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Updated: June 17, 2025
"I suppose that you have heard of my engagement, Lady Bellamy?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Heigham; it is quite a subject of conversation in the Roxham neighbourhood. Angela Caresfoot is a sweet and very beautiful girl, and I congratulate you much." "You know, then, of its conditions?" "Yes, I heard of them, and thought them ridiculous.
Caresfoot, is a luxury that my husband is not allowed to indulge in; it is very well for lovers, but what is a compliment in a lover becomes an impertinence in a husband.
What could be behind it? At last it was open, and in the glass Angela saw framed in darkness the head and shoulders of George Caresfoot. At first she believed that her mind deceived her, that it was an apparition. No, there was no mistake. But the respirator, the hollow cough and decrepitude of the morning where were they? With horror in her heart, she turned and faced him.
She rose very quietly, but quite white with passion, and answered in her low voice "Whatever I am you made me, and you are a devil, George Caresfoot, or you could not take pleasure in the tortures you inflicted before you destroyed. But, don't go too far, or you may regret it. Am I a woman to be played with? I think that you have trained me too well." He laughed a little uneasily.
The fire was the only light in the room, and gathered round it, talking very low, their features thrown alternately into strong light and dark shadow, were George Caresfoot and Sir John and Lady Bellamy. It was evident from the strong expression of interest, almost of excitement, on their faces that they were talking of some matter of great importance.
But before I go I will tell you something, and you know I do not make mistakes. You will never sleep under this roof again, George Caresfoot, and we shall not meet again alive. You have had a long day, but your hour has struck." "Who told you that, woman?" he asked, furiously. "Last night I read it in the stars, to-night I read it in your face."
Her resolve once taken, Angela followed him with an untroubled face into the room where the registrar, a gentleman neatly dressed in black, was sitting at a sort of desk. Here the first thing her glance fell upon was the person of George Caresfoot. Although it was now the second week in June, he wore a respirator over his mouth and a scarf round his neck, and coughed very much.
I detest him I cannot tell you how I detest him." "It is amusing to hear you talk so, and to think that you will certainly be Mrs. George Caresfoot within nine months." "Never," answered Angela, passionately stamping her foot upon the floor. "What makes you say such horrible things?"
Her own face was ashy pale with fury, but she said never a word. Her silence was more terrible than words. Then she raised her hands and covered her eyes for a while. Presently she dropped them, and said, in a singularly soft voice, "It is over now." "What do you mean?" he asked, fearfully, for she terrified him. "I mean a great deal, George Caresfoot.
"So you have come back," she said. "Yes. Have you heard the news? Your flame, George Caresfoot, is dead." "I knew that he was dead. How did he die?" "Who told you he was dead?" "No one, I knew it; I told him he would die last night, and I felt him die this morning. Did she kill him or did Arthur Heigham?" "Neither, that bulldog flew at him and he fell into the lake."
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