Lord Winter raised no objections.

“It was not very convenient,” he said, but of course he “must bow to necessity.”

I was in time to catch the mail train.  Eight o’clock found me the next morning in London, and, without waiting for rest or refreshment, I started at once for Crown Anstey.

It was only too true.  I found my old home full of the wildest confusion; women were weeping and wringing their hands—­the whole place was in disorder.

I was shown into the library, and in a few minutes Coralie came to me.  I hardly recognized her; her face was white, her eyes were dim with long watching and bitter tears.

“I knew you would come,” she said.  “He is dying, Edgar; nothing in the world can save him.  Come with me.”

I followed her to the pretty chamber where little Sir Rupert lay.  Yes, he was dying, poor child!  He lay on the pretty, white bed; a grave-faced doctor was near; the nurse, Sarah Smith, sat by his side.

His mother went up to him.

“No better!  No change!” she cried, wringing her hands.  “Oh, my God! must I lose him?  Must he die?”

He was my unconscious rival; his little life stood between me and all I valued most, yet I knelt and prayed God, as I had never prayed before, that He would spare him.  I would have given Crown Anstey twice over for that life; but it was not to be.

“Do not disturb him with cries,” said the doctor to his mother; “he has not long to live.”

She knelt by his side in silence, her face colorless as that of a marble statue, the very picture of desolation, the very image of woe.

So for some minutes we sat; the little breath grew fainter and more feeble, the gray shadow deepened on the lovely face.

“Mamma!” he cried.  “I see!  I see!”

She bent over him, and at that moment he died.

I can never forget it—­the wild, bitter anguish of that unhappy woman, how she wept, how she tore her hair, how she called her child back by every tender name a mother’s love could invent.

It was better, the doctor said, that the first paroxysm of grief should have full vent.  All attempts at comfort and consolation were unavailing.  I raised her from the ground, and when she saw my face she cried: 

“Oh, Edgar!  Edgar! it is my just punishment!”

I did my best to console her.  I told her that her little child would be better off in heaven than were he master of fifty Crown Ansteys.  But I soon found that my words fell on deaf ears; she was unconscious.

“I do not like the look of Mrs. Trevelyan,” said the doctor.  “I should not be surprised to find that she has caught the fever herself.  If so, in her present state of agitation, it will go hard with her.”

He was right; before sunset Coralie lay in the fierce clutches of the fever, insensible to everything.

I do not like dwelling on this part of the story; it is so long, long since it all happened, but the memory of it stings like a sharp pain.