So Christabel, kneeling by her aunt's chair in the fire-glow, just as she had knelt upon the night before Mr. Hamleigh's coming, with faltering lips confessed her secret.
"My dearest, I have known it for ever so long," answered Mrs. Tregonell, gravely, laying her slender hand, sparkling with hereditary rings—never so gorgeous as the gems bought yesterday—on the girl's sunny hair. "I cannot say that I am glad. No, Christabel, I am selfish enough to be sorry, for Leonard's sake, that this should have happened. It was the dream of my life that you two should marry."
"Dear aunt, we could never have cared for each other—as lovers. We had been too much like brother and sister."
"Not too much for Leonard to love you, as I know he does. He was too confident—too secure of his power to win you. And I, his mother, have brought a rival here—a rival who has stolen your love from my son."
"Don't speak of him bitterly, dearest. Remember he is the son of the man you loved."
"But not my son! Leonard must always be first in my mind. I like Angus Hamleigh. He is all that his father was—yes—it is almost a painful likeness—painful to me, who loved and mourned his father. But I cannot help being sorry for Leonard."
"Leonard shall be my dear brother, always," said Christabel; yet even while she spoke it occurred to her that Leonard was not quite the kind of person to accept the fraternal position pleasantly, or, indeed, any secondary character whatever in the drama of life.
"And when are you to be married?" asked Mrs. Tregonell, looking at the fire.
"Oh, Auntie, do you suppose I have begun to think of that yet awhile?"
"Be sure that he has, if you have not! I hope he is not going to be in a hurry. You were only nineteen last birthday."