CORALIE TREVELYAN."
Was it true, or was it an invention? Poor little Rupert dying! Why, no one had even told me he was ill. Perhaps I had better go. No mother could be so cold and so wicked as to feign death for her only child.
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.