It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those that were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting pathos, the very trees, rustling outside in the October wind, the far-away sound of the waves beating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment—half a warning, half a promise.
“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder why that was there?”
He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was conscious of some influence in the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking round for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell on the small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by his servant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was opening it, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the old song which she was humming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before he answered.
“This telegram,” he said, at last, trying to control his voice, “is from Reckage. He is on his way now to see me.”
“He is coming here? Why is he coming here?”
He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her face, her eyes, her hair.
“What is it, Robert?” she said, clinging to him, for she heard something like a sob under his breath. “You have had bad news. You must tell me.”
“It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly worded ... but Pensée is coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legal difficulty about our marriage.”