“It would not be much of a sacrifice for you, Angela, to go through this form; he is a dying man, and you need not even change your name.  The lands are mine by right, and will be yours.  It will break my heart to lose them, after all these years of toiling to save enough to buy them.  But I do not wish to force you.  In short, I leave the matter to your generosity, as you would have left it to mine.”

“And suppose that I were to marry my cousin George, and he were not to die after all, what would be my position then?  You must clearly understand that, to save us all from starvation, I would never be his wife.”

“You need not trouble yourself with the question.  He is a dead man; in two months’ time he will be in the family vault.”

She bowed her head and left him—­left him with his hot and glowing greed, behind which crept a terror.

Next morning, George Caresfoot received the following letter: 

“Bratham Abbey, May 5.

“Dear Cousin George,

“In reply to your letter, I must tell you that I am willing to go through the form of marriage with you—­at a registry-office, not in church—­in order to enable you to carry out the property arrangements you wish to make.  You must, however, clearly understand that I do not do this on my own account, but simply and solely to benefit my father, who has left the matter to my ‘generosity.’  I must ask you as a preliminary step to make a copy of and sign the enclosed letter addressed to me.  Our lives are in the hand of God, and it is possible that you might be restored to health.  In such an event, however improbable it may seem, it cannot be made too plain that I am not, and have never in any sense undertaken to be, your wife.

“Truly yours,
“Angela Caresfoot.”

The enclosure ran as follows: 

“I, George Caresfoot, hereby solemnly promise before God that under no possible circumstance will I attempt to avail myself of any rights over my cousin, Angela Caresfoot, and that I will leave her as soon as the formal ceremony is concluded, and never again attempt to see her except by her own wish; the so-called marriage being only contemplated in order to enable me to carry out certain business arrangements which, in view of the failing state of my health, I am anxious to enter into.”

This letter and its curious enclosure, surely the oddest marriage contract which was ever penned, George, trembling with excitement, thrust into the hands of Lady Bellamy.  She read them with a dark smile.

“The bird is springed,” she said, quietly.  “It has been a close thing, but I told you that I should not fail, as I have warned you of what will follow your success.  Sign this paper—­this waste-paper—­and return it.”

CHAPTER LIII

By return of post Angela received her strange agreement, duly copied and signed, and after this the preparations for the marriage went on rapidly.  But where such a large transaction is concerned as the sale of between three and four thousand acres of land, copyhold and freehold, together with sundry rent-charges and the lordship of six manors, things cannot be done in a minute.