“Poor man!” said Angela sympathetically; “he sent and asked to see you, did he not?”

“Well—­yes; but when I got there he talked more about the things of this world than of the next.  He is greatly distressed about your father.  I daresay you have heard how your cousin George supplanted your father in the succession to the Isleworth estates.  Your grandfather disinherited him, you know, because of his marriage with your mother.  Now that he is dying, he sees the injustice of this, but is prevented by the terms of your grandfather’s will from restoring the land to your branch of the family, so it must pass to some distant cousins—­at least, so I understand the matter.”

“You always told me that it is easy to drive a coach and four through wills and settlements and legal things.  If he is so anxious to do so, can he not find a way out of the difficulty—­I mean, some honourable way?”

“No, I believe not, except an impossible one,” and Mr. Fraser smiled a rather forced smile.

“What is that?” asked Angela carelessly.

“Well, that he should—­should marry you before he dies.  At least, you know, he says that that is the only way in which he could legally transfer the estates.”

Angela started and turned pale.

“Then I am afraid the estates will never be transferred.  How would that help him?”

“Well, he says he could then enter into a nominal sale of the estates to your father and settle the money on you.”

“And why could he not do this without marrying me?”

“I don’t know, I don’t understand much about these things, I am not a business man; but it is impossible for some reason or another.  But of course it is absurd.  Good night, my dear.  Don’t overdo it in the parish.”

Another week passed without any particular news of George’s illness, except that he was getting weaker, when one day Lady Bellamy appeared at the Abbey House, where she had not been since that dreadful Christmas Day.  Angela felt quite cold when she saw her enter, and her greeting was as cold as herself.

“I hope that you bring me no more bad news,” she said.

“No, Angela, except that your cousin George is dying, but that is scarcely likely to distress you.”

“I am sorry.”

“Are you?  There is no particular reason why you should be.  You do not like him.”

“No, I do not like him.”

“It is a pity though, because I have come to ask you to marry him.”

“Upon my word, Lady Bellamy, you seem to be the chosen messenger of everything that is wretched.  Last time you came to this house it was to tell me of dear Arthur’s death, and now it is to ask me to marry a man whom I detest.  I thought that I had told both you and him that I will not marry him.  I have gone as near marrying as I ever mean to in this world.”

“Really, Angela, you are most unjust to me.  Do you suppose that it was any pleasure to me to have such a sad duty to perform?  However, it is refreshing to hear you talk so vigorously.  Clearly the loss of your lover has not affected your spirits.”