger, if I have your good wishes."

She held out her hand with a gracious, kindly smile.

"Shall I tell you the truth--no flattery, but just the simple truth? I would rather Agatha married you than any other man in the nation. She has not only my full consent, but I am pleased, proud and happy."

"And Sir John, shall I have his consent?"

"There is little doubt of it. I hear him now--he has just arrived, I suppose. You shall see him at once."

I rode away from Harden Manor that night a happy man. Sir John, like Lady Thesiger, gave his full, free, unhesitating consent. We had a long, confidential conversation. He told me how his affairs stood. He was a wealthy man, but his expenses were great. He told me frankly that he should not be able to give Agatha a large portion at her marriage, nor could he leave her anything considerable at his death. Harden Manor, with its rich revenues, was all entailed on his son.