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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Mystery
Author: Wood, Henry Mrs., 1814-1887
Publisher: T.B. Peterson & Co.
Place published:  Philadelphia
Date:  1862
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THE MYSTERY
A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE. BY Mrs. Henry WoodAuthor of Earl's Heirs," "East Lynne," "The Channings," "The Castle's Heir," "Life's Secret," "Verner's Pride," "Runaway Match," Etc., Etc.Printed from the author's Manuscript, purchased from Mrs.Henry Woods,in advance of the publication of the work in Europe.Philadelphia:T.E.Peterson & Brothers;306 Chestnut StreetCopyright page for Wood's "The Mystery." Contents ContentsTHE MYSTERY CHAPTER ITHE LITTLE GIRL. MRS. EDWIN BARLEYAN express train was whirling along a line of rails in the heart of England. On one of the first class carriages there had been a board bearing an intimation "For ladies only," but the guard had taken it off when the train first started. It had come many miles since. Seated inside, the only passenger in that compartment, was a little girl in deep mourning. All was black about her, save the white frills of her drawers, which peeped below her short, black, flounced frock. A thoughtful, gentle child, with a smooth pale forehead, earnest eyes, and long dark eyelashes that swept her cheek. It was a gloomy September day, foggy and threatening rain, a sad looking day, and the child's face seemed to have borrowed the aspect of the weather, for it was pervaded by a tinge of sadness. That little girl was myself, Anne Hereford.The train whirled into a large, important station, larger than any we had passed; everybody seemed to be getting out, and the guard came up to the carriage: "Now, my little lady," said he, "change lines here, and stop for ten minutes."I liked that guard. He had a kind, hearty face, and he had come up several times to the carriage during the journey, asking how I got on. He told me he had a little girl of his own, about as old as I."Are you hungry?" said he, as he lifted me from the carriage."Not very, thank you. I have eaten the biscuits.""Halloa! Stern!" called out he, stopping a man who was hurrying past. "Are you going with the Nettleby train?""Yes. What if I am?" was the man's answer. He was rightly, named Stern, for he had a stern, sour face."See this little girl. She is in the guard's charge. To be put in the ladies' carriage, and taken on to Nettleby."The man gave a short nod by way of answer, and hurried away. And the guard took me into a large room where crowds were pressing round a counter. "Here, Miss Williams," he said to one of the young women behind it. "Give this little lady something to eat and drink, and take care of her till the Nettleby train starts. She's to have what comes to a shilling.""What will you take, my dear?" asked she.The counter was so full of good things that I did not know what, but fixed at length upon a plum tart. Miss Williams laughed, and said I had better eat some sandwiches first and the tart afterwards.She was pouring me out a cup of coffee when the guard came up again. "Your baggage is changed, little lady," said he. "You'll find it all right at the Nettleby station. Good day.""Good bye, and thank yon,I' I answered, holding out my hand that he might shake it. I felt sorry to part with him. Soon after, the surly guard put in his head and beckoned to me. He marshalled me to a carriage which had a similar board upon it to the other, "For ladies only," and shut me in without a word. Two ladies sat opposite to me. They did not speak either; but they stared a great deal. I felt sure it must be at the two tarts I held in a paper bag, which Miss Williams had given to me, for I had only time to eat the sandwiches in the room, and felt ashamed of them (the tarts) forthwith.At the next station another lady was put in, and she began to talk to me at once. "Are you travelling all alone?""Yes, ma'am. The guard takes care of me?""Have you come far?"I had come from a remote part of Devonshire, the sea coast. It seemed a long way to me, and I said so."Will you tell me your name? I daresay it is a pretty one.""It is Anne Hereford.""Devonshire is a very nice part of the country. Have you lived in it all your life?""Not quite. I was born in India. Mamma brought me to England when I was three years old.""You are in deep mourning. Is it for a near relative?"I did not answer. I turned to look out at the window till the tears which had come into my eyes should go away again. I could not bear that strangers should see me weep. The lady asked again, and presently I turned round."For mamma."She was silent for some time, looking at me."Is your papa dead also?""He died a long while before mamma did.""You say you were born in India: perhaps he was an officer?""He was Colonel Hereford.""How many brothers and sisters have you?""Not any.""Where are you going to live?""I don't know. I am going now to my Aunt Selina's."The train approached a station and the lady got out, or she probably would have asked me a great deal more. At the station, following that, the two silent ladies got out, and I was alone again. The first thing I did was to eat my tarts and throw away the paper bag; and the next was, to—drop asleep.The guard's surly voice aroused me. "This is Nettleby, if you are a going to get out. He said something about some luggage: how much is it?""A large box and a small one, and two carpet bags. Miss Hereford, passenger to Nettleby, is written on them," was my answer. "Can yon please to tell me whether Mr. Edwin Barley lives near, or far off?""I don't know any Mr. Edwin Barley. Jem," added he to one of the porters, "see after her. I'm going to hand out her things.""Where do you want to go, Miss?""To Mr. Edwin Barley's. They told me I must get out at the Nettleby station, and ask to be sent there. Is it far, please?""You must mean Mr. Edwin Barley of near Hallam.""Yes, that's it. Is it far?""Well, Hallam's about five miles off, and his house is a mile on this side it. There ain't no rail; you must go by the omnibus."Soon we were jogging along, I, my luggage, the omnibus, and some more passengers. What a long while it seemed! And the hedges and trees looked very dreary, for the shades of evening were gathering.At the foot of a hill the omnibus pulled up, and a man who had sat by the driver came round. "Ain't there somebody inside for Mr. Edwin Barley's?""Yes. I am."I got out, and the luggage was put upon the ground. "Two shillings, Miss.""Two shillings!"I uttered, in an accent of alarm."Why, did you expect to come for one—and inside too! It's uncommon cheap, is this omnibus.""Oh, it is not that. But I have not any money.""Not got any money!""They did not give me any. They gave the guard my fare to Nettleby."The man went up to the driver. "I say, Bill this child says she's got no money."The driver turned round and looked at me. "We can call at the Barley's for it: I daresay it's all right. Do you belong to the Barley's, Miss? What's your name?""Miss Hereford. I am come to stay with Mrs. Edwin Barley. She is my aunt.""Oh, it's all right. Get up, Joe.""But please," said I, stopping the man in an agony of fear—for I could see no house, or sign of one, save a small, round, low, low building that might contain one room, "which is Mr. Edwin Barley's? Am I to stop in the road with the boxes?"The man laughed, said he had supposed I knew, and shouted out at the top of his voice, "Here, missis! you see this big green gate, Miss: well, that leads up to Mr. Barley's, and that's his lodge."A woman came out of the lodge door in answer to the shout, and opened the gate. She was wiping her hands with a coarse apron she wore; they seemed to be all soap-suds. The man explained, put the trunks inside the gate, and the omnibus drove on."I beg pardon that I can't go up to the house with yon, Miss, but it's not far, and you can't miss it," said she. "I have got my baby sick in its cradle, and daredn't leave it alone. You are little Miss Hereford?""Yes.""It's odd they never sent to meet you at Nettleby, if they knew you were coming! But they have got visitors at the house, and perhaps young madam forgot it. Straight on, Miss, and you'll soon come to the hall door; go up the steps, and give a good peal at the bell.It was a broad, gravel path, wide enough for two carriages to pass each other, with a thick grove of trees on either side. The path wound round, and I had just got in sight of the house when I was startled considerably by what looked like a man's face projecting beyond the trees. He was gazing steadfastly at the house, but he turned and looked at me. It was an ugly, dark face; a face I shrank from. At this period of my life people used to tell me that I was too ready to take likes and dislikes and I suppose I was; but as I grew older I learnt that God had given me the faculty, in an eminent degree, of discerning the good from the bad in a human countenance.I never spoke; nor the man to me; but in my alarm I sprang to the other side of the walk, and glad enough was I to see lights from several of the windows in front of me. I thought it a very large house: I found afterwards that it contained, in all, eighteen rooms, and some of them small; but then we had lived in a pretty cottage of six. There was no need to ring. At the open door stood a man and maid servant, giggling and whispering together."Who are you?" cried the girl."I want Mrs. Edwin Barley.""Then I think want must be your master. It's somebody from Hallam I suppose. Mrs. Barley's dressing for dinner.""You must go away, little girl," added the footman, pompously, "and come to-morrow, earlier, if you want any thing."It was a dreadful chill. I did not cry, but I felt inclined to it. I stood there, saying nothing."Why don't you go?" asked the girl, sharply."I have not any where to go to. My boxes are down at the gate.""Why, who are you?" she resumed, in a quiet tone."Miss Hereford.""Sakes alive!" she uttered in a low voice to her companion. "I beg your pardon, Miss; I'll Call Charlotte Delves.""What's that? who will you call?" shrieked out a fresh comer from the back of the hall. "Call 'Charlotte Delves,' will you! Go in to your work this instant, you impudent huzzy.""I didn't know you were there, Miss Delves," said the girl, deprecatingly. "The young lady's come: Miss Hereford."A good looking woman of thirty-five came forward, the 'Miss Delves,' or 'Charlotte' Delves. I could not tell whether she was a lady or a maid. She wore a small, stylish cap, and a muslin dress with flounces."How do you do, Miss Hereford? walk in. But we did not expect you till next week. Mrs. Barley is in the draw-ing-room, just come down from dressing for dinner."She ran up stairs, and I followed her. She opened a door, from whence came a warm glow of fire-light. "Wait there a moment," she said, and went in. "Mrs. Edwin, the child has come.""What child?" returned a voice, a younger, gay, sweet voice."Little Miss Hereford.""My goodness! come to-day! And I with no mourning about me, to speak of. Well, let her come in."I knew my Aunt Selina again in a moment. She had stayed with us in Devonshire for three months two years before, when she was nineteen. The same lovely, lovely face, with its laughing blue eyes and its shining golden hair. She wore an embroidered clearmuslin white dress, with low body and sleeves, and a few black ribbons; jet bracelets and a long jet chain."You darling child! But what made you come in this strange way, without notice?""Mr. Sterling said he wrote to you, Aunt Selina, that I should be here on Thursday. You ought to have had the letter yesterday.""Well, so he did. But I thought—how stupid I must have been!" she interrupted, with a sudden laugh. "I declare I took it to mean next Thursday. But you are all the more welcome, dear. You have grown prettier, Anne, with those deep eyes of yours."I stood before her very gravely: I had dreaded the meeting, believing it would be one of sobs and lamentation for my mother. I had not taken into account how careless and light-headed Selina was. I often called her "Selina," following the example of mamma; and she was not married then. She used to say she liked it better than "Aunt Selina."She took off my bonnet, and pulled me to her. "It is our dinner hour, but I daresay they won't be in yet. They are out shooting, and when they go to the covers far away there's no depending upon them, so we can have a little talk to ourselves. How very strange, Anne, that your mamma should go off so quickly at the last! Why, it was only two weeks before her death that she wrote to tell me she was ill.""She was ill longer than that, Aunt Selina, but she did not tell any one until she knew there was danger. She did not tell me.""It was a renewal of that old complaint she had in India: that inward complaint."I turned my head from her: I did not like her to see my wet eyes. "They told me it was her heart, Aunt Selina.""Yes: in a measure: that had something to do with it. It must have been a sad parting, Anne. Why, child! you are sobbing!""Please don't talk of it.""But I must talk of it: I like to have my curiosity gratified," said she, in her quick way. "Did the doctors say from the first that there was no hope?""Mamma knew there was no hope when she wrote to you. She had told me so the day before.""I wonder she told you at all.""Oh, Aunt Selina! that fortnight was too short for the leave taking; for all she had to tell me. It will be years, perhaps, before we meet again.""Meet again! Why, what do you mean?""Before I shall go to her in Heaven. I wish they were past.""You are a strange child! Ursula has infected you, I see, with her serious notions. I used to tell her there was time enough for it years hence.""And mamma used to tell you that perhaps if you put off and put off, the years hence might never come for you, Aunt Selina.""What, you remember, do you," she said, with a smile. "Yes, she used to lecture me: she was fifteen years older than I, and had a right to do so.""She never lectured:what she said was always kind and gentle," was my sobbing answer."Yes, yes. You think me insensible now, Anne, but my grief is over—that is, the violence of the grief. When the letter came to say Ursula was dead, I cried the whole day, never ceasing.""Mamma had a warning of her death," I said."Had a what?""A warning. The night before she wars taken ill—I mean dangerously ill—she dreamt she saw papa in a most beautiful place, all light and flowers; no place on earth could ever have been so beautiful, except the Garden of Eden. He beckoned her to come to him, and pointed to a vacant place by his side, saying, 'It is ready for you now, Ursula.' Mamma awoke then, and the words were sounding in her ears; she could have felt sure that they were positively spoken. She told us of the dream the next morning—""Toldus!Whom do you mean?""Me, and our old servant, Betty. She told me what a pleasant dream it was, that she was sorry to awake from it; but after she grew ill she said she knew it was sent as a warning.""Child," returned my aunt, "you have lived boxed up with that stupid old Betty and your mamma till you are like a little grave woman. Ursula was always superstitious. You will say you believe in ghosts next.""No, I do not believe in ghosts. I should not like to; I should not like to see one. But mamma said that never a Carew died yet but they had warning first; though often they did not notice the warnings.""There, that will do, Anne. I am a Carew, and I don't want to be frightened into watching for a 'warning.' You are a Carew also, by the mother's side. Do you know, my poor child, that you are not left well off?""Yes; mamma told me. I don't mind.""Don't mind!" laughed Aunt Selina. "That's because you don't understand. What little your mamma had left she has sunk in an annuity for your education. Eighty pounds a year you will have until you are eighteen; and the trustees can only lay it out on education.""I said I did not mind, Aunt Selina, because I am not afraid of getting my own living. Mamma said that with a thoroughly good education, and being of gentle birth, I could make sure of a superior situation as governess in a high family. She told me not to fear, for God would take care of me.""Some money might be desirable, for all that," returned my aunt, in a tone that sounded full of irreligion and irreverence. "The maddest step Colonel Hereford ever took was that of selling out. He thought to better himself, and he spent and lost the money, leaving your mamma with very little when he died.""I don't think mamma much cared for money, Aunt Selina.""I don't think she did, or she would not have taken matters so quietly. Do you remember, Anne, how she used to go on at me when I said I should marry Edwin Barley?""Mamma told you it was not right to marry for money, I remember.""Quite true," she laughed. "She used to put her hands to her ears when I said I hated him. Now! what are those earnest eyes of yours searching me for?""Do you hate him, Aunt Selina!""I am not dying of love for him, you strange child.""Is he ugly?"She burst out into a peal of laughter. "Oh, he is very handsome, Anne; as handsome as the day: when you see him you shall tell me if you don't think so. I——. What is the matter? What are you looking at?""I thought some one was coming in.""Coming in where?""At that door," I said, pointing to one at the end of the room behind her. "I saw it open, as if some one were pushing it gently.""The fire light must have deceived you, Anne. That door is kept bolted; it leads to a passage communicating with my bedroom, but we don't use it.""I am certain that I saw it open, aunt," was my answer, and a fear came over me that it might be the man I saw in the avenue. "It is shut now; it shut again when I spoke."She rose, walked to the door, and tried to open it, but it was fast."You see, Anne. Don't you get fanciful, my dear; that is what your mamma was.""Mamma saw things very clearly, Aunt Selina, clearer than many people; that is why you called her fanciful. Aunt, did not Mr. Edwin Barley want me to go to Mrs. Hemson's, instead of coming here?""Who told you that?""I heard Mr. Sterling talking of it with mamma.""Did you hear the reason he gave—Mr. Edwin Barley?""No""You should have heard that—it was BO flattering to me. He said I was too giddy to take charge of a young lady. But Ursula would not accept the objection; it could not matter for a few weeks, she replied, whether I were giddy or serious; and she could not possibly think of consigning you to Mrs. Hemson, even for a week or two. She wrote, herself, to Mr. Edwin Barley.""Aunt, what was it that Mrs. Hemson did? It was something wrong, I know, but mamma never told me.""She did just the opposite to me, Anne. I married for money, and she for love. She was a Carew, cousin to me and Ursula, but Ursula's age: older in fact; and she became acquainted with a stranger at a watering-place, and married him.""Why should she not have married him?""He was a tradesman. A good-looking, educated man; I grant that; but a tradesman. Never was such a thing heard of, as for a Carew to stoop to a tradesman. You see, Anne, until she was over head and ears in love with him, she did not know his position, for they were both visitors at the watering-place. Of course she ought to have given him up. Not she; she gave herself and her money to him, and a very pretty little fortune she had.""What did her mamma say?""She had none. Her father and mother were dead, and she was her own mistress. Therefore, it cannot be said that she married in disobedience, for she was responsible to nobody. But she, a Carew, ought to have known better. We three Carews have all married badly, in one way, if not in another; she, your mamma, and I."Mrs. Edwin Barley was speaking dreamily then, as if forgetting I was there."She, Frances, married the tradesman, and put a barrier between herself and her family; Ursula married Colonel Hereford, to wear out a few of her best years in India, and then to die in poverty, and leave an unprovided-for child; and I have married him, Edwin Barley. Which is the worst, I wonder?"I thought over what she said in my busy mind."Aunt Selina, you say you married Mr. Edwin Barley because he is rich.""Well.""Why did you, when you were rich yourself?""Irich? You will know better than to count a paltry sum of four thousand pounds riches, when you grow up, Anne. Its interest would just keep me in dress—in the way I like to dress—and that's all. I had the choice, at my father's death, of living hum-drumming with Ursula, or of going into a boarding-house—for we have no relations—or of securing a position by marrying; and I chose the latter. Your mamma had four thousand pounds, also, but it was not settled upon her, and Colonel Hereford got hold of it. That put a notion in my father's head, and he tied mine up tight enough, securing it to my absolute use, and leaving it at my own disposal when I die.""Will it be Mr. Barley's when you die?""Were I to die before next Monday, it would be yours, pussy, for it is so left. After that, if I were to die without a will, it would be Mr. Edwin Barley's; but I shall be of age next Monday, and can then make one. I think it must be my first care, a will;" she laughed. "So munificent a sum to dispose of I Shall I leave it to you?"The room-door was pushed open and some one suddenly entered. A shortish man, a man of forty years, dressed in a velveteen shooting coat and gaiters, with a dark face; it was the same ill-favored countenance that had peeped out from the trees. Not that the features, in themselves, were particularly ill-favored, but their expression was evil. I shrank round to the other side of my aunt."Where are you going, child?" she said, "this is Mr. Edwin Barley."CHAPTER IIGEORGE HENEAGE—THE SHOT IN THE WOODThat Mr. Edwin Barley? I was a child, knowing as little what marriage meant as a child can well do, but the thought that came over me was, How could Selina have married him? Could it have been he, the intruder at the door?"Who's that, Selina?" he inquired."Anne Hereford. Fancy my making so stupid a mistake as to conclude it was next Thursday the lawyer meant. And she has had to find her way from Nettleby in the best way she could."He looked at me with his black eyes, the blackest eyes I had ever seen, and they bore a stern, threatening expression; it seemed to forbid all mention of my having seen him in the avenue. No fear that I should speak of it; my heart was beating with too sensible a terror."Did you walk from Nettleby, little one?""No, sir. I came in the omnibus to the gate.""She has been asking me if you were very handsome; and I told her to wait and see," observed Selina, with a laugh that sounded to me like one of mockery. He made no reply, but a sharp scowl passed over his contracted brow. She continued,"By the way, Mr. Barley, how is it you are home before the rest? And where are they? Charlotte Delves said the dinner was spoiling, half an hour ago.""They are not far behind," was the answer. "I'll go and dress."As he went out of the room we heard sounds of voices and laughter. Three gentlemen, dressed something like Mr. Edwin Barley, were approaching the house with game, guns, and dogs. My aunt opened the window."Can you see them by this light, Anne?""I can see that two are young and one old. He has gray hair.""Not very old, not more than fifty—but he is so stout. It is Mr. Martin, our parson.""Do parsons go out shooting?""Only when they can get the chance," she laughed. "That young one is Philip King, a ward of Mr. Edwin Barley's. He fell in love with me when he was here at Easter, so I keep him at arm's length now, and it puts him in a passion. He is terribly ill tempered.""And the other?""The other is George Heneage. Hush, he is coming up."George Heneage entered. A young and slender man, tall and graceful, with dark waving hair, pale features, and a merry smile. Mrs. Edwin Barley went and stood near the fire, and he took her hand."Well? And how have you been all day? Dull?"It was the pleasantest voice! quite a contrast after that of Mr. Barley."Much any of you care whether I am dull or gay," she returned in answer, half laughing, half pouting. "The partridges get all your time, just now. I might be dead and buried, and gone to Heaven, before you came home; any of you.""Can I help it, Selina?" he asked, in a low, meaning tone. "Did Barley come home an hour or two ago?""Not that I know of.""It strikes me he did. Look here. About four o'clock I quitted the party for an hour; when I got back Barley had vanished, and we saw no more of him; they said he disappeared soon after me. Now I fancy the suspicious cur thought—""Hush!" and Mrs. Edwin Barley extended her finger towards where I stood, half shaded by the window curtain."Who on earth's that?""It is little Anne Hereford. She has come a week before I expected her. Anne, come forward, and let Mr. Heneage make love to you. It is a pastime he favors."He lifted me up by the waist, looked at me, and put me down again."A pretty little face to make love to. How old are you?""Eleven, sir.""Eleven in years, older in quiet and thoughtfulness," said Aunt Selina. "She has always lived with old people; never had any brothers or sisters.""Dare I venture to your presence, in this trim, Mrs. Edwin Barley?"The speaker was the Reverend Mr. Martin, who came slowly in, pointing to his attire. "It is Barley's fault, and you must blame him. He invited me to say grace at your table to-day, and then disappeared, keeping us waiting for him until now, and giving me no time to go home and make myself presentable.""Never mind, Mr. Martin, there are worse misfortunes at sea," she laughed. "I have sat down with gentlemen in shooting coats before to-day, and enjoyed my dinner none the worse for it. Is that you, Miss Delves?" she called out, as footsteps were passing the door.Miss Delves came in."What is it, Mrs. Edwin?""Tell them, please, that they may be serving the dinner; the gentlemen will be ready in five minutes. And take this child; she must have some tea."We went to a small parlor on the ground floor. Miss Delves said it was her own sitting-room, and rang the bell. The maid, who had been gossiping at the front door, came in to answer it."Are you at tea, Jemima?""Yes, Miss Delves.""I thought so; there's no regularity, unless I am about every thing myself, and positively see the meals placed on the table. Bring in a cup for Miss Hereford, and some bread and butter."They both left the room. I supposed that Miss Delves, or somebody else, was going to dine presently, for a cloth was spread over one end of the table, with a knife and fork, the cruet stand and saltcellar. Presently Jemima came back with a small tray which had my tea upon it. She seemed a free and easy sort of girl, sat herself down in a chair, and began chattering. Another servant came in with a small jar of preserves."Miss Delves has sent some jam for the young lady, if she'd like it. Or will she have a slice of cold meat, she says?""I'll have the jam, please.""That's right, Miss," laughed Jemima. "Sweets is good.""Arn't you coming to your tea, Jemima?" asked the girl. "There'll be a fuss if she comes in and finds you have not begun it.""Bother the tea! We are not obliged to swallow it down just at the minute she pleases.""We are obliged, though. Where were you, that you couldn't come to it before?""That's telling," laughed Jemima."I know. You were dodging about in the hall and out of doors, waiting for that handsome George Heneage.""Don't be a fool," returned Jemima."I'mnot a fool; and I don't intend to make myself into one. I say, what do you think I saw? Young King—"Jemima gave her a warning shake of the head, and pointed to me. "Drink up your tea, Miss, and Sarah shall fetch you another cup.""I shall not want any more, thank you."They began talking again, and were deep in some contention, which was carried on in a half whisper, when steps were heard approaching. Sarah caught up the plate of bread and butter, and stood as if she were handing it to me, and Jemima stirred the fire vigorously. It had been warm in the day, but the bit of lighted fire in the grate looked pleasant in the autumn evening. The footsteps passed on."How stupid you are, startling one!" cried Jemima to the other."I thought it was Charlotte Delves, never trust me if I didn't.""She's in the kitchen, and won't come out of it till the dinner's gone in. She's in one of her tempers to-day.""Is Charlotte Delves the mistress?" I could not help asking.Both the maids burst out laughing. "A deal more mistress than the one who's mistress in name, if every thing were known," said Jemima significantly."Hush!" reproved the other. "She may go and repeat it again."Jemima looked at me. "No: she don't look like one of the tale-telling sort. You won't go and repeat in the drawing-room the nonsense we foolish servants talk, will you, Miss Hereford?""Of course I will not. Mamma taught me never to carry tales; she said it made mischief.""And so it does," cried Jemima. "Your mamma was a nice lady, I know; wasn't she Mrs. Edwin Barley's sister?""Jemima, here she is!" interrupted Sarah in a flurry. And off she darted.Charlotte Delves came in. "What are you waiting for?" she cried in asperity to Jemima."I've come to ask if the young lady will take anything more," was the reply."When Miss Hereford wants any thing I'll ring."Jemima retired. I went on with my tea, and Miss Delves began asking me all sorts of questions about home and mamma. We were interrupted by a footman. He was bringing the fish out of the dining-room, and he laid the dish, with the fish-sauce, down on the table. Miss Delves turned her chair toward it, and began her dinner. I found that this was her usual manner of dining, but I thought it a curious one. The dishes, as they came out of the dining-room, were placed before her, and she helped herself. Her other meals she took when she pleased, Jemima generally waiting upon her. I did wonder who she could be."You are to go into the drawing-room for a few minutes, Miss Hereford, before retiring to bed."It was Miss Delves who spoke, and it was Jemima who marshalled me there. She opened the door quietly, and I stole in, seen, I believe, by nobody.Standing before the fire, talking, were a clergyman and Mr. Edwin Barley. A stranger might have taken the one for the other, for the clergyman was in his sporting clothes and Mr. Barley was all in black, with a white neckcloth. More repulsive to me did he look than ever, and I quite shuddered at him. On a distant sofa, apparently reading a newspaper, sat Philip King: he had handsome features, but a strange expression; a savage sort of expression disfigured them then. He held the newspaper nearly level with his face, and I saw that his eyes, instead of being on it, wore watching the movements of Mrs. Edwin Barley. She was at the piano, not so much singing or playing as trying scraps of songs and pieces, Mr. Heneage leaning over her chair and talking to her. I went quietly round by the chairs at the back, and sat down on the low footstool at the corner of the hearth. The clergyman saw me and smiled: Mr. Barley did not; he stood with his back to me. He also seemed to be watching the piano, or those at it, as he spoke confidentially with the clergyman."I disagree with you entirely, Barley," Mr. Martin was saying. "Rely upon it, he'll be all the better and happier for following a profession. Why, at Easter, he had made up his mind to read for the Bar!""Young men are changeable as the wind: those who have fortunes to place them at ease in the world," replied Mr. Barley. "Philip was red-hot for the Bar at Easter, as you observe, but something appears to have set him against it now.""You, as his guardian and trustee, should urge it upon him: that, or some other occupation. A life of idleness plays the very ruin with some natures; and it strikes me that Philip King has no great resources within him to counteract the mischief. What is the amount of his property?" resumed Mr. Martin, after a pause."About eighteen hundred pounds a year the estate brings in.""Nonsense! I thought it was only ten or twelve.""Eighteen, full. Reginald's was a long minority, you know.""Well, if it brought in eight-and-twenty, I should still say give him a profession. Let him have some legitimate occupation for his days; occupy his hands and his head, and they won't get into mischief. That's sound advice, mind, Barley.""Quite sound," rejoined Mr. Barley; but there was a tone in his voice throughout that, to me, seemed to tell of want of sincerity. "I have no power to force a profession upon him: and I should not exercise it if I had. Shall I tell you why?""Well?""I don't think his lungs are of the strongest: in my opinion he is likely to go off as his brother did.""Of consumption!" hastily uttered the clergyman; and Mr. Barley nodded."Therefore why urge him to fag at acquiring a profession which he may not live to exercise," Mr. Barley resumed. "He looks any thing but well; and is nothing like as robust as he was at Easter."Mr. Martin turned his head and attentively scanned the face of Philip King. "I see nothing the matter with him, Barley; except that he looks uncommonly cross. I hope you are mistaken.""I hope I am. I saw a whole row of medicine phials in his room yesterday, and he told me they contained steel medicine and tonics; the physician at Oxford had ordered them. And, the next time you dine with bin, notice what he eats; it's a mere nothing. The commencement of Reginald's malady was loss of appetite and failing strength, for which the doctors prescribed tonics."Once more Mr. Martin turned his eyes on Philip King. "How old was Reginald when he died?""Twenty-three. Three years older than Philip is now.""Well, poor fellow, I hope he'll outlive it and get strong. It would be a nice windfall, his money, for somebody to drop into. Who is heir-at-law?""I am.""You!""Of course I am," was the quiet reply of Mr. Edwin Barley."Nurse him up, nurse him up, then," said the clergyman, jokingly. "Lest, if any thing did happen, the world should say you had not done your best to prevent it: for you know you are a dear lover of money, Barley."There may have been a great deal more said, but I did not hear it. My head had sought the wall for its resting place, and sleep stole over me.Mrs. Edwin Barley appeared the next day in deep mourning. "I had been tempted to put it off for a cool dress yesterday evening," she said to me; for, what with the dinner, and the fire they willhave, though I'm sure it is not weather for it, I was melted in my black.""Aunt Selina," I said, burning to have my curiosity satisfied, "who is Miss Delves? Is she a lady or a servant?"My aunt laughed. "You had better not let her hear you call her a servant, Anne; she'd never forgive it.""But, if she is not a servant, why does she not sit in the drawing-room, and dine with you?""Because I don't choose that it shall be so," returned my aunt, tossing her head with a haughty gesture. "She is a distant relation of the Barley's; and before I came here was housekeeper and mistress. She has no money; and, but for living here, would positively be obliged to go out as housekeeper in a family, or take some situation of the sort. When I came home first, she was planted down to table with us. I did not like it: I told my husband that she or I must be its mistress, but not both, and I left them to settle it. Since then, she has taken the parlor for her sitting-room, and manages the house. I have no objection to that, it saves me the trouble, and I hate any thing like domestic management. Now and then I invite her in to take tea with us, and we are vastly polite to teach other always. A hint has been dropped me that she and Mr. Edwin Barley—"She stopped suddenly, "What were you going to say, aunt?""Nothing more, child. I forgot to whom I was speaking. It may not have been true," she added, musingly. "And, if it were, I don't care. Well, pet, did you think Mr. Edwin Barley handsome.""No. Why did you marry him, Aunt Selina?""People say for money, Anne. I say it was fate.""Did he persuade you?""Yes, that he did. Persuaded, cajoled, worried me: he was two years talking mo into it, and dying for love all the time.""Did he love you?""Ay. And does still. Though I have provoked him out of a great portion of it. There's only one thing he likes better than me, and that's money.""Money!""Pretty little pieces of gold and silver, new crisp bank notes, yellow old deeds of parchment. If Edwin Barley does not live to become a wretched miser, Anne, I am not his wife: his love for gold amounts to a passion. Good morning, Mr. King. How are you? You were not down to breakfast, I understand. I was too lazy to get up.""I was down to breakfast. I took it with Mr. Edwin Barley in his study.""You two cross old curmudgeons! leaving George Heneage alone in his glory. Had I suspected that, I would have got up to breakfast with him."She seemed to speak the last in a spirit of mischief, and a saucy look shot from her dark blue eyes."I think you and Heneage breakfast together rather too often, as it is, Mrs. Edwin.""You do. Then you'll have the goodness to keep such thoughts to your-self, and not intrude them upon me. Or reserve them for Mr. Edwin Barley: he will jump at them. But take you care, sir, that Mr. Heneage does not pay you your deserts.""Mrs. Barley, what do you mean?" he asked, his lips quivering."Just what I say. You have taken to peep and pry after me; whether set on by my worthy husband, you best know. It will not serve you, Philip King: if there be one thing I hate, it is a spy."George Heneage came into the room as the last words were spoken, and there broke out a quarrel that terrified me. I ran out of the room; I ran back again; I don't know what I did. Mrs. Edwin Barley seemed as excited as they were. Child though I was, I knew it was wrong when I heard her say in her passion that she loved the little finger of George Heneage better than she did the whole ugly body of her husband, and that she hated and dispised Philip King. The terror that came over me was, lest Mr. Edwin Barley should come in and witness it; but they had said after breakfast that he was gone over to his brother's, Mr. Barley's.Looking back through the vista of years, and reflecting as I can reflect now, I can but suppose that Selina Barley was actuated by some spirit of aggravation: perhaps her husband had provoked her that morning in private, perhaps Philip King had offended her. Who knows? It was an awful ending that came to it.Jemima came by as I stood there, frightened and in tears. "What is the mutter, Miss Hereford?" she asked. "Goodness me, how you are trembling!""They are quarrelling, in there; Mr. Heneage and Mr. King. I am afraid they will fight.""Oh, it has come to it, has it," said Jemima, apathetically. "I thought it would. Never mind them, Miss Hereford; they won't hurt you."She went on, up stairs, with a pail she was carrying, and I looked into the room again. Mr. Heneage, livid with rage, held Philip King by the collar of his coat."Mark me, yon hound!" he hissed forth. "If I catch you dodging my movements, or those of Mrs. Edwin Barley, I'll take your life; I will, by heaven! A spy deserves no better than to die a felon's death, and I'll shoot you, or hang you up to the nearest tree."I can't tell how it ended for the time; I ran away up stairs to the room I had slept in, and there I sobbed out my lit of terror. In my own quiet home I had never seen or heard the faintest shadow of a quarrel.Jemima came in search of me."Miss Hereford, you are to be dressed. Mrs. Barley is going to take you out in the little carriage."I washed my face and ray red eyes, was dressed, and went down. At the door stood a low, open carriage, large and wide, drawn by a pony. Mrs. Barley was in it, Mr. Heneage drove, and I sat on a stool at their feet. We turned off the high road, down green lanes, and quiet places, and were out about two hours. They talked in an under tone, and I tried not to listen: but I am compelled to say that I heard several endearing expressions pass his lips."You can run about the grounds if you like, Anne," said my aunt when we alighted. "I daresay you are cramped with sitting."She went in with Mr. Heneage, the groom taking away the carriage, and I went I know not where. I managed to get amidst some trees and nearly lose myself. As I wondered which way I should take, there came up, arm in arm, and talking together in a low, eager, excited whisper, Mr. Edwin Barley and Philip King. He fixed his eyes upon me, that terrible man."So, you have got back, Anne Hereford!""Yes, sir," I stammered, but my lips seemed glued together."Where's Mrs. Barley?""She is gone in-doors, sir.""Oh, gone in with Heneage?""Yes, sir."He said no more, except something in an under tone to Philip King, and I turned and flew anywhere at a venture. But not before I had seen George Heneage looking at them through the trees, a withering expression of contempt on his countenance.Nothing more occurred that day to disturb the peace so far as I knew; and the next morning, Saturday, they all went out shooting again. Mrs. Edwin Barley had some visitors in the forepart of the day, and in the afternoon she went over to Hallam in the little carriage, but she did not take me. I was anywhere; with Charlotte Delves; with the servants; roaming through the deserted sitting-rooms. It grew towards dusk, and nobody came home, and I strolled out and met the pony carriage coming up the avenue at a walking pace. Only the groom was in it."Where is my aunt?" I asked."She's walking up to the house, Miss."I ran to the end of the avenue, but could see nothing of her. Branching off round a side walk, I came to the ornamental grounds near the wood: the woman at the lodge said she had gone that way. There she stood, on the steps of the summer-house, and George Heneage with her, his gun in his hand. I saw—I am sorry to write it, but it is only the truth—I saw him kiss her cheek."How foolish you are !" she uttered. "I am married, remember. Where are the other two?""Oh, they are home, somewhere; spying, no doubt."At that moment there was a noise in the summer-house, a slight covert noise, as though some one were escaping by the opposite door. Mr. Heneage dashed into it in time to see Philip King stealing away. Too sure he had been "spying," and it no doubt inflamed George Heneage's blood to madness. With a desperate word he was Speeding after him, when Mrs. Edwin Barley caught him."George, you shall not go. There might be murder done.""I'll pay him off; I will indeed," he panted. "Selina, do not oblige me to put you out of my way by force.""You shallnot go, I say!"He broke from her by force as he had termed it, and sped after Philip King, still with his gun. But Philip King had got a long way then. Mrs. Edwin Barley's eyes fell on me."You here, child! This is no place for you. Stay, though; you can run fast. They are making for the wood: run crossways over that side grass, and you will reach it sooner than they will. Tell Mr. Heneage that I command him to come back."I did not dare to refuse, and yet I scarcely dared to go. I ran along, my heart beating. Arrived at the wood, I looked about me amidst the trees, bat could see no one. They were not very thick, the trees, and were intersected with many narrow paths. I went up and down several uselessly.And now arrived a calamity: I had lost my way in real earnest, and down I sat, and cried. How long I stayed I don't know, perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour; when, on raising my eyes, who should I see, coolly smoking a cigar, as he leaned against a tree and smiled at me, but Philip King."What is the grief, Miss Anne? Have you met a wolf?""I can't find my way out, sir.""Oh, I'll soon show you that. We are nearly close to the border. You—"He stopped: lifted his head, and looked attentively in a certain direction. And at that moment there was a report, a whizz through the air, and a ball entered his chest. Philip King fell to the ground with an awful scream.Though not perfectly understanding what had occurred, I screamed also and sank upon my knees; I did not faint, but I felt a horrible, sick sensation of fear, such as I had never experienced before. And there was the dark face of Mr. Edwin Barley peering at us from the distant trees.Who had done it? He, or George Heneage? The question ran through my terrified heart, as Mr. Barley came up, carrying his gun. Whoever did it must have taken aim, must have wilfully and deliberately murdered the poor young man in cold blood."Philip, what is this? Who has fired at you?""George Heneage," was the faint rejoinder. "I saw him: he stood there.""Are you sure?" returned Mr. Edwin Barley."I tell it you with my dying lips. I saw him."Not another word. Mr. Edwin Barley tried to raise him, but he was gone. He had received his death shot, and was silenced forever.CHAPTER IIITHE TABLE IN THE HALL"ARE youthere, you little imp?"The words were Mr. Edwin Barley's. As the breath went out of Philip King's body, Edwin Barley quietly let his head, which he had been in the act of raising, full again, and stood there looking down upon him, a soft noise, something like a whistle, proceeding from his lips. He raised his hands and seemed to feel them, and then, setting his gun to lodge against a tree, he knelt down and put his ear to his mouth. Then he rose, and was turning away when he saw me. A half start of surprise, and he spoke the above words.I cried and shook, but was too terrified to give any other answer."What were you doing here in the wood?""I lost my way and could not get out, sir," I sobbed, trembling lest he should press for further details. "That gentleman saw me, and was saying he would show me the way, when he fell.""Had he been here long?""I don't know. I was crying, and not looking up. It was only a minute ago that I saw him standing there.""Did you see who fired the shot?""Oh, no.""He laid hold of me, drew me along a few stops, and showed me one of the paths.""Run straight along there, and you will come out in view of the house; you know your way then. Tell Charlotte Delves what has occurred, that Philip King is dead, has been shot; and that she must send help to carry him home. She must also send to Hallam for the doctor, and for the police. Can you remember that?"I said I could; any thing to get away from him; but in truth I was too agitated to hear distinctly. I was speeding along and had got some trifling distance, when an arm was stretched out from the trees to stay me; there stood George Heneage, his finger on his lips to impose silence and caution, and his face looking as I had never seen it look before, white as death."Whose voice is that?" he whispered."Mr. Edwin Barley's. Oh, sir, don't stop me; I am afraid; Mr. King is dead.""Is it sure?""Oh, yes, he is dead," I said, speaking as positively as I, in my terror, felt. "I am to tell Charlotte Delves to send for the police. Mr. Heneage, did you do it?""I!You silly child!" he returned, in an accent of rebuke. "There, go along, and don't tremble so."He stole away amid the trees, and I flew onwards, my fear increasing. That I was of an imaginative, excitable, and timid nature, there was no doubt; and, to such, these sort of shocks are dreadful. I did gain the house, but only to fall into a fit of hysterical, nervous sobs and cries; it was utterly impossible for me, in that state, to enter upon the tale.But meanwhile it appeared that help arrived from some other quarter. A posse of the laborers on the estate in going home from work, chose the short cut through the wood, and were heard and called to by Mr. Edwin Barley. They took a shutter off the lodge window, and placed the body on it. The servants had me in the kitchen, whither I had first run, and I was clinging to one of them, my face hid, sobbing, moaning, and catching up my breath hysterically, when Duff, as he was called, a young laborer, entered hastily."I say," said he, "you haint a making ready much. It's a coming on close.""What's a coming on?" asked Jemima, who was ever ready with her tongue."The young heir's dead corpse. 'Tother have shot him in the wood."Jemima gave a scream. They were at no loss to understand who was meant by the "young heir," it was what Philip King, since his brother's death, had been mostly styled. But at that moment Charlotte Delves came into the kitchen, and Duff took off his hat in deference to her, and explained.She turned as white as a sheet, white as George Heneage had looked, and sat down upon a chair."He cannot be dead, Duff.""He's dead as a door nail, miss; I can't Ga mistaken in a dead corpse, miss, for I've seen a few, father being the grave digger. Besides, master said as he watched the life go out of him.""And whodo you say did it?""Ah, I don't know nothing of my own knowledge," returned Duff, "and least said is soonest mended. They must settle that among 'em. Master have sent Robin into Hallam, and he hastened me on here to see as the hall table was cleared; he's to be laid there. Will some of ye look to it, please."There was no time to be lost. Even as the man spoke, the measured tread of men, bearing a burden, was heard in the stillness of the evening. Every soul that the kitchen contained flew into the hall, so powerful is curiosity. I followed in their wake, afraid to be left alone, and crouched down on the mat behind the door; the worst place I could have chosen, for it was near to the large table, he was laid upon the table, and the shutter drawn from under him."Light the lamp," said Mr. Edwin Barley.He was obeyed, and the light fell upon the upturned, ghastly face. Not that I could see it, but I knew that they could, by the women shrieking out. It was one indescribable scene of confusion; questions, cries, exclamations, and alarm. Mr. Edwin Barley, who had been engaged with the corpse, turned round in anger."Clear out, all of you. What do you mean by this uproar? You men can stay in the barn, you may be wanted," he said to the out-door laborers: "and you," turning to the servants, "go about your business; if you are required, you'll be called for."They disappeared with alacrity; Mr. Edwin Barley was one who brooked no delay in being obeyed; and I sat on in the shadow, shivering; conscious that none knew of my being there, and for that very reason not daring to move and show myself. Another thing: I must have brushed past that table, close between it and the wall, and I did not care to look at what it bore. Charlotte Delves remained, and she drew to the side of Mr. Edwin Barley."How did it happen?" she whispered."Charlotte, get me some brandy, and a teaspoon. He is certainly dead, as I believe: but that's no reason why remedies should not be tried. Make haste; bring it in a wine-glass."She went into the dining-room, and Mrs. Edwin Barley came running down the stairs. She had on her dinner dress, black silk trimmed with crape, but no ornaments; she had not waited to put them on."What in the world is this disturbance?" cried out she. "I should have been here five minutes before, but that my dress was off, and my hair down. What's that on the table?"Mr. Edwin Barley turned his face round to her."Come and see."She came tripping up, believing, as she said afterwards, that it was a great load of game flung there: the gray-and-brown woollen plaid which they had spread over him from the neck downwards, not looking unlike the color of partridge feathers in the artificial light."It is Philip King!" she shrieked. "Oh, what is it? what is it? What is amiss with him?""Don't you see what it is?" Mr. Edwin Barley answered, in a tone of concentrated mockery. "It is murder. He has been shot down by a bullet in the wood."A strange sort of noise broke from her. It was not a scream, it was not a groan; it resembled more a moan of pain, mingled with terror, and in sound was not unlike the bark of a dog."Who did it?" she shivered."You.""I!" came from her ashy lips. "Are you going mad, Mr. Barley?""It has come from your work, if you did not positively draw the trigger. I hope you are satisfied with it."Charlotte Delves came forward with the wine-glass and a teaspoon. Mr. Barley filled the spoon and attempted to pour it down the throat of Philip King. Mrs. Barley shuddered, drew away, sat down upon the lower step of the stairs, and bent her face upon her knees."Was it an accident, or—or—done deliberately?" inquired Charlotte Delves, as she stood by him."It was deliberate murder.""By—by whom?""It is of no use, Charlotte," was all he said, giving her back the teaspoon. "He is quite dead."Hasty footsteps were heard coming along the avenue, and then running up the steps to the door. They proved to be those of Mr. Lowe, the surgeon from Hallam."I was walking over to Smith's, to dine, Mr. Edwin Barley, and met one of your laborers here by the gate," he exclaimed, in a loud tone, as he entered. "He said some accident had happened to young King.""Accident enough," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Here he lies."For a few moments nothing more was said. Mr. Lowe was stooping over the table, and I saw my Aunt Selina lift her head, and look and listen eagerly."I was trying to give him some brandy when you came in," observed Mr. Edwin Barley."He'll never take brandy or any thing else again," was the reply of Mr. Lowe. "He is dead.""As I feared. Was as sure of it, in fact, as a non-professional man can well be. I believe that he died in the wood, a minute or two after the shot was fired.""Who fired it?—what were the circumstances?""I'll tell yon all I know. "We had been out shooting, he, I and Heneage. He and Heneage were not upon cordial terms; had been sour, crabbed with each other all day. Coming home, Heneage dropped us; whether to go forward, or to lag behind, I am unable to say. After that, we met Smith—as he can tell you, if you are going to his house. He stopped me about that right of common business, and began discussing what would be the better mode of our proceeding against the fellows. Philip King, whom it did not interest, said he should go on, and Smith and I sat down on the bench outside the beer-shop, and called for a pint of cider. Half-an-hour we may have sat there, and then I started for home through the wood, which cuts off the corner—""Philip King having gone forward, as you say.""Of course. I was nearly through it, when I heard a movement not far off, and a gun was fired. A terrible scream, a man's scream, succeeded, and looking in its direction, I discerned Philip King. He leaped up with the scream, and then fell to the ground. I went to his succor, and asked who had done it. 'George Heneage,' was his answer; he had seen him raise his gun, take aim, and fire upon him."An impulse prompted me to interrupt: to say that Mr. Edwin Barley's words went beyond the truth. All that Philip King had said was, that he saw George Heneage, saw him stand there. But fear was more powerful than impulse, and I remained silent. How could I dare contradict Mr. Edwin Barley?"It must have been an accident," said Mr. Lowe; "Mr. Heneage must have aimed at a bird.""Oh, dear, no; it was deliberate murder, there's no doubt. My ward swore it to me with his dying lips. They were his own words. I expressed a doubt, as you are doing. 'It was Heneage,' he said; 'I tell it you with my dying lips.' A bad man!—a villain!" Mr. Barley emphatically added; "Another day or two, and I should have kicked him out of my house; I waited but a decent pretext.""If he is that, why did you have him in it?" asked the surgeon."Because it is but recently that my eyes have been opened to him. This poor fellow," pointing to the dead, "was the one to lift their scales in the first instance. Pity the other is not the one lying here; he would be, did he have his deserts."Wild sobs of hysterical emotion broke at this moment from the foot of the stairs. They came from my Aunt Selina, who was affected in a similar way to what I had been, only more violently."What's that?" cried the surgeon, turning hastily round.And Charlotte Delves came running forward saying that Mrs. Edwin was in hysterics."She has just seen his face here, and was frightened at it," observed Mr. Edwin Barley to the surgeon.Mr. Lowe wished to persuade her to retire from the scene, but she would not, and there she sat on, growing calm by degrees. The surgeon measured something in a teaspoon into a wine-glass, filled it up with cold water, and made her drink it. Then he took his leave, saying that he would call again in the course of the evening. Not a minute had he been gone when Mr. Martin burst into the hall."What is this report?" he cried in agitation. "People are saying that Philip King is killed.""They might have said murdered," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Heneage shot him in the wood.""Heneage!""Heneage. Took aim, and fired at him, and killed him. There never was a case of more deliberate murder.""Poor fellow!" said the clergyman gently, as he leaned over him and touched his face. "I have seen for some days they were not cordial; what ill-blood could have been between them?""Heneage had better explain that, when he makes his defence," said Mr. Edwin Barley, grimly."It is but a night or two ago that we were speculating on his health, upon his taking a profession; we might have spared ourselves the pains, poor lad. I asked you who was his heir-at-law, little thinking another would so soon inherit."Mr. Edwin Barley made no reply."Why—good heavens!—is that Mrs. Edwin, sitting there?" he inquired in a low tone, as his eyes fell on the distant stairs."She won't move away. These things do terrify women. Don't notice her, Martin: she will be better left to herself.""Upon my word, this is a startling and sudden blow. But you must surely be mistaken, in calling it murder.""There's no mistake about it: it was willful murder; and I will pursue him to the death.""Have you secured him? If it really is murder, he ought to meet his deserts. Where is he?"Mr. Barley broke out with an ugly word. It was a positive fact—account fur it how you will—that until that moment he had never given a thought to the securing George Heneage. "What a fool I have been!" he uttered, "what an idiot! He has had time to escape.""He cannot have escaped far.""Stay here will you, Martin. I'll send the laborers after him; he may be hiding in the wood till the night's darker."Mr. Edwin Barley hastened from the hall, and the clergyman bent over the table again. I had my face turned to him and was scarcely conscious, until it had past, of something dark that glided from the back of the hall and followed Mr. Barley out. With him gone, to whom I had taken so unaccountable a dislike and dread, it was my favorable moment for escape, and I was about to get out how I best could, when another scream of terror broke from me and betrayed my hiding place.At what? will be asked. Simply at this. In moving I put my hand to the ground on the flags beyond the mat, and found it wet. Something had dropped from the table and trickled towards me which had dyed my fingers red. The clergyman turned sharply round at the scream."I declare it is little Miss Hereford! he exclaimed very kindly. "What brought you there, my dear?"I sobbed out the explanation. That I had crouched down in the shade before they brought thatin, and then I was afraid to move. "Don't tell, sir, please, for Mr. Barley to be angry with me; don't tell him I was there.""He would not be angry at a little girl's very natural fears," he answered, stroking my hair: "who could be? But I will not tell him. Will you stay by your aunt, Mrs. Edwin Barley?""Yes please, sir.""But where is Mrs. Edwin?" he resumed, as he went on, for the stairs were empty."I was wondering too," said Charlotte Delves, who stood at the dining-room door. "A minute ago she was there. I turned in to the room for a moment and when I came back she was gone.""She must have gone up stairs, Miss Delves.""I suppose she has, Mr. Martin," was Miss Delves's reply. But a thought came over me that it must have been Mrs. Edwin Barley who had glided out at the hall door.And, in point of fact, it was. She was sought for up stairs and could not be found; she was sought for down. Whither had she gone? On what er-rand was she bent? One of those raw damp fogs, prevalent in the autumn months, had come on, making the air as wet as if it had rained, and she had no out-door things on, no bonnet, and her black silk dinner dress had a low body and short sleeves. Whither could she have gone?Not far from the staircase was a door opening to a passage which led to the kitchen and other domestic offices. Peeping in at this door, was the head of Jemima: I ran out and laid hold of her."Oh, Jemima, let me stop by you!""Hark!" she whispered, putting her arm round me. "There's some horses a galloping up to the house."Two police officers, mounted. They gave their horses in charge to one of the men servants and came into the hall, the scabbards of their swords clanking against the steps."I don't like the look of them sort of gentry," whispered Jemima. "Let's go away."In the kitchen were Sarah and the cook; the latter a tall, stout woman with a rosy color and black eyes. Her chief concern seemed to be for the dinner."Look here," she exclaimed to Jemima as she stood over her saucepans, "every thing's a spiling. Who's to know whether they'll have it served in one hour or in two?""I should think they wouldn't have it served at all," returned Jemima. "That sight in the hall's enough dinner for them to-day, one would suppose. The police are come now.""It is a sickener," said the cook. "I know in going after it, worse luck to me, and seeing of it, it took every thing else clean out of my head. I forgot my soles were on the fire, and when I got back there they were burnt to the pan. I wish to goodness they'd either have dinner, or countermand it, keeping me at six and sevens, like this. I want to wash up and get the kitchen clear.""Listen!" interrupted Sarah. "Here's somebody coming. It's that Charlotte Delves."Miss Delves entered, and the cook appealed to her about the dinner."It won't be eatable, miss, if it's kept much longer. Some of the dishes is half cold, and some's dried up to a scratchin.""There's no help for it, cook; you must manage it in the best way you can," was her reply. "It is a dreadful thing to have happened, but I suppose dinner must be served all the same for the master and Mrs. Edwin.""Miss Delves, is it true what they are saying—that it was Mr. Heneage who did it?" inquired Sarah."Suppose you meddle yourself with your own affairs, and let alone what does not concern you," was Miss Delves's reprimand.She left the kitchen. Jemima made a motion of contempt after her, and gave the door a bang."She'll put in herher spoke against Mr. Heneage, I know, for she didn't like him; but I am confident it was never him that did it—unless his gun went off accidental."For a full hour by the clock we stayed in the kitchen, the cook reducing herself to a state of exasperated despair over the uncalled-for dinner. And all that while no one came in to interrupt. The men-servants had been sent out, some to one place, some to another. The cook made us some coffee and cut some bread-and-butter, but I don't think anybody touched the latter. I thought by that time my aunt must surely be come in, and asked Jemima to take me up stairs to her. A policeman was in the hall as we passed through it, and Charlotte Delves and Mr. Martin were sitting in the dining-room, whence they could see the table in the hall. Mrs. Edwin Barley was nowhere to be found, and we went back to the kitchen. I began to cry: a dreadful fear came upon me that she might have gone away forever, and left me to the companionship of Mr. Edwin Barley."Come and sit down here, child," said the cook in a motherly way, as she placed a low stool near the fire. "It's enough to frighten her, poor little stranger, to have this happen, just as she comes into the house.""I say, though, where can missis be?" echoed Jemima in a low tone to the rest as I drew the stool into the shade and sat down, leaning my head against the wall.Presently Miss Delves's bell rang. It was for some hot water, which Jemima took up. Somebody was going to have brandy and water, she said; perhaps Mr. Martin, she did not know. Her master was in the hall then, and Mr. Barley, of the Oaks, was with him."Who's Mr. Barley of the Oaks, Jemima?" I asked."He's master's elder brother, miss. He lives at the Oaks, about three miles from here. Such a nice place it is, ten times better than this. When the old gentleman died, he came into that, and Mr. Edwin not this."Then there was silence again, for half an hour, quite. I sat with my eyes closed, and I heard them say I was asleep. The young farm laborer, Duff, came in at last."Well," said he, "it have been a useless chase. I wonder whether I am wanted for any thing else?""Where have you been?" asked Jemima."Scouring the wood, seven of us: and them two mounted pelice is a dashing about the roads. All in search of Mr. Heneage: and we haven't found him.""Duff, Mr. Heneage no more did it than you did.""That's all you know about it," was Duff's answer. "Master telled the pelice that it was willful murder; that there was ill-blood between him and young King, and Heneage levelled his gun and took aim, and shot him down. Anyway he must be guilty, the pelice says, or he wouldn't have made off.""How did master know.""Because young King said it when master got up to him, just as the breath was going out of his body.""If Mr. Heneage has gone, it's a bad sign for him," observed the cook: "folks with clear consciences don't take to flight. Suppose I was accused of sending up a poisoned dinner? If I knew I was innocent, should I make off, and leave folks to think me guilty? No; I should stop and fight it out with 'em and see if I couldn't bring my innocence to light. That's human natur—as Itake it to be. Have a dish of coffee, Duff.""Thank ye," answered he. "I'd be glad on't."She was placing the cup before him, when he suddenly leaned forward from the chair he had taken, speaking in a covert whisper."I say, who d'ye think was in the wood, a scouring it, up one path and down another, as much as ever we was?""Who?" asked the three in a breath."The young missis. She hadn't got a earthly thing on her but just what she sits in, indoors. Her head was bare and her neck and arms was bare; and there she was, a racing up and down like one demented.""Tush!" said the cook. "You must have seen double. What should bring the young missis a dancing about the wood like that, Duff, at this time o'night?""I tell ye I see her. I see her three times over.""It was her fetch, then.""No it wasn't; it, was herself," returned Duff. "May be, she was a looking for him, too: at any rate, there she was and with nothing on, as if she'd started out in a hurry and had forgot to dress herself. If she don't catch her death it's odd to me," he added, nodding his head solemnly. "The fog's as thick as pea soup, and wets you worse than rain."Duff's words were true. As he spoke, the drawing-room bell rang, and Jemima went to answer it. She came back, laid hold of me without speaking and took me up to it. Mrs. Edwin Barley stood there, just come in: she was shaking like a leaf with the damp and cold, and her hair was hanging down with wet. She had been roaming the woods in search of George Heneage, to warn him, that he might escape. In a more collected moment would she have spoken of this to me? Surely not."I could not find him," she uttered, kneeling down before the fire and holding out her shivering arms to the blaze; "I hope and trust he has escaped. One man's life is enough for me to have upon my hands, without baring two.""Oh, Aunt Selina! you did not take Philip King's life?""No, I did not take it. And I have been guilty of no wrong, no crime; I declare it before my Maker!"she burst forth in a frenzy of excitement. "But I did set them one against the other, Anne, in my vanity and willfulness.""Aunt Selina, why did you stay out in the wet fog?""I was looking for him.""But suppose you should have caught your death? Duff said—""What if I have?"she interrupted. "I'd as soon die as live. Hark I who's this?"Footsteps, as of one or two men, were coming up the stairs. Selina darted to the side door, which she had spoken of as leading to her bedroom, and pulled it open with a wrench. Something seemed to give way, perhaps the lock or bolt. She disappeared, leaving me standing alone on the hearthrug.CHAPTER IVGEORGE HENEAGE? OR MR. EDWIN BARLEY?HE who first entered the room was a gentleman of middle age and size. His complexion was healthy and ruddy; his hair, black sprinkled with gray, was cut short and combed down upon the forehead; and his eyes were small. It was a good-humored, country countenance, but a simple one, and its owner was Mr. Barley of the Oaks; not the least resemblance did he bear to his brother. Following him was one in an official dress, who was probably superior to a common policeman, for his manners were good, and Mr. Barley called him "Sir. "It was not the same who had been in the hall."Oh, this—this must be the little girl," observed Mr. Barley. "Are you Mrs. Edwin's niece, my dear—Miss Hereford?""Yes, sir.""Do you know where she is?"I said I thought she was in her bedroom. It appeared to have transpired that a quarrel had taken place between Mr. Heneage and Philip King, on the Friday, and the officer had now been in the kitchen to question Jemima. The latter disclaimed all knowledge of it, beyond the fact that she had passed little Miss Hereford on the stairs, who was frightened and crying, having run out of the drawing-room lest Mr. Heneage and Mr. King, who were quarreling, should fight. He had come up stairs to question me."Now, my little maid, try and recollect," said the officer, drawing me to him; "what did they quarrel about?""I don't know, sir," I answered. And I spoke the literal truth, for I had not understood at the time."Can you not recollect?""I can recollect," I said, looking at him and feeling that I did not shrink from him, though he was a policeman, "Mr. King seemed to have done something wrong, for Mr. Heneage was angry with him, and called him a spy; but I did not know what it was that he had done. I think I was too frightened to listen; I ran out of the room.""Then you did not hear what the quarrel was about?""I did not understand, sir. Except that they said Mr. King was mean, and a spy.""They!" he repeated, catching me quickly up, "who else was in the room?""My Aunt Selina.""Whose part did she take? That of Mr. Heneage, or of Mr. King?""That of Mr. Heneage.""How did the quarrel end? Amicably, or in evil feeling?""I don't know, sir. I went away and stayed in my bedroom.""My sister-in-law, Mrs. Edwin, may be able to tell you more about it, as she was present,"interposed Mr. Barley."I dare say she can," was the officer's reply. "It seems a curious thing altogether; that two gentlemen should be visiting at a house, and one should shoot the other. How long had they been staying here?""Let's see," said Mr. Barley, rubbing his forefinger upon his forehead. "It must be a month, I fancy, sir, since they came. Heneage was here first; some days before Philip.""Were they acquainted previously?""I—think—not," said Mr. Barley, speaking with hesitation. "Heneage was here on a visit in the middle of the summer, but not Philip; whereas Philip was here at Easter, and the other was not. No, sir, I believe they were not acquainted before, but my brother can tell you.""Who is this Mr. Heneage?""Don't you know? He is the son of Heneage, the baronet, member for Wexborough. Oh, he is of very respectable family; very. A sad blow it will be for them, if things turn out as black as they look. Will he get clear off, think you?""You may depend upon it, he would not have got off far, but for this confounded fog that has come on," warmly replied the police officer. "We shall have him to-morrow, no doubt.""I never hardly saw such a fog at this time of year," observed Mr. Barley. "I couldn't see a yard before me as I came along. Upon my word it almost seems as if it had come on on purpose to screen him.""Was he a pleasant man, this Heneage?""One of the nicest fellows you ever met, sir," was Mr. Barley's impulsive reply. "The last week or two Edwin seems to have taken some spite against him; I don't know what was up between them, for my part; he espoused Philip King's side, against him probably; but I liked Heneage, what I saw of him, and thought him an uncommon good fellow. My brother and his wife met him in London last spring when they were there, and became intimate with him.""Heneage derives no benefit in any way, by property or else, from his death?" observed the policeman, speaking half as a question, half as a soliloquy."It's not likely, sir. The only person to benefit is my brother. He comes in for the estate."The officer raised his eyes."Your brother comes in for Mr. King's fortune, do you mean to say?""Yes, he does. And I'll be bound he never gave a thought to the inheriting of it. How should he, from a young and hearty lad like Philip? Edwin has creaked over Philip's health of late, said he was consumptive, and going the way of his brother Reginald; but I saw nothing amiss with Philip.""May I ask why you don't inherit, being the eldest brother?"Mr. Barley shook his head."He was no blood relation to me. My father married twice; I was the son of the first wife, who died when I was born; Edwin was the son of the second: and Philip King's father and Edwin's mother were cousins. Philip had no relative living but my brother, therefore he comes in for all."Mrs. Edwin Barley appeared at the door, and paused there as if listening to the conclusion of the last sentence. Mr. Barley turned and saw her, and she came forward. She had twisted up her damp hair, and thrown on a shawl of white China crape. Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks carmine; beautiful she looked altogether.The officer questioned her as to the cause of the quarrel which she had been present at, but she would give him no satisfactory answer. She "could not remember;" "Philip King was in the wrong, she knew that;" "the officer must excuse her talking, for her head ached, and her brain felt confused."Such was the substance; all, in fact, that he could get from her. He bowed and withdrew, and Mr. Barley followed him down stairs."Anne," she said, in a low tone, touching me on the shoulder, "look over the banisters and see where they go to. Look who is in the hall."The same policeman was in the hall, sitting down now, and the voices of Mr. Martin and Mr. Edwin Barley sounded in the dining room, as the other two went into it Charlotte Delves ran up stairs, and saw me leaning over."Peeping, Miss Hereford! Is that a lady's work?"It was upon my tongue to say it was not my work, but I stopped it."What about the dinner, Mrs. Edwin?" she asked, as she entered."Oh, Miss Delves! How can you calmly ask about dinner at such a time as this?"The cook would only be glad to know whether it is to be kept hot still, or whether it may be put away. It is getting on for ten o'clock, and has been at the fire all this while.""I don't know. Perhaps some of them may eat it," she slowly said. "I shall not go down. Let it be served, and the gentlemen can sit down if they please."Charlotte Delves went out and closed the door. My aunt bolted it after her, and then beckoned me to her side."Now, Anne, I must have a little conversation with you. When I sent you running to the wood, did you meet either Mr. Heneage or Philip King?""I did not meet either, aunt. I went into the wood, and in looking about I lost my way. I was frightened, and began to cry, and then I saw Mr. King standing by a tree opposite, and laughing at me.""You saw him!" she uttered catching op her breath and speaking in eagerness."Yes. He asked why I was crying, and said he would show me the way out. He stopped suddenly and raised his hued, as if he saw something at a distance. In the same moment he was shot down.""Good heavens, child! You saw him shot?""I heard the noise, and saw him fall. It seemed to come from the spot where he had been gazing.""Did you see who did it?" she moaned, scarcely above her breath."No.""Then you saw no one whatever in the wood but Philip King?""I saw Mr. Edwin Barley. I looked to the place from whence the shot seemed to come, and I saw him there, looking through the trees and standing still, as if he wondered what could be the matter. For, oh, aunt! Philip King's scream was dreadful, and must have been heard a, long way.""What!" she uttered, as she clutched my arm, "You Saw Edwin Barleyat that spot! "Not Mr. Heneage?""I did not see Mr. Heneage at all then. I saw only Mr. Edwin Barley. He came up to Philip King, asking what was the matter.""Had he his gun with him—Edwin Barley?""Yes, he was carrying it.""And now tell me what passed—for I suppose you heard," she said, after a long pause. "Mind you repeat the exact words.""Mr. Edwin Barley said, 'Philip, what is this? Who fired at you?' 'George Heneage; I saw him; he stood there,' Philip King answered, pointing to the place. 'Are you sure?' Mr. Barley asked. 'I tell it you with my dying lips,' Philip King said; 'I saw him.' That was all, aunt. Philip King fell back and died.""All. Did not Philip King say that Mr. Heneage had raised his gun, aimed at him, and fired?—that he saw him do it?""He did not, aunt. He only said what I have told you.""Lie the first I" she exclaimed, lifting her hand and letting it fall passionately. "Then you never saw Mr. Heneage.""Yes I did, aunt; later. Mr. Edwin Barley saw me and questioned me, and then showed me which path to take, to go and get assistance. As I was running down it, I came upon Mr. Heneage hiding among the trees. He stopped me, and asked me in a whisper whose voice that was. I told him it was Mr. Edwin Barley's, and that Philip King was dead. I asked Mr. Heneage if he did it.""Well?" she feverishly interrupted. "Well?""'I!you silly child!' he answered, and then he told me to go along and not tremble so, and he turned and crept away through the trees. Aunt, he was as white as this handkerchief.""Had—had he his gun?" she hesitatingly asked."Yes. He looked dreadfully scared and confused. Not like Mr. Edwin Barley: he looked as he always does.""How far off Philip King was this?"Very near. But there was a turn in the path so that we were out of sight.""And—be attentive, Anne—was it in the same direction from which the shot was fired?""Yes, it was."Mrs. Edwin Barley knitted her brows and bent her head in thought, holding me still before her. By and by she looked up."Did all this happen directly that you got into the road?""I am sure I had been in it ten minutes or a quarter of an hour—""Yes," she interrupted, "but little girls compute time differently from grown people. What seemed to you a quarter of an hour, may not have been more than two or three minutes.""Mamma taught me how differently time appears to pass, according to what we may be doing, aunt Selina. That when we are pleasantly occupied, it seems to fly; and when we are impatient for it to go on, or in any suspense or fear, it does not seem to move. I think I have learnt to be pretty exact, and I do believe that I was in the wood nearly a quarter of an hour. I had said my prayers, and—""You had—WHAT?""I was much alarmed; I thought I might have to stay in the wood till morning, and there was no knowing what harm might happen to me. Of course I could only pray to God to protect me: and I knew that harm would not come to me then. Yes, aunt, it must have been a quarter of an hour in all: so you see Mr. Heneage did not do it in the heat of passion in running after him: he must have done it deliberately.""It is to be ascertained whether he did it at all—""But, aunt, if he did not, why did he hide In the wood, and look as if he had done something wrong?—he did look like it. Why did he not go boldly up, and see what was amiss with Philip King as Mr. Edwin Barley did? When I told him he was dead, why did he creep away?""There is no accounting for what people do in these moments of confusion and terror: some act in one way, some ID another," she slowly said. "Anne," she added after a pause, glancing timidly round, and bringing my ear close to her face, "how did Mr. Edwin Barley look?—as though he had done something wrong?"I could not say he did, for he certainly did not, so far as I could recollect."He looked surprised, aunt Selina, nothing more. And he seemed to be sorry; for his voice, as he spoke to Philip King, was kinder than ever I had heard it.""Go! go! sit down there," she hastily said, pointing to a sofa far from her. "Bury your head down on the pillow as if you were asleep."So sudden and surprising was the direction, that I am sure I should not have had the presence of mind to obey her. She saw that; and, pulling me to the sofa, pushed me on it, my head down and the pillow over it, unbolted the door, and was back in her seat before Mr. Edwin Barley entered the room."No need to let himhim into our confidence,"she whispered."Are you not coming down to dinner, Selina?""Dinner! It is well for you that you can eat it," was her answer. "You must dine without me to-day; those who dine at all. Now don't disturb that sleeping child, Mr. Barley! I was just going to send her to bed.""It might do you more good to eat dinner than to roam about in a night-fog," was Mr. Edwin Barley's rejoinder. "What were you about, out of doors?""About? The house was not so cheering that I coveted to stay in it, with that dreadful sight laid in the hall. I think you might have had it taken to a less conspicuous place.""Curious, too, that you should choose to go out on such a night as this, half naked; and to stay out a couple of hours!""Not curious," she tauntingly said: "very natural.""Very: especially that you should be tearing up and down the wood paths, like a mad woman. Unless I am mistaken, I saw you so employed.""You saw me, did you I Well, I was so employed!""For what purpose?""I will tell you," she answered, speaking in a sharp, passionate tone. "I was looking for George Heneage. There; you may make the most of it.""Did you find him?""No. I wish I had: I wish I hadI should have learnt from him the truth of this night's business: for the truth, as I believe, has not come to light yet.""What do you suppose to be the truth?" he returned, in a tone of surprise: whether natural, or assumed, who could say?"No matter; no matter now: it is something that I scarcely dare to glance at. Better, even, that Heneage had done it, than—than—my head is confused," she broke off; "my mind unhinged, hardly sane: I wish you would leave me, Mr. Barley.""You had better come and eat a bit. of dinner,"he said, roughly, but not unkindly. "Nobody can be inclined for much; but to fast entirely is good neither for the body nor the mind; and fasting could not bring Philip King back to life. William is going to stay; and Martin also, though he has dined. Will you come?""No," she testily answered. "It is waste of time to ask me."''I hate to dine without somebody at the table's head," he said, turning round when he got to the door. "If you will not come, I shall ask Charlotte Delves to sit down.""It is nothing to me who sits down when I am not there."He departed with the ungracious reply ringing in his ears: and ungracious I felt it to be. She bolted the door again, and pulled the velvet cushion off my head."Are you smothered, child? Get up. Now, mark me: you must not say a word to Mr. Edwin Barley of what happened at the summer house. Do Dot mention it at all; to him, or to anybody else.""But suppose I am asked, aunt Selina?""How can you be asked? Philip King is gone; and who else is there to ask you? You surely have not spoken of it already?" she continued in a tone of alarm.I had not spoken of it to any one, and told her so. "When my terror subsided, after I ran in from the wood unable to speak, the servants questioned me as to what had caused it. I only replied that I heard a shot and a scream: I was too much afraid to say more."That's well," said my aunt Selina.She sent me to rest, ordering Jemima to stay by me till I was asleep. "The child may feel nervous," she remarked to her in an under tone, but the words reached me. A long, long time it seemed to me that I was getting to sleep, and in the morning, when I woke up, I found to my surprise that I was in my aunt Selina's bed. I had so started and moaned, it appeared, after I did get to sleep, that Jemima went and called her mistress, thinking I must he ill, and Mrs. Edwin had me carried down to her own bed. Where Mr. Edwin Barley slept that night I do not know, but certainly not with his wife"Can you dress yourself, Anne?" my aunt asked me. And I rose up in bed, and looked at her, for the voice did not sound like her voice."Are you ill, aunt Selina? Why do you speak so hoarsely?""I feel very ill, Anne. My throat is bad: or my chest, I can scarcely tell which: perhaps it is both. Can you dress without assistance?""Oh, yes; mamma always made me do that since I was a very little girl.""Get up then at once. And when you go down send Miss Delves to me."I sprang out of bed and looked about. "I don't see my clothes here, aunt Selina.""Oh dear, I forgot. Put that shawl on, and run up to your own room. How stupid of Jemima, not to bring them down!"I have said that I was an imaginative, thoughtful, excitable child, and as I hastily attired myself, one sole recollection (I could have said fear) kept running through my brain. It was the oracular observation made by Duff, relating to his mistress and the fog. "If she don't catch her death, it's odd to me."Suppose she hadcaught her death? My fingers trembled at the thought.The first thing I saw when I went down was a large high screen of ten folds raised across the hall, hiding the table."What is behind it?" I whispered to Sarah, who was coming out of the dining-room with a duster and broom in her hand."The same that was last night, miss," she answered. "It can't be moved, they say, till after the crowner has sat.""Sarah, have they taken Mr. Heneage?""Not that I have heard on, miss. One of them police gents was in just now, and he told Miss Delves there was no news.""I want to find Miss Delves. Where is she?""In master's study. You can go in. Don't you know which it is. It's that room built out at the back, halfway up the first flight of stairs. You can see the door from here."In the study sat Mr. Barley and Mr. Edwin at breakfast, Charlotte Delves serving them. I gave her my aunt's message—but was nearly scared out of my senses at viewing Mr. Edwin Barley."Go up at once, Charlotte, and see what it is," he said. "How do you say, little one—that her throat is bad?'"Yes sir, and she cannot speak well," I replied, as Miss Delves left the room."No wonder; she has only herself to thank," he muttered. "The wonder would be if she were not ill.""Why?" asked Mr. Barley, curiously, lifting his head."Oh, she got frightened last night, and ran out in the fog when poor Philip was brought home, staying ever so long," was Mr. Edwin's reply. "With nothing on, too!""Mrs. Edwin appears exceedingly poorly," said Charlotte Delves, when she returned. "Lowe said he should be here this morning; perhaps he will not be long. She must have taken cold."Scarcely had she spoken when the surgeon came in. Mr. Edwin Barley went up stairs with him. Mr. Lowe came down alone, and I caught a moment to speak to him when no one was by."Will my aunt Selina get well, sir?""I do not know, my dear," he answered, turning upon me his grave face. "I fear she is going to be very ill."CHAPTER VTHE WARNING. THE WALK TO HALLAMNOTHING could be heard of George Heneage. The police scoured the country; handbills were printed, offering a reward for his apprehension; no effort was left untried, but he was not found. Opinions were freely bandied about: some said he must have escaped in the fog, and got off by a friendly railway; others that he had waited quietly till morning and then departed leisurely, in disguise, in woman's clothes, or a laborer's attire; and a few suggested that he had not gone at all, but was lying concealed in it yet. The first opinion was the more probable one, people said; while the surmise of his adopting woman's clothes was laughed at; a man of Mr. Heneage's height, so attired, would be followed in the highway as a giantess. Mr. Edwin Barley was in great anger at his escape, and swore that he would pursue him to the death.Mr. Heneage's father came to the house, a fine old gentleman with white hair. Though Mr. Lowe corrected me for calling him old, and said he could not be much more than fifty, I had not then the experience to know that while young persons call fifty old, those approaching that age are apt to style it young. He was a courteous, gentlemanly man, but seemed bowed down with grief; he said he could not understand it, or what motives could have actuated his son; he would not believe in his guilt, and protested that the gun must have gone off by accident."Then why should he run away?" argued Mr. Edwin Barley.The coroner's inquest sat, and returned a verdict of Willful Murder against George Heneage. The chief witness was Mr. Edwin Barley. I was not called upon, and my aunt Selina said it was a proof that he had not mentioned I was present at the murder. You may be sure I took care not to mention it; neither did she. Nothing transpired touching the encounter at the summerhouse; therefore the affair appeared to the public involved in mystery; Mr. Edwin Barley protested that it was a mystery to him. Mr. Edwin Barley testified that Philip King, in dying, had asserted he saw George Heneage take aim and fire at him; I knew Philip King had not said so. But no one else knew it, save my aunt Selina; and she only from me. They did not call upon her to appear at the inquest; had they done so, it must have been adjourned, for she could not leave her bed; she persisted that she was unable to give any positive testimony upon the subject, and the people in authority knew no cause why they should disbelieve her, therefore she was left in peace. Before George Heneage's father departed, he had an interview with her in her bedroom, and to me it seemed to last a long while.The inquest was held in the house, on the Tuesday; there was no public house near, sufficiently commodious. It began at two o'clock in the afternoon, and the house was like a fair. Policemen, doctors, the coroner and jury, with incidental persons coming and going as they pleased. The servants stood about, peeping and listening; I did the same; now and then one would come out of the dining-room, where they had assembled, and tell us scraps of news. Now it would be that the surgeons were giving evidence; now, that Mr. Edwin Barley was under examination; once Charlotte Delves was summoned before them, because Philip King had sat with her in her parlor for half an hour the morning of his death; but she proved that he had not touched upon any point of dispute, or spoken of George Heneage. Nothing satisfactory or certain could be gleaned, save from the testimony of Mr. Edwin Barley."Child,"cried my aunt Selina, "is not that inquest over?""Not yet, aunt," I answered.I had wandered into her room when evening was drawing on, and she put the question."What was that stir I heard a minute or two ago?""They called from the dining-room to have the lamp lighted. John went in and did it.""Is it dark, Anne?""Not dark. It is getting dark."Dark it appeared to be in my aunt's Chamber, for the crimson curtains were drawn before the large, deep bay window, and also partially round the bed. You could distinguish the outline of objects within it, and that was all. I went close up to the bed and looked at her; she was buried in the pillows; that she was very ill I knew, for a physician from Nettleby had come that morning with Mr. Lowe."How is it turning?" she presently asked."Turning?" I repeated, not comprehending."Down stairs in the inquest-room: who is it going against?""Who should it go against, aunt, but Mr. Heneage?""Listen, Anne! It must be over, for they are coming out!" she exclaimed, moving restlessly.I descended the stairs half-way, and stopped to look. Sure enough, they were pouring out of the room, a great crowd of dark figures, talking as they came, and slowly making for the hall-door. Suddenly I distinguished Mr. Edwin Barley, and he appeared to be coming towards the stairs.To his study, as I thought, and away went I, not caring where, so that I did not encounter him. Added to my childish dislike and fear of Mr. Edwin Barley, since Saturday night another impulse to avoid him had been added: a dread which I could not divest myself of lest he should seize upon me and question what had taken me into the wood. My aunt had ordered me not to tell; but, if he did question me, what could I do? I know that the fear was upon me then and for a long time afterwards.I crept swiftly back again up the stairs, and into my aunt's room. Surely he was not coming to it! Those were his footsteps, and they drew nearer: he could not have turned into his study! No, they came on. In the impulse of the moment, I pushed behind the heavy window curtain. It was drawn straight across from wall to wall, leaving a space between it and the bow of the window, nearly as large as a small room. There were three chairs there, in the middle of the window and at the two sides. I sat down on one of them, and, pulling the white blind slightly aside, looked out at the dark figures who were then sauntering down the avenue."Well, it's over," said Mr. Edwin Barley, as he came in and shut the door. "And now all the work will be to find him.""How has it ended?"asked Mrs. Edwin."Willful murder. The coroner was about to clear the room, but the jury intimated that they required no deliberation, and returned their verdict at once.""Willful murder against whom?" she returned, in a tone of impatience."Against George Heneage. Did you suppose it was against you or me?""Perhaps it might have been: and with more justice.""I could see him, between the opening of the curtains, scowl his eyebrows together at his wife."Come," he said, "this is not the first incomprehensible insinuation you have given forth; so we will have it out, if you please. Who do yousuppose committed the crime, Mrs. Barley?""I think it as likely to have been you as he."An ominous pause. I began to shake as I sat."You wicked woman!""I cannot believe, and I never will believe that George Heneage was of a nature to commit murder,"she resumed, speaking as distinctly as her inflamed throat would permit her. "If the shot did come from his gun, I know it must have been fired inadvertently.""The shot did come from his gun: there's no 'if' in the question.""I am aware you say so. But—it was passing strange that you, also with your gun, should have been upon the exact spot. Now stay, don't put yourself in a passion, but listen to me for a moment; I would only bring before your notice facts; facts, Mr. Barley; and you cannot beat me for them; you cannot beat a woman, and a sick one. You were there, I repeat, with your gun; George Heneage may have been; he may have fired on him; but there is only your word to prove that Philip King said it; you were bitterly incensed against George Heneage, and—""Why was I incensed? Had I not cause?""No, yon had not. There was no cause, no real cause: I declare it,"she added in agitation, "before my Creator.""Real cause!" he repeated, in a tone of scorn. "No: had I admitted a thought that there was what you call real cause, I would have beaten him to death at the first dawn of suspicion. But now, hear me, Selina,"he continued in a different manner, dragging a chair forward and seating himself in it, "it has been your pleasure to declare so much to me: I declare, nay, I swear to you, that Heneage, and Heneage only, killed Philip King. Dispossess your mind of this dark folly; you must have been insane ever to take it up: I am your husband.""Did you see Heneage fire?" she asked, after a silence."No. I should have known pretty surely that it could only be Heneage, had there been no proof against him; but there were Philip's dying words. Still, I did not see Heneage at the place, and I have never said I did. I was pushing home through the wood, and halted a second, thinking I heard voices: at that very moment a shot was fired close to me, close, mind you; not two yards off, but the trees are thick just there; and whoever fired it was hid from my view. I was turning to search, when Philip King's awful scream rang out, and I pushed my head beyond the trees and saw him in the act of falling to the ground. I hastened to him, and the other escaped—all ill luck be to him! This is the entire truth, so help me heaven!"It might have been the truth; and, again, it might not. It was just one of those things that depend upon the credulity of the utterer. What little corroboration there was, certainly was on Mr. Edwin Barley's side: only that he had asserted more than was true of the dying words of Philip King. If these were the simple facts, the truth, why have added falsehood to them?"Heneage could have had no motive to take the life of Philip King," resumed Mrs. Edwin Barley. "That he would have horsewhipped him, or given him a sound chastisement, I grant you—and richly he deserved it, for he was the cause of all the ill-feeling that had arisen in the house—but, to kill him I No, no!" she shuddered."And yet you would deem me capable of it!""You are the only one to benefit by his death,"she said, in a faint tone."Shame upon you, Selina!"She lay without speaking for a minute"I am not accusing you. But when you come to speak of motives, I cannot help seeing that George Heneage had none, compared with you.""Selina, this will never do," he said "It will not do for husband and wife to live on, the one believing, or even doubting, that the other has been guilty of a revolting crime. Were it any but you who dare assume this doubt, I should know how to deal with them: with you, I condescend to refutation and to reason. Your words would point to Philip's property: let me tell you, I should have come into that soon enough, without killing him for it; for, that he was fast hastening after Reginald, I am as convinced as I am of my own existence. No, thank God! I have had no hand in poor Philip's death, and I can follow him to his grave with a clear conscience."She made no reply; only sighed heavily."You have just observed that the author of the mischief, the bad feeling, which had sprung up in the house was Philip King; but you are wrong. The author was you, Selina."Still no answer. She put up one of her hot hands, and shaded her eyes."I forgive you," he continued. "I am willing to bury the past in silence; never to recur to it, never henceforth to allude to it: but I would recommend that this tragical ending should be a warning to you for the future. I will not tolerate further folly in my wife: and your own sense ought to tell you that had I been ambitious of putting somebody out of the world, it would have been Heneage, not Philip. Heneage has killed him, and upon his head be the consequences. I will never cease my endeavors to bring him to the scaffold, until it is accomplished. Are you better to-night?" he added, in a changed voice."Not any," she replied. And he rose, pushed back the chair, and quitted the chamber."Oh, aunt," I uttered, going forward with lifted hands and streaming eyes, "I was here all the time! I saw Mr. Edwin Barley coming up, and I ran in, but did not know he was coming in, and then I hid behind the curtain. I never meant to be a listener: I was afraid to come out."She looked at me without speaking, and her face, hot with fever, grew more flushed. She seemed to be considering, perhaps remembering what had passed."I—I—don't think there was any thing very particular said, that you need care; or, rather, that I need," she said at length. "Was there?""No, aunt. Only—'"Only what, child? Why do you stop?""You said it might have been Mr. Edwin Barley. I wish I had not heard that.""I said it was as likely to have been he as the other. Anne," she suddenly added, "you possess thought and sense beyond your years: what do you think?""Aunt, I think it was Mr. Heneage. I think so because he has run away, and because he looked so strangely when he was hiding. And I do not think it was Mr. Edwin Barley; when he told you how it occurred just now, and that it was not he, his voice sounded as though he were speaking truth.""Oh, dear!" she moaned, I hope it was so! What a mercy if that Philip King had never come near the house!""But, aunt, you are sorry that he is dead?""Sorry that he is dead? Of course I am sorry. What a funny child you are! He was no favorite of mine, but," she cried, passionately clasping her hands, "I would give all I am worth to call him back to life."It was on this same evening, after that, that Mrs. Edwin Barley had the interview with Mr. Heneage's father. And then he departed.The following morning, while I was dressing, Jemima came up, and said I was to make haste and go into my aunt's room. She was asking for me."Is she better, Jemima?""No miss, she is a sight worse. And I know what I think now.""What do you think?" I asked, not liking her words, though I did not know why."Oh, nothing; nothing for little ladies to hear."."Jemima," I said, bursting into tears, "do you mean that she will die?""Well, if ever I heard the like of that!" returned Jemima, volubly. "One won't be able to open one's lips next, before you, Miss Hereford! Did I say a word about her dying, pray? or about your dying, or my dying? My thoughts was a running upon whether we should have mourning give us for young Mr. King. Now just dry your eyes; your aunt's no more agoing to die than you are."The first word spoken by Mrs. Edwin Barley was a contradiction to this, curious coincident as it may seem."Child," she began, when I entered her room, and she held out her hands to me from the bed, "I fear I am about to be taken from you."I did not answer; I did not even cry; it was a confirmation of my secret, inward fears, and my face turned white."What was that you said to me about the Carews never dying without a warning? And I laughed at you! Do you remember? Anne, I think the warning came to me last night."I glanced timidly round the room, and drew nearer."Oh, aunt Selina I""Your mamma said she had a dream, Anne. Well, I have had a dream. And yet, I am sure it was not a dream; no, it was reality; it was reality. She appeared to me last night.""Who? Mamma?""Your mamma. The Carew superstition is, that when one is going to die, the last relative, whether near or distant, who may have been taken from them by death, comes again to give them notice that their own departure is near. Ursula was the last who went, and she came to me in the night.""It can't be true," I sobbed, shivering to hear it."She stood there, in the faint rays of the shaded lamp, and beckoned to me," pursued aunt Selina, not so much as listening to me. "I have never slept all night; I have been in that semi-conscious, dozing state when the mind is awake both to dreams and to reality knowing not which is which. Just as the clock struck two I awoke, awoke thoroughly, you understand; I counted the strokes, and opened my eyes in pain and weariness, thinking morning would never come. There, at the foot of the bed, looking in at me between the curtains, was a white, shadowy form; what, I could not tell, whether human person or spirit of air; but, as the features grew upon me, I saw that they were Ursula's. The moment they became clear and distinct, the figure vanished, and I lay alone, bathed in perspiration."I would not accept the inference, I would not."It may have been no warning that you were going to die, aunt," I burst forth between my bitter sobs."Yes; for the figure lifted its face in a beckoning attitude as it vanished," she replied. "It was my death-warning, Anne.""Whatever is the matter with you, Miss Hereford?" exclaimed Charlotte Delves, who came in, carrying a cup of tea. "Are you ill?""She is grieving because I am ill," said my aunt. "I have been telling her that I think I shall die.""Oh, but you must not take those low-spirited fancies into your head, Mrs. Edwin," she remonstrated. "You will be better in a day or two. A violent attack of cold, of inflammation, such as you have, must run its course; but it will yield to remedies.""What do the doctors say to you?" was my aunt's inquiry."Nothing to indicate that the danger will become imminent," returned Charlotte Delves. "Will you not take the tea? Try and swallow a little.""Is it bronchitis?" returned my aunt, who seemed to find a difficulty in speaking. "I asked Mr. Lowe—but he did not answer me.""They call it inflammation of the throat—at least, Mr. Lowe did to me when he was speaking of it," answered Charlotte Delves. "It may mean the same. Miss Hereford, if you will go down to my parlor, you shall have breakfast.Later that morning I was again in my aunt's room. Mr. Edwin Barley was going out as I entered it. Selina followed him with her eyes, and then beckoned to me."Shut the door, and bolt it," she said, in a whisper."Anne," she continued, as I returned from obeying her, "do you think you could find your way to Hallam?""I dare say I could, aunt?""Yon remember the way you came from Nettleby? To go to that, you must turn to your left, as you leave these gates; but to go to Hallam, you must turn to the right. You have only to keep straight on in the high road, and in half an hour or less, you will enter the village.""I am sure I could find it, aunt.""Then put your things on, and take this note,"she said, giving me a little piece of paper twisted up. "In going down Hallam street, you will see on the left hand a house standing by itself, with 'Mr. Gregg, Attorney at Law,' on a plate on the door. Go in, ask to see Mr. Gregg alone, and give him that note. But mind, Anne, you are not to speak of this to any one: should Mr. Edwin Barley or any one else meet you and inquire where you are going, say only that you are walking to look about you. Do you understand?""Yes.""Hide the note, so that no one sees it, and give it into Mr. Gregg's hands. Tell him I hope he will comprehend it, but that I was too ill to write it more elaborately."No one noticed me as I left the house, and I pursued the road to Hallam, my head and thoughts full. Suppose Mr. Edwin Barley shouldmeet and question me! I knew that I should make a poor hand at deception. I had crushed the note inside my glove, having no better place of concealment—suppose he should seize my hand and find it I And if the gentleman I was going to see should not be at home, what was I to do then? Bring the note back to Selina, or leave it? I ought to have asked her."Well, my little maid, and where are you off to?"The salutation proceeded from Mr. Martin, who had come right upon me at a turning of the road. My face grew hot as I answered him."I am out for a walk, sir.""But this is rather far to come alone. You are close upon Hallam.""My aunt Selina knows it, sir," I said, trembling lest he should stop me, or order me to walk back with him."Oh, very well," he answered, good-naturedly. "How is she to-day?""She is not any better, sir," I replied, and he left me, telling me I was not to lose myself.I came to the houses, straggling at first, but soon contiguous to each other, like they are in most streets. Mr. Gregg's stood alone, its plate on the door. A young man came out of it as I stood hesitating whether to knock or ring."If you please is Mr. Gregg at home?""Yes,"answered he. "He is in the office; you can go in if you want him."He opened an inner door, and I entered a room where there seemed to be a confused mass of faces. In reality there might have been three or four, but they multiplied themselves to my timid eyes."A little girl wants to see Mr. Gregg," said the young man.A tall gentleman came forward, with a pale face and gray whiskers, and looked at me from head to foot."What is your business?" he asked. "I am Mr. Gregg.""I want to see you by yourself, if you please, sir."He led the way to another room, and I took the note out of my glove and gave it him. He read it over—to me it appeared a long one—looked at me, and then read it again."Are you Anne Hereford?""Yes," I said, wondering how he knew my name. "My aunt Selina bade me say she was too ill to write it better, but she hoped you would understand it.""Is she so ill as to be in danger?""I am afraid so, sir."He still looked at me and twirled the note in his fingers. I could see that it was written with a pencil."Do you know the purport of this?" he inquired, pointing to the note."No, sir.""Did you not read it coming along? It was not sealed.""Oh, no. I did not take it out of my glove.""Well—tell Mrs. Edwin Barley that I perfectly understand, and shall immediately obey her: tell her all will be ready by the time she sends to me. And—stay a bit. Have you any Christian name besides Anne?""My name is Anne Ursula.""And what was your father's? and what was your mother's?""Papa's was Thomas, sir, and mamma's Ursula," I answered, wondering more and more.He wrote down the names, asked a few more questions, and then showed me out at the street door, with au injunction not to forget the words of his message to Mrs. Edwin Barley, and not to mention abroad that I had been to his office.CHAPTER VITHE DEATH. THE WILL.I HAD another walk to Hallam. My aunt sent me again on the day before that fixed for Philip King's funeral, not with a note, but with a mysterious message. "See Mr. Gregg alone, Anne. Tell him that the funeral is fixed for eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, and that he must come, and watch his time."Which message I delivered.I watched the funeral depart, winding down the avenue on its way to the church. In the first black chariot sat the clergyman, Mr. Martin; then followed the hearse; then two mourning coaches. In the first were Mr. Barley and Mr. Edwin, and two gentlemen whom I did not know: they were the mourners; and in the other were the pall-bearers. Some men walked in hatbands, and the carriages were drawn by four horses, bearing plumes."Is it out of sight, Anne?"The questioner was my aunt, for it was at her window I stood, peeping beside the blind. It had been out of sight some minutes, I told her, and must have passed the lodge."Then you go down stairs, Anne, and open the hall door. Stand there till Mr. Gregg comes; he will have a clerk with him: bring them up here. Do all this quietly, child."In five minutes Mr. Gregg came, a young man accompanying him. I shut the hall door and took them to my aunt's room. They went up the stairs so quietly; just as though they would avoid being heard. She held out her hand to Mr. Gregg."How are you to-day, Mrs. Barley?""They say I am better," she replied; "I hope I am. Is it quite ready?""Quite," said he, taking a parchment from one of his pockets. "You will hear it read?""Yes; that I may see whether you understood ray imperfect letter. I hope it is not long. The church, you know, is not far off, and they will be back soon.""It is quite short," he replied, having bent his ear to catch her speech, for she spoke low and imperfectly; "where shall my clerk wait while I read it?"My aunt sent us into her dressing room, I and he, whence we could hear Mr. Gregg's voice slowly reading something, but could not distinguish the words or sense; once I caught the name "Anne Ursula Hereford." And then we were called in again."Anne," said my aunt, "go down stairs and find Jemima. Bring her up here.""Is it to give her her medicine?" asked Jemima, as she followed me up."I don't know," I said."My girl," began the attorney to Jemima, "can you be discreet, and hold your tongue?"Jemima stared with all her eyes: first at seeing them there, next at the question. She gave no answer in her surprise, and Mrs. Edwin Barley made a sign that she should come close to her."Jemima, I am sure you know that I have been a good mistress to you," she proceeded, "and I ask you to render me a slight service in return. In my present state of health I have thought it necessary to make my will; to devise away the trifle of property I possess of my own. I am about to sign it, and you and Mr. Gregg's clerk will witness my signature. The service I ask of you is, that you will not speak of this to any one, that you will keep it an entire secret. I can rely upon you, can I not?""Yes, ma'am, certainly you may," replied the servant, speaking in an earnest tone, one that said she meant to keep her word honestly."And my clerk I have answered to you for," put in Mr. Gregg, as he raised Mrs. Barley and placed the open parchment before her.She signed her name, "Selina Barley;" the clerk signed his, "William Dixon;" and Jemima hers, "Jemima Lea." Mr. Gregg remarked that Jemima's writing might be read, and it was as much as could be said of it. She went down again, and soon after they departed, I going to shut the hall door after them."Who's that gone out?" cried Charlotte Delves, coming forward as I closed it, in her new mourning dress of black silk.I appeared not to hear her: I did not know whether I ought to say, or not, and was afraid of doing mischief. As I ran up stairs, she opened the door and looked out. I wondered whether they were beyond view."Anne, dear," said my aunt, as I went in, "if I die, you are now provided for.""Oh, aunt, dear aunt, but you are not going to die!""Perhaps not; I hope not: but for having seen the spirit of your mother at my bedside, I should not fear it now, for I do feel better. But Mr. Lowe says it is a deceitful disorder, better one moment and worse the next."I did not know what to think about that spirit. Unwilling as I was to believe in it, I yet was given to superstition: all children are, if they be imaginative ones. My aunt spoke again, interrupting my thoughts."Did any of the household see Mr. Gregg go out, Anne?""I think Charlotte Delves did; I am not sure. She saw that some one went out.""Charlotte Delves!" she repeated; "the worst that could have seen him. However, it is done, and they can't undo it. If I live, I shall have time for every thing; if I die—but in any event, Anne, you are safe. I have left you all I can. Open that cabinet,"she added, holding out her keys.I did so, and she handed me the will, left on the bed by Mr. Gregg, desiring me to place it in there. Afterwards she made me take that key off the bunch and lock it up alone in a drawer. Then she took the bunch and put it under her pillow.She appeared considerably better that evening; sat up in bed and ate a few spoonfuls of arrow-root. Mr. Edwin Barley, who was sitting in the room near the fire, remarked that it was poor stuff, that water arrow-root, and that she ought to have either brandy or sherry wine in it."I should be afraid," she answered, "and the doctor say I must be kept low. When I get better, then I will take strengthening things.""If you don't mind they'll keep you so low that you never will get better," was his rejoinder. "I know that the proper treatment for you would be stimulants, until the disorder shall have passed. Let me put a little sherry into that, Selina.""Not this evening: it might not be right. I will ask Mr. Lowe about it tomorrow morning. As I am better, I must try and keep so.""Well, I hold to my own opinion," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "You would have got well in half the time had they helped the system. I told Lowe so, but he would not listen to me. I hate your lowering doctors; a milk-and-water diet is necessary in some cases, but I never will believe it has been right in this attack of yours.""But if I am getting better under it?""You are not well yet," he significantly returned, as he took the poker and cracked the coal into a blaze."Are you sure you are better, aunt Selina?" I whispered, leaning over the bed."I feel a great deal better, child. So much so that I will sit up a little, if you will prop the pillows well behind my back."Then came my bed time. Jemima appeared with the candle, and my aunt kissed me, and said I should find her still better in the morning."Good-night, sir,"I said to Mr. Edwin Barley."Good-night, child," was his answer."Jemima, I am so glad that my aunt is better!" I exclaimed, as she was unfastening my frock. "She will soon be well now.""I hope to goodness she will!" returned Jemima, dubiously. "But I can't help thinking it bodes no good when folks feel themselves ill enough to think about making wills. I was struck all of a heap this morning, when I heard what I was wanted for.""Jemima, you know you were not to talk of that.""Neither am I going to talk of it," she replied, warmly; "but you were there as well as myself, Miss Anne, so it's no matter speaking to you. Thank goodness the house will be open tomorrow!" she added, passing to another topic. "It has been like a dungeon this last week, with the windows and doors shut up, and that melancholy object behind the screen in the hall."The next morning was Sunday. I heard the clock strike eight before anybody came to call me, so I got up alone. Very joyous did I feel as I drew the blind up, remembering what Jemima had said—that the house might be opened, now that poor Philip King was out of it. Not joyous particularly at that, but at the thought of the improvement in my aunt Selina, I ran to her room door when dressed, and had my hand upon the handle when Sarah came by."Don't go in there, Miss Hereford,"she cried out in a hasty tone of alarm."Why not? I want to see how my aunt is.""Oh, she—she—you must not go in, miss, I say.""But why, Sarah?""Because there's something there that you'd not like to see."The words, or the tone in which they were spoken, I think it was the tone, struck upon me with awe: but I never, never glanced to the unhappy truth. I let go the handle of the door."Mind you don't attempt to go in, miss," repeated Sarah, as she ran up stairs, in the belief that I meant to be obedient. "Miss Delves is in her parlor: you had better go to her."Now I was not obedient: I transgressed Sarah's orders. Not in the spirit of opposition, for I was by nature and habit a tractable, docile child; but Sarah's words had impressed a dread upon me that my aunt might be worse, that she might be lying there with leeches to her throat, and would spare me the sight. I had seen leeches once upon another's throat, and the sight had remained on my mind as one of the terrors of life. So I went in, in my fear.The curtains were drawn round the bed, quite drawn: I hesitated a moment, and spoke before I undrew them."Are you worse, aunt Selina?"There was no answer: and in that moment the appearance of the room struck upon me as strange. It seemed to have been put to rights: there was no litter, no sign of an occupant; no bottles or pill boxes were about, no articles of dress: the chairs stood in prim array against the walls, the tables had been cleared, all things seemed in order. I drew aside the curtain, and peeped in, in full dread of the leeches.Alas! it was not leeches I saw, but a still, white face. The face of my aunt Selina, it is true, but—dead. I shrieked out in my agony of terror, and flew away into the arms of Sarah, who came running down."Whatever is the matter?" exclaimed Charlotte Delves, flying up from the hall."Why, Miss Hereford has been in there! and I told her not to go!" answered Sarah, hushing my face up to her as she spoke. "Why couldn't you listen to me, miss?""I didn't know she was up; she should have waited for Jemima," was Miss Delves's remark, as she laid hold of me and led me down to her parlor, Sarah following."Oh, Miss Delves, Miss Delves, what is it?" I sobbed. "Is she really dead?""She is dead, all too certain, my dear; but I am sorry you should have gone in. It's just like Jemima's carelessness!""What's that, that's like my carelessness, Miss Delves," resentfully inquired Jemima, who had come from the kitchen upon hearing the noise, and was entering."Why, your suffering this child to dress herself alone, and go about the house at large. One would think you might have been more attentive this morning, of all others.""I went up just before eight, and she was asleep," answered Jemima, pertly. "Who was to imagine she'd awake and be down so soon?""Why did she die? what killed her?" I asked, my sobs choking me; "dead! dead! My aunt Selina dead!""She was taken worse at eleven o'clock last night, and Mr. Lowe was sent for," answered Charlotte Delves. "He could do nothing, and she died at two.""Where was Mr. Edwin Barley?""Where? Why, with her. Where should he be?"A strange terrible thought had come over me; a wicked thought. Had Mr. Edwin Barley killed her? I shook and shivered in my shoes as I stood there."She was so much better last night! She was getting well?" I said, imploringly."It was a deceitful improvement," replied Charlotte Delves; "Mr. Lowe said he could have told us so, had he been here. Mr. Edwin Barley quite flew out at him, avowing his belief that it was the medical treatment that had killed her.""And was it?" I eagerly rejoined, as if, the point ascertained, it could bring her back to life."I don't know," observed Charlotte Delves, shaking her head: "I am not competent to judge. They say now it was not bronchitis that she had, but some other disorder; some new disorder, of which I forget the name; and Mr. Edwin Barley maintains that it ought to have been treated differently. All I know is, that if blame lies anywhere, it is with the two doctors, for every direction they gave was minutely followed.""Why did you not fetch me down to see her?""Child, she never asked for you; she was past asking then; and to you it would only have been a painful sight.""Nobody was in the room with her but me when she took worse," interposed Jemima. "It was my turn to sit up, and she said she was so much better there was no reason for my doing it, and I might make up a bed for myself on the sofa, and she'd speak if she wanted me. Well, I thought at first I'd make up the bed; and then I said to myself that the easy chair was comfortable, and I could sleep in that, and save the noise and trouble of bringing bedclothes in. I was settling things a bit in the room, making up the fire, seeing to the night light, putting ready what might be wanted if I had to make tea in the night; then I slipped off my new black gown, and put on a cotton one, and changed my cap. All this while she had not spoken again, and I went to the bedside, before sitting down, to ask if she wanted any thing more then. My patience! if my heart didn't leap into my mouth!—there was such a change in her! I thought I saw death in her face; I declare I did! and my pulse went pit-a-pat as I asked her if she felt worse. She did not speak, but pointed to her throat, and I ran and called master, thinking—""Thinking what?" inquired Charlotte Delves, for Jemima had made a sudden pause."Nothing particular, Miss Delves. Only that something which had happened in the day was odd," resumed Jemima, looking significantly at me. "Master was in his room, half undressed, and he came rushing after me just as he was. The minute he looked upon her he murmured that she was dying, and sent off for Mr. Lowe. He sent to Nettleby for the physician, too; but the latter did not get here till it was over. The last breath went out of her as the clock was striking two.""Did he know what was the matter with her—why she was dying?" I reiterated."As the rest of us knew," said Charlotte Delves, after a pause. "It was the disorder that killed her; they could not subdue it. Mr. Lowe said he had little hope from the first.""And couldn't open his lips to say so!" put in Jemima. "It's just like them doctors. An aunt of mine was in a consumption, and they vowed, to the very hour she died, that there was no danger. Master's dreadfully cut up."They brought me my breakfast, but I could neither eat nor drink. I wandered into the hall, and was sobbing, with my head against the door of the dining-room, when it was gently unlatched, and Mr. Edwin Barley looked out.I am confident he had been crying, for his eyes were red, and his air and manner subdued. But I felt more than the customary fear of him, and would have run away."Come hither, Anne. What are you weeping for?""For my aunt, sir. I never took leave of her; I never saw her before she died!""If weeping tears of blood would bring her back to life, she'd be here again," he responded, fiercely. "They have killed her between them; they have, Anne; and, by heavens! if there was any law to touch them, they should feel it.""Who, sir?""Who! The doctors—and precious doctors they have proved themselves! Why do you tremble so, child? They have not understood the disorder from the first: it is one requiring the utmost possible help from stimulants; otherwise the system cannot battle with it. They gave her none; a they kept her upon water, and—she is lying there! Oh! that I had done as it crossed my mind to do I" he uttered, clasping his hands together in anguish; "that I had taken her treatment upon myself; risked the responsibility! She would have been living now!"If ever a man spoke the genuine sentiments of his heart, I believed that Mr. Edwin Barley did then, and all doubts as to his having helped on his wife's death were cleared from my mind in that moment. So far as she was concerned, he was innocent.That restless day! that miserable day! that and the one of mamma's death, remain on my memory as the two sad days of life, standing out conspicuously in their bitterness.I roved about the house everywhere, save in that one chamber, bringing myself to an occasional anchor in Miss Delves's parlor. She was very kind to me, I will say that for her; but what was any kindness to me then? A resolution grew gradually upon me that I would look once more upon my dear aunt Selina; would watch my opportunity, and steal in when nobody was about.I did not accomplish it till evening, nearly upon twilight. The very worst hour I could have chosen, the one most likely to encourage superstitious fears; but, child like, I did not think of that. I went in, pushing-to the door, but not latching it, and passed round to the far side of the bed, nearest to the windows and the light.But I had not courage to draw aside the curtain, and down I sat in the low chair by the bed's head, to wait till courage came. Some one else came first, and that, was Mr. Edwin Barley.He walked slowly in, startling me nearly out of my senses; his slippers were light, and I had not heard his approach. I cowered lower and closer, behind the curtain, hoping he would not see me. He did not approach the bed—at least on the side where I sat, but seemed, so far as I could trust my ears, to be searching about the room, and he opened several drawers and tried others. Next he went outside the door, and called out,"Charlotte. Charlotte Delves."She came running up in obedience, and they entered together."Where are my wife's keys?" he inquired."I do not know," she answered, looking about the room as he had previously done. "They must be somewhere.""Not know! But it was your place to take possession of them, Charlotte. I want to open her desk; there may be directions left in it regarding her funeral, or upon other matters, for all I can tell.""I really forgot all about the keys," she deprecatingly said. "I will ask the women who laid her out. Why! here they are, all the while, in this china basket on the mantelpiece," she suddenly exclaimed. "I knew they could not be far off."Mr. Edwin Barley took the keys, and I heard him unlock the desk. Charlotte Delves stood on this side the table, apparently looking on; I could just see her petticoats."I forgot to tell you one thing, Mr. Edwin," she resumed. "That is, I forgot it yesterday, and to-day I would not disturb you to do it. Lawyer Gregg was here yesterday morning.""Lawyer Gregg!" he repeated, in a tone of astonishment."It was whilst you were at the funeral. I had come into the dining-room, when I heard footsteps, as of more than one, descending the stairs. I thought nothing of it, supposing it might be some of the servants; but the footsteps crossed the hall, the door was softly opened, and I heard two distinct voices. The one said ' Good day, my dear;' the other, 'Good morning, miss.' I went out to look; the door was shut then, and Anne Hereford was turning from it; I asked who had gone out, but instead of answering me, she ran swiftly up stairs. I opened it and looked; two men were walking swiftly away, one of whom was lawyer Gregg."Now you may just imagine how ter-rified I felt as Charlotte Delves related this. I had done no wrong; I had simply obeyed the orders of my aunt Selina; but it was uncertain what amount of blame Mr. Edwin Barley might lay to my share, and how he would punish it."It is most strange what Gregg could want here—and at such a time!" exclaimed he to Charlotte Delves. "Could he have come by appointment, to—to transact any legal business for Selina?""The idea occurred to me," she answered. "The little girl may be able to tell. Shall I call her up?"I suppose he nodded an affirmation, for she quitted the room; but ere she was half way down the stairs, he sprang to the door."Charlotte! Come back." And she turned, and came."Say nothing about it to Anne Hereford," he said. "If I require information, I will question her myself. That's all." And she departed.He began opening the drawers he had previously been unable to do, and I could hear him turning over their contents. How long might I have remained there?—what punishment should I have had, when discovered? I cannot tell; times upon times have I thought it over since, and lost myself in conjecture. But there came a knock at the chamber door ere five minutes had elapsed. Mr. Edwin Barley opened it and saw one of the men servants."If you please, sir," he said, stepping inside, and dropping his voice in the presence of the dead, "the Reverend Mr. Martin is down stairs, and says will you see him?""I'll come," replied Mr. Edwin Barley.Not another moment lost I. Ere he was well beyond hearing I darted from my hiding place and from the room, not giving another thought to looking at my aunt.But they took me in to see her the next clay when she was in her coffin, or, in what they called "a shell." She looked very calm and peaceful, but I think the dead, generally speaking, do look peaceful, whether they have died a happy death, or not. A few autumn flowers were strewed upon her flannel shroud."Touch her," Jemima whispered to me, "touch her, miss, and then you won't dream of her."Again came the funeral on Saturday; the previous Saturday it had been Philip King's. Mr. Edwin Barley had found a paper in my aunt's desk, a few pencilled words in it, mentioning who she should wish to be invited to her funeral, should she "unhappily die." Therefore, her death had not been quite unexpected by herself. Several names were enumerated, and Mr. Gregg's was among them.The long procession, longer than that of Philip King, wound down the avenue. This time Mr. Edwin Barley chose to go in a coach by himself; I supposed he did not like to be seen grieving; and the rest of the mourners went in another. There was not a dry eye among the household, us who were left at home, with the exception of Charlotte Delves; I don't think she wept at all, then or previously. I sobbed till they came back, sitting by myself alone in the dining-room.It was the very room they were filed into, those who entered. A formidable array it looked, in their sweeping hatbands and scarf's, too formidable for me to pass, and I shrunk into a corner. But they soon filed out again, all save Mr. Edwin Barley, his brother, and lawyer Gregg."You wonder at my remaining behind the rest," the latter observed to Mr. Edwin Barley, "but I am obeying the request of your late wife. She charged me, in the event of her death, to stay and read the will after the funeral.""The will!" echoed Mr. Edwin Barley."She made a will just before her death; she gave me instructions for it secretly: though what her motives for keeping it a secret were she did not state. It was executed on the day previous to her death.""This is news to me," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "Do you hold the will?""No, I left it with her.""I don't know where it can have been put; I have no idea," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "In visiting her desk and one or two other places, since her death, I have come upon no will."There was a blank pause, and the lawyer turned to look at me."Perhaps this little lady may know," he said. "She made one in the room when I was with Mrs. Edwin Barley, and may have seen afterwards where the will was placed."I came forward, sick with apprehension; it seemed to me that all was coming out; at any rate, my share in it. But I spoke, pretty bravely."You mean the paper that you left on my aunt Selina's bed, sir; I put it in the cabinet; she directed me to do so.""In the cabinet?" repeated Mr. Edwin Barley to me."Yes, sir. Just inside as you open it.""Will you go with me to search for it?" said Mr. Edwin Barley to the lawyer. "And you can go into Miss Delves's parlor, Anne: we do not want little girls in these affairs.""Pardon me," interrupted Mr. Gregg quickly, "Miss Hereford is a party interested, and therefore must remain. Better come with us, my little maid, and point out the spot where you put it, that there may be no delay."Mr. Edwin Barley looked as if he meant to object, but did not, and we went up. The key of the cabinet was in the corner of the drawer, as I had placed it; and the cabinet was at once thrown open. But the place where I had laid it was vacant: no will was there.No will was anywhere, apparently. Place after place was searched without success."It is most extraordinary!" uttered Mr. Gregg."I can only come to one conclusion," said Mr. Edwin Barley: "that my wife herself must have destroyed it; it is true the keys were lying about for a day subsequent to her death, at anybody's command; but who would steal a will?""I do not imagine Mrs. Edwin Barley would destroy it; it is most improbable. She expressed her happiness at having been enabled to make it—her great satisfaction.""Who benefitted by it, Gregg?" inquired Mr. Barley, who had come into the room, and Mr. Edwin turned short round and gave an angry glance at his brother."Anne Ursula Hereford; this little girl," replied the lawyer. "Mrs. Edwin bequeathed her money, her clothes, and all her trinkets, save those which were your own gift, to her, Mr. Edwin. She left her every thing, in fact, every thing that she had to leave. It is most strange where the will can be!""Very strange," echoed Mr. Barley."Strange indeed!" repeated Mr. Edwin. "I will institute a thorough search all over the house."But to me it did not seem strange. I believed the will had been made away with by Mr. Edwin Barley. Was I right? Or wrong?CHAPTER VIIMR. AND MRS. HEMSONTEN days went by; ten unhappy days. I spent most of my time with Miss Delves, seeing scarcely any thing of Mr. Edwin Barley. Part of the time I think he was over at his brother's, but now and then I met him in the passages or the hall. He would give me a nod, and pass by. I cannot describe my state of feeling, or how miserable the house appeared to me: I was as one unsettled in it, as one who lived in constant discomfort, fear, and dread, though of what, I could not define. Jemima remarked one day that "Miss Hereford went about mothered: like a fish out of water."The will had never turned up, and probably never would; neither was any clue given to the mystery of its disappearance. Mr. Edwin Barley was as good as his word, and instituted a thorough search of the house, but it was not found. Meanwhile rumors of its loss grew rife in the household and in the neighborhood: whether the lawyer talked, or whether Mr. Barley, and thus set them afloat, was uncertain, but it was thought to have been one or the other. I know I had said nothing; neither, beyond doubt, had Mr. Edwin Barley. When an acquaintance would ask him about it, whether it was true, he answered yes, it was true so far as that Mr. Gregg said his late wile had made a will which could not be found: but his belief was that she must have destroyed it again, for he could not suspect any of the servants of tampering with their mistress's private drawers. Once Mr. Edwin Barley called me to him."Are you quite sure," he asked, in a stern tone, "that you did not reopen the cabinet yourself, and do any thing with the parchment?""I never opened it again, sir, after my aunt told me to put it in. If I had, she must have seen me. And I could not have done so," I added, recollecting myself, "for she kept the bunch of keys under her pillow.""Did you know what it was that she gave you to put in?""She did not tell me what it was; but she had said to Jemima that it was her will, and I was in the room, and heard her.""And you positively did not touch it! I know children are given to curiosity and to mischief.""Indeed I did not, sir. Why should I?""I don't see why, myself," he answered, as he dismissed me. "But she was the only one who knew the spot where the will was placed," he muttered aloud, as if in soliloquy with himself."I say," whispered Jemima to me confidentially, "it's an odd thing about that will!"I nodded."And I don't half like it, I can tell yon that, Miss Hereford. They may turn round and say next that I made away with it—being the only one in the house who was told of the secret.""But, Jemima, they are not likely to say that. The taking the will would not have done you any good, so why should they think it was you?""Well, that's the argument I hold with myself, Miss Anne. The will could benefit nobody, but you; it would be Worth no more to 'em than so much waste paper. It's said that yours was the only name writ in it.""I don't think it will ever be found, Jemima.""I'm sure I can't say. Mr. Edwin Barley will be all the better for it, if it's not.""Will he?""Will he! why of course he will: don't you know it, miss? If mistress died without leaving a will, all she had goes to him. I know all about it, bless you; for folks's tongues are busy enough over it.""But Jemima, you—you—do not think he took the will—that the money might be his?""Hush! I wouldn't say such a thing. And I don't think it, neither. He is fond of money, is Mr. Edwin Barley, as is well known, but it's not likely he'd go and defraud a poor little orphan of the trifle left to her. A man in great need might do such a thing, but hardly a rich gentleman. Why, it is said that he comes into forty thousand pounds by the death of Philip King."Jemima's argument told upon my mind: and from that moment I felt less sure that Mr. Edwin Barley was the one who had touched the will.But how long was I to remain in that desolate house? Forever? It was a question I asked myself every hour in the day. At length an answer came to it. One evening, it was the Tuesday week after my aunt's death, I was seated at tea with Miss Delves in her parlor, when she suddenly asked me whether I was ready to take a long journey on the morrow. The color flushed into my eager face as I answered."Oh, yes, I am ready! Where am I going, Miss Delves?""Have you not an aunt living in Dashleigh, a Mrs. Hemson?""She is not my aunt. She was cousin to mamma and to my aunt Selina.""I thought it was an aunt: she was a Miss Carew, at any rate. You are going there."A chill of disappointment fell upon me. Mamma, and especially Selina, had spoken slightingly of Mrs Hemson, quite sufficiently so to prejudice a young mind against her. I am not sure that I looked upon her as precisely an ogre with claws, but it was something akin to it."There! Am I going there?""You will start by the ten o'clock train from Nettleby, and arrive at Dashleigh at two," said Charlotte Delves, showing no commiseration, and probably unconscious that I required any. "I think it's fine to be you, young lady, travelling about from one place to another, at your age!""Am I to stay there for good?" I asked, after a blank silence."For a very little while, I expect; you must soon be placed at school. Mrs. Edwin Barley told me there was no choice left, as regarded that; your mamma left directions in her will."We were interrupted, for the door opened, and a man servant appeared at it."Master is asking for Miss Hereford, miss," he said, addressing Charlotte Delves. "She is to go up to him in the dining-room."What could he want? It was the first time he had ever sent for me. I jumped to the conclusion that the will was found, and went with alacrity, even though it was into the presence of Mr. Edwin Barley. He was sitting at the dessert-table, some wine before him, and beckoned me to him."Has Charlotte Delves informed you that you will depart to-morrow?""She has just told me, sir.""Here are one or two trinkets of your aunt Selina's that you may be glad to have," he continued, putting a small box in my hands. "Do you think you can take care of them until you are of an age to put them on?""I will take great care of them, sir. I will lock them up in the little desk mamma gave me; and I wear the key of it round my neck.""Mind you do take care of them," he rejoined, with some emotion; "if I thought you would not, I would never give them to you. She was too dear to me, for me to give away aught of hers where it would not be treasured. And these things, recollect, are of value,' he added, touching the box, "they are not child's toys. Take them up to your room and put them in your trunk.""If you please, sir," I hesitated, on the threshold, wishing yet disliking to put the question, "has the will been found?""It has not. Why?""Because, sir, you asked me if I had taken it; you said I was the only one who knew of the place; and I do not like you to think so, for indeed I did not.""Be easy, little girl. I do not think you did take it—and to have hidden it or destroyed it would only damage yourself. I live in hopes of coming to the bottom of the mystery yet—and, if I do, you shall know it. Not that it is a mystery to my mind, though others seem willing to magnify it into one. I believe that your aunt changed her intentions, as to the devising of her property, and destroyed the will. Go along; and take a bunch of grapes with you."Jemima was packing my trunk when I got up stairs, and she shared the grapes and the delight of looking at the contents of the box. My aunt Selina's thin gold chain and her elegant little French watch, two or three bracelets, two or three rings, and a smelling bottle encased in filagree gold—all these treasures were mine. At first I gazed at them with a mixed feeling, in which awe and sorrow held their share; Jemima the same; it seemed a profanation to rejoice over what had been so recently hers, but the sorrow soon merged into the moment's seduction. Jemima had hung the chain and watch round her own neck, and put on the bracelets, thrust the largest of the rings on her little finger, and was figuring off before the glass; I knelt on a chair looking on in mute admiration, anticipating the time when they would be adorning me, when the voice of Mr. Edwin Barley aroused me. Oh, reader! when we indeed get of an age to wear ornaments, how poor is the pleasure they afford us then, compared to that other early anticipation!"Anne! I want you."Jemima, in her flurry, divested herself of the trinkets; I jumped from the chair, and ran down the stairs, expecting nothing less than that the precious things were about to be wrested from me again. Mr. Edwin Barley took my hand and led me into the dining room, sitting down and holding me before him."Anne, you are a sensible little girl," he began, "and will understand what I say to you. The events, the tragedies which have happened in this house since you came to it, are not pleasant, they do not bring honor, either to the living or the dead. Were every thing that occurred to be rigidly investigated, a large share of blame would be cast to my wife, your aunt Selina. It is a blame that I would have spared her had she lived, so far as it was in my power; and I would doubly spare it her, as it is. For that reason I was silent; I held my tongue, burying all that I could in oblivion. Will you do the same for her sake?""Yes, sir. I should like to do so.""That is right. Henceforth, if people should question you, you must know nothing; tell them that what passed you were not cognisant of. In short, be wholly silent upon the subject Remember, child, I speak for Selina's sake.""What did he want?" asked Jemima, when I went up stairs again."It was nothing about the presents, Jemima," was my answer. "Put the chain on me, please, and let me see myself."A full hour did we stand over those ornaments, taking it in turn to be decorated. I believe Jemima was as lost in delight as I was. Miss Delves's angry message, brought up by Sarah, interrupted the pleasure: she sent to inquire whether Jemima had gone to sleep.And I believe I have nothing more to relate with regard to my sojourn at the house of Mr. Edwin Barley, beyond the fact that Mr. Heneage had not been captured, neither could he be tracked. The next morning Miss Delves and I were driven to Nettleby: there she placed me in a first-class carriage, under charge of the guard, to be conveyed to Dashleigh.Two o'clock was striking as the train steamed into Dashleigh station. I was not sure at first that it was Dashleigh, and in the uncertainty did not get out. Several people were on the platform, waiting for the passengers the train might bring. One lady in particular attracted my notice, a most lady-like, pleasant-looking woman, with a sweet countenance, tall and graceful. There was something in her face that put me in mind of mamma. She was looking attentively at the carriages, one after another, when her eyes caught mine, and she came to the door."I think you must be Anne," she said, with the sweetest smile and kindest voice. "Did you not know I should be here? I am Mrs. Hemson."That Mrs. Hemson! that the ogre with claws! In my utter astonishment I never spoke or stirred. The guard came up."This is Dashleigh," he said to me. "Are you come to receive this young lady, ma'am?"Mrs. Hemson did receive me with a warm embrace. She saw to my luggage, and then put me in a fly to proceed to her house. A thorough gentlewoman was she, although she had married a linen draper; a lady in appearance, mind and manners. But it seemed to me a great puzzle how she could be so.It was a large, handsome shop, and seemed to contain several shopmen, as well as customers. The fly passed it and stopped at the private door. We went through a handsome passage, and up a handsome staircase, into large and well-furnished sitting-rooms. My impression had been that Mrs. Hemson lived in a hovel, or, at the best, in some little dark sitting-room behind a shop. Up stairs again were the nursery and bedrooms, a very large house altogether. There were six children, two girls who went to school by day, two boys out at boarding school, and two little ones in the nursery. In the yard behind were more rooms, but these were occupied by the young men engaged in the business, with whom Mrs. Hemson appeared to have nothing whatever to do."This is where you will sleep, Anne," she said, opening the door of a room which had two beds in it. "Frances and Mary sleep here, but they can occupy the same bed, while you stay. Make haste and get your things off, my dear, for the dinner is ready."I soon went down. There was no one in the drawing-room then, and I was looking at some of the books on the centre table, when a gentleman entered: he was tall, fair, handsome; a far more gentlemanly man than any I had seen at Mr. Edwin Barley's, more so than even George Heneage. I wondered who he could be."My dear little girl, I am glad you have arrived in safely," he said, cordially taking my hand." It was a long way for them to send you alone."How could they have prejudiced me against him? but perhaps when Selina spoke, she had no personal knowledge of him. I had been surprised at Mrs. Hemson, but I was far more so at the sight of him, her husband. In the town where I came from there lived a little linen draper (little as to person, means, and establishment,) with cross eyes, a shabby coat, and given, people said, to cheat; since Selina mentioned Mr. Hemson's trade to me, I had associated him, in my own mind, with that other. Well educated, good and kind, respected in his native town, and making money fast, Mr. Hemson, to my ignorance, was a world's wonder."Is she not like Ursula, Frederick!" exclaimed Mrs. Hemson, holding up my chin. "You remember her?"He looked at me with a smile."I scarcely remember her: I don't think Ursula ever had such eyes as these. They are worth a king's ransom; and they are honest and true."We went into the other room to dinner, a plain dinner of roast veal and ham, and a damson tart, all nicely cooked and served, with a well-dressed maid servant to wait upon us. Altogether the house seemed thoroughly well conducted; a pleasant, plentiful home, and where they certainly lived as quiet gentlepeople, not for show, but for comfort. Mr. Hemson went down stairs after dinner, and we returned to the drawing-room."Anne," Mrs. Hemson said, smiling, "you have appeared all amaze since you came into the house. What is the reason?"I colored very much: but she pressed the question."It is a better house than I expected, ma'am.""What! did they prejudice you against me?" she laughed. "Did your mamma do that?""Mamma told me nothing. It was my aunt, Selina. She said you had raised a bar between—between—""Between myself and the Carews," she interrupted, filling up the gap I had come to. "They say I lost caste in marrying Mr. Hemson. And in one sense I did. But—do you like him, Anne?""Very, very much. He seems quite a gentleman, like papa was.""He is a gentleman in all respects, save one: but that is one which people of family cannot get over, rendering it impossible for them to meet him as an equal. Anne, when I became acquainted with Mr. Hemson, I did not know he was in trade; not that he intentionally deceived me, you must understand; he is of strict honor, incapable of deceit; but it fell out so. We were in a strange place, both far away from home, and it was alluded to by neither of us. By the time I heard who and what he was, a silk mercer and linen draper, I had learnt to value him above all else in the world. After that, he asked me to be his wife.""And you agreed?""My dear, I first of all sat down and counted the cost. Before giving my answer, I calculated which I could best give up, my position in society as a gentlewoman and a gentleman's daughter, or Frederick Hemson. I knew that slights would be my portion if I married him, that I should descend for ever in the scale of society, must leap the great gulf which separates the gentlewoman from the tradesman's wife. But I knew I should find my compensation in him. I have never repented the step; I find more certainly, year by year, that if I threw away the shadow, I grasped the substance!""Oh, but surely you are still a gentlewoman!""My dear, such is not my position: I have put myself beyond the pale of what the world calls gentility. But I counted all that beforehand, I tell you, and I put it from me bravely. I weighed the cost well, and it has not been more than I bargained for.""But indeed you are a gentlewoman," I said earnestly, the tears rising to my eyes at what I thought injustice, "I can see you are.""Granted, Anne. But what if others do not accord me the place? I cannot visit gentlepeople or be visited by them. I am the wife of Mr. Hemson, a retail trader. This is a cathedral town, too; and, in such, these distinctions are bowed to in an ultra degree.""But is it right?""Quite right; perfectly right. If you have been gathering from my words that I cast reproach to it, or grumble at it, you are in error. I do not see that society, as it is constituted in England, could get along without these distinctions; and persons who pretend not to regard them, or who rail at them, show very little sense. I repeat, child, I sat down and counted the cost; and I grow more willing to pay it year by year. But, Anne, dear—"and she laid her band impressively on my arm—"I would not recommend my plan of action to others. It has answered in my case; for Mr. Hemson is a man in a thousand: but in nine cases out of ten it would bring unhappiness, repentance, bickering. Nothing can be more productive of misery generally, than an unequal marriage."I did not quite understand: it was hardly to be expected I should."Has there been any cost to you?" I presently asked."Yes. One part of the cost will always remain—as a sort of incubus. It is not only that I have put myself beyond the pale of my own sphere, but I have entailed it on my children. My girls must grow up what they are: let them be ever so refined, ever so well educated, a barrier lies across their path: in visiting, they must be confined to their father's class; they can never expect to be sought in marriage by gentlemen. Wealthy tradespeople, professional men, they may stand a chance of; but gentlemen, in the strict sense of the term, never.""Will they feel it?""No, oh no. That part of the cost is alone mine. I have taken care not to bring them up to views above their station. But, Anne—to change the subject—what were the details of that dreadful tragedy at Mr. Edwin Barley's?""I cannot tell them," I answered with a rushing color."Poor child! I suppose they kept you in ignorance. Well, I am thankful that they did, for its remembrance would have colored your after life. But could they not save Selina?""No—for she died. Mr. Edwin Barley says he knows she was treated wrongly.""Ill-fated Selina! Were you with her when she died, Anne?""I was with her the night before. She was a great deal better then, and thought she should get well. That is, she would have thought it, but for the warning.""For the what?" echoed Mrs. Hemson."Mamma appeared to her before she died. She said the Carews—""Child, be silent!" imperatively interrupted Mrs. Hemson, with a change of color. "How could they think of imbuing you with their superstitions? Has the man who committed the murder been heard of?""Not yet. Mamma had the same warning, Mrs. Hemson.""Be quiet, I say, child!" she exclaimed, in a tone of emotion. "These subjects are totally unfit for you. Mind, Anne, that you do not allude to them before my little girls; they will be home from school at live, and be delighted to make acquaintance with you. You are going to school yourself next week; have you heard that?""To a school in Dashleigh?""Yes: the trustees have at length decided it, and I shall be at hand, in case of your illness, or any thing of that sort Had your aunt Selina lived, you would have been placed at Nettleby.""Where am I to spend the holidays?""At school. It is to Miss Fenton's that you are going.""Is that where Frances and Mary go?""No,"she answered, a smile crossing her lips. "They would not be admitted to Miss Fenton's.""But why?""Because she professes to take none but gentlemen's daughters. A linen draper's, living in the same town, would not do at any price. It will be a condescension," she laughed, "that Miss Fenton allows you to dine with us once in a while.""Perhaps she will not take me," I breathlessly said."My dear, she will be very glad to do so. You are the daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Hereford."It was a happy week, that at Mrs. Hemson's.CHAPTER VIIIMISS FENTON'S SCHOOL. THE BURNT GIRLAND now came school life; school life that was to continue without intermission until I was eighteen years of age. Part of these coming years were spent at Miss Fenton's; the rest at a school in France. It is very much the custom to cry down French scholastic establishments, to contrast them unfavorably with English ones. They may deserve the censure; I do not know; but I can truthfully say that so far as my experience goes, the contrast is on the other side.Miss Fenton's was a "Select Establishment," styling itself a first-class one: I have often wondered whether those less select, less expensive, were not more liberal in their arrangements.—There were fourteen girls in all, the number professed to be taken, but never once, during my stay, was the school quite full; when I entered there were nine, I made the tenth; Miss Fenton, an English teacher, a French teacher, who taught German also, and masters. Miss Fenton herself took nothing, that I saw, but the music; she was about five-and-thirty, tall, thin, and very prim."You will be well off there, my dear, in regard to living, "Mrs. Hemson had said to me. "Miss Fenton tells me her pupils are treated most liberally; and that she keeps an excellent table. Indeed she ought to do so, considering her terms."Of course I thought I should be treated liberally, and enjoy the benefits of the excellent table. But you shall judge.We got there just before tea time, six o'clock. Mrs. Hemson, acting for my trustees, had made the negotiations with Miss Fenton; of course she me to school, stayed a few minutes with Miss Fenton, and then left me. When ray things were off, Miss Fenton rang the bell."You shall join the young ladies at once," she said to me; "they are about to take tea. You have never been to school before, I think?""No, ma'am. Mamma instructed me.""Have the young ladies gone into the refectory?" Miss Fenton inquired, when a maid servant appeared."I suppose so, ma'am," was the answer. "The bell has been rung for them.""Desire Miss Linthorn to step hither."Miss Linthorn appeared, a scholar of fifteen or sixteen, very upright. She made a deep curtsey as she entered."Take this young lady and introduce her," said Miss Fenton. "Her name is Hereford."We went through some spacious, well carpeted passages, whose corners displayed a chaste statue or a large plant in beautiful bloom, into some shabby passages, uncarpeted. Nothing could be more magnificent (in a moderate, middle-class point of view) than the show part, the company part of Miss Fenton's house; nothing much more meagre than the rest.A long, bare table, with the tea tray at the top; two plates of thick bread and butter, very thick, and one plate of thinner, the English teacher pouring out the tea, and the French one seated by her side, and eight girls lower down; that was what I saw on entering a room that looked cold and comfortless.Miss Linthorn walked up to the teachers and spoke."Miss Hereford.""I heard there was a new girl coming in to-day," interrupted a young lady, lifting her head, and speaking in a rude, free tone. "What's the name, Linthorn?""Will you have the goodness to behave as a lady—if you can, Miss Glynn?" interrupted Miss Dale, the English teacher. "That will be your place, Miss Hereford," she added, to me, indicating the end of the form, below all the rest. "Have you taken tea?""No, ma'am.""Qu'elles sont impolies, ces filles anglaises!" muttered Mademoiselle Leduc to the English teacher, with a frowning glance at Miss Glynn."It is the nature of school girls to be so, mademoiselle," pertly responded Miss Glynn. "And I beg to remind you that we are not under your charge when we are out of school in the evening; therefore, whether we are 'impolies' or 'polies,' it is no affair of yours."Mademoiselle Leduc only half comprehended the words; it was as well she did not. Miss Dale administered a sharp reprimand, and passed me my tea. I stirred it, tasted it, and stirred it again."Don't you like it?" laughed a girl who was next to me; Clara Webb, they called her.I did not like it at all, and would rather have had milk and water. So far as flavor went, it might have been hot water colored, was sweetened with brown sugar, and contained about a tea-spoonful of milk. I never had any better tea, night or morning, so long as I stopped; but school-girls get used to these things. The teachers had a little black tea-pot to themselves, and their tea looked good. The plate of thin bread-and-butter was for them.A very handsome girl with haughty eyes, craned her neck forward and stared at me. Some of the rest followed her example."That child has nothing to eat," she exclaimed. "Why don't you hand it to her, Webb?"Clara Webb presented the plate to me; it was so thick, the bread-and-butter, that I hesitated to take it, and the butter was scraped upon it in the most niggardly fashion; but for my experience at Miss Fenton's I should never have thought it possible for butter to have been spread so thin. The others were eating it with all the appetite of hunger. The slice was too thick to bite conveniently, so I had to manage as well as I could, listening—how could I avoid it?—to a conversation the girls began among themselves in an under tone. The teachers were conversing together at the top, taking no notice of them."Hereford? Hereford?" debated the handsome girl, and I found her name was Tayler. "I wonder where she comes from?""I know who I saw her with last Sunday, when I was spending the day at home. The Hemsons.""The Hemsons!" interrupted some indignant voices, whilst I felt my own face turn to a glowing crimson.—"What absurd nonsense you are talking, Glynn!""I tell you I did. I knew her face again the moment Linthorn brought her in. She came to our church with them, and sat in their pew.""I don't believe it," coldly exclaimed an exceedingly ugly girl, with a prominent mouth. "As if Miss Fenton would admit that class of persons! Glynn is playing upon our credulity: like she did, do you remember, about that affair with the prizes. We want some more bread-and-butter, Miss Dale: may we ring?""Yes, if you do want it," replied Miss Dale, turning her face from Mademoiselle to speak."Betsey, stop a moment, I have something to ask you!" suddenly called out one dressed in mourning, leaping over the form and darting after the maid, who was departing with the plate in her hand. A whispered colloquy ensued close to the door, half in, half out of it; close to me, for it was near the door I sat."I say, Betsey, do you know who the new pupil is?""Not exactly, miss. Mrs. Hemson brought her.""Mrs. Hemson! There! Glynn said so! Are you sure?""Sure? law, yes! Mrs. Hemson has been here several times this last week or two, miss; I knew it was about a new pupil. And she brought her to-night: she gave me half a crown, too, and told me to be kind to her. A nice lady is Mrs. Hemson.""I dare say she may be, for her station," haughtily responded her hearer, who stalked back, strode over the from and resumed her seat."I say, girls—I have been asking Betsey—come close." And they all huddled their heads together. "I thought I'd ask Betsey: she says she does come from the Hemsons. Did you ever know such a shame?""It can't be, you know," cried the one with the largo month. "Miss Fenton would not dare to do it. Would my papa, a prebendary of the cathedral, allow me to be placed where I could be associated with tradespeople?""Ask Betsey for yourselves," retorted their informant. "She says Mrs. Hemson brought her just now.""Nonsense about asking Betsey," said Nancy Tayler, ask herself. Come here, child," she added, in a louder tone, beckoning to me.I went humbly up, behind the form, feeling very humble indeed, just then. They were nearly all older than I was, and I began again to think it must be something sadly lowering to be connected with the Hemsons."Are you related to Hemsons, the shopkeepers?""Yes. To Mrs. Hemson. Mamma was—""Oh, there, that will do," she unceremoniously interposed, with a scornful gesture. "Go back to your seat, and don't sit too close to Miss Webb; she's a gentleman's daughter."Now, reader, you may be slow to believe this, but I can only say it occurred as I have written it. I returned to my seat, a terrible feeling of mortification having passed over my young life.They never spoke to me again that evening. There was no supper, and at half-past eight we went up to bed. There were three smallish beds in the room where I was to sleep, and one large one with curtains round it. The large one was Miss Dale's, and two of us, I found, shared each of the smaller ones; my bedfellow was Clara Webb. She was a good-humored girl, more careless upon the point of "family" than most of the rest seemed to be, and did not openly rebel at having to sleep with me. Miss Dale came up for the candle after we were in bed.The bell rang at half-past six in the morning, our signal for getting up: we had to be down by seven. There were studies till eight, and then breakfast, the same wretched tea, and the same coarse bread-and-butter. At half-past eight Miss Fenton read prayers, and at tine the school business commenced.At ten mademoiselle was assembling her German class. Seven only of the pupils learnt it; I rose and went up with them: and was rewarded with a stare."What will be the use of German to her?" rudely cried a Miss Peacock, a whole torrent of scorn directed to me in her tone. "I don't fancy she is to learn it, mademoiselle; it may be as well to inquire."Mademoiselle looked at me, hesitated, and then put the question to Miss Fenton, her imperfect English sounding through the room."Dis new young lady, is she to learn de German, madam?"Miss Fenton directed her eyes toward; us."Miss Hereford? Yes. Miss Hereford is to learn every thing taught in my establishment.""Oh I" said Nancy Tayler, sotto voce. "Are you to be a governess, pray, Miss Hereford?"A moment's hesitation between pride and truth, and then with a blush of shame in my cheeks for the hesitation, came the brave answer:"I am to be a governess; mamma gave the directions in her will. What fortune she left is to be expended upon my education, and she said there might be no better path of life open to me.""That's candid, at any rate," cried Miss Peacock."We dined at two; and I don't suppose but what every girl was terribly hungry, after the scanty eight o'clock breakfast; a pernicious habit, rely upon it, that of making children wait till two for dinner, after a poor breakfast at eight. We had to dress for dinner, which was laid in Miss Fenton's dining-room, not in the bare place called the refectory; Miss Fenton dining with us and carving. It was handsomely laid, a good deal of silver on the table; and two servants waited, Betsey and another; indeed, the style and serving were superior. The dinner consisted of roast beef; a part of beef I had never seen; it seemed a large lump of meat and no bone. Very acceptable looked it to us hungry school girls! "We shall have plenty now," I thought.My plate came to me at last; such a little mite of meat, and three large potatoes! I could well have put the whole piece of meat in my mouth at once. Did she fancy I disliked meat? But upon looking at the other plates, I saw they were no better supplied than mine was; heaps of potatoes, but an apology for meat."Would we take more?" Miss Fen-ton asked, when we had despatched it. And the question was invariably put by her, every day; we as invariably answering Yes. The servants took our plates up, and brought them back; I do not believe that the whole meat combined, supplied to us in that second serving, would have weighed two ounces. Potatoes again we had, much as we liked, and then came a baked rice pudding.Miss Fenton boasted of her plentiful table. That there was a plentiful dinner always placed on the table was indisputable, but we did not get enough of it; we were starved in the sight of plenty. I have seen a leg of mutton leave the table (nay, they always so left the table), when two hearty eaters might well have eaten all there was cut of it, and upon that the whole thirteen had dined! I, a woman grown now, have seen much of this stingy, deceitful habit of carving, not only in schools but in some private families. "We keep a plentiful table," many, who have to do with the young, will say. "Yes," I think to myself, "but do those you profess to feed, get helped to enough of it?" The scanty breakfast, this dinner, and the tea I have described, were all the meals we had; and this was a "select," "first-class" establishment, where the terms charged were high. Miss Fenton took her supper at eight, alone, and the teachers supped at nine in the refectory; rumors were abroad in the school, that these suppers, or at least Miss Fenton's, were sumptuous meals. I know we often smelt savory cooking at bed-time. Sometimes we had pudding before meat, often we had cold meat, sometimes hash, often meat pies, with a very thick crust over and under; I do not fancy Miss Fenton's butchers bill could have been a heavy one. In low-priced schools this niggardly style of treatment may be justifiable; where parents pay but little, the cheaper sorts of food may be expected to be substituted for wholesome meat; hut where the pupils are fairly paid for, it is nothing less than a fraud upon the parent, and a cruel wrong upon the child. A child who is not well nourished, will not possess too much of rude health and strength in after-life.That was an unhappy day to me; how I was despised, slighted, scorned, I cannot adequately describe. It was so palpable as to attract the attention of the teachers, and in the evening they inquired into the cause. Mademoiselle Leduc could not by any force of reasoning be brought to comprehend it; she was unable to understand why I was not as good as the rest, and why they should not deem me so; society in France and in England is differently constituted, and the ideas brought to bear on it, in the separate countries, have little relation, the one with the other."Bah!" said she, slightingly, giving up as useless the trying to comprehend, "elles sont folles, ces demoiselles."Miss Dale held a colloquy with the rest, and then called me up. She began asking me questions about my studies, what mamma had taught me, how far I was advanced, all in a kind, gentle way; and she parted my hair on my forehead, and looked into my eyes."Your mamma was Mrs. Hemson's sister," she said afterwards."Not her sister, ma'am; her cousin.""Her cousin, was it?" she resumed after a pause. "What was your papa? I heard Miss Fenton say you were an orphan.""Papa?""I mean what was he? In trade?""He was an officer in Her Majesty's service.""Of what grade? Lieutenant Hereford? Captain Hereford?""He was Colonel Hereford.""Colonel Hereford?" she quickly returned, looking at me as though she doubted I was in error. "Are you sure?""Quite sure, Miss Dale. He was Lieutenant-Colonel Hereford.""And your mamma, my dear?" she pursued, "do you know what her name was before she married?""Mamma was a lady,"I answered, with a deep flush. "She was Miss Carew. Mrs. Hemson was Miss Frances Carew; but she gave up her position to marry Mr. Hemson."Miss Dale paused, said she remembered to have heard it; and then, breaking into a smile, called up two of the young ladies who were standing near. They happened to Miss Tayler and Miss Peacock."When next you young ladies take a prejudice against a new pupil, it may be as well for yon to be more assured of your grounds than you have been, I fancy, in this case," she observed to them, in a tone of sarcasm. "You have been Bending Miss Hereford to Coventry, on the score of her not being your equal in point of family: were she older, perhaps she would retaliate by sending some of you. If it came to the proof, there is scarcely one in the school but she would take precedence of. Her father was Lieutenant-Colonel Hereford. Don't make geese of yourselves again.""But—she—Mrs. Hemson is her aunt?" debated Jane Peacock."Mrs. Hemson is not her aunt, it appears," replied Miss Pale; "Mrs. Hemson is cousin to her late mother. Mrs. Hemson is a lady by birth; she forfeited her position when she married Mr. Hemson. Take care that none of you make an imprudent marriage, for you perceive that such causes trouble to connections; as it would inevitably do to yourselves."Miss Dale dismissed them, and turned to the French governess."Pretensions children!" she uttered, "I wonder how they like the explanation? Miss Peacock especially, whose friends are in trade themselves!""Betise!"was all mademoiselle condescended to answer.But the words had struck upon my ear and senses. Miss Peacock's friends in trade! then why the outcry against me for being connected with the Hemsons? Miss Dale explained."Not in retail trade, my dear. Mr. Peacock is a large manufacturer. They live in a line house outside the town; live as gentlepeople, you see, keeping their carriage and servants."The two young ladies had prone forth with their news to the school, and the tide set in for me as strenuously as it had set in against me. The avowal that I was to be a governess appeared to be completely ignored, or forgotten; perhaps it was not believed; and the elder girls began a system of patronage."How much money have you got, little Anne Hereford?"I exhibited my purse. It contained three half crowns. One had been given me by Miss Delves, the other two by Mrs. Hemson."Seven and sixpence, that's not much," quoth they. "I suppose you'd wish to act according to the custom of the school."Of course I intimated that I should—if I knew what that was."Well, she custom is, yon see, for a new girl to give a feast to the rest. We have it in the bedroom after Dale has been for the candle. Ten shillings has been the sum usually spent—but I suppose your three half crowns must be made sufficient: you are but a little one."I wished to myself that they had left me one of the half crowns, but could not for the world have so intimated to them. I wrote out a list of the articles suggested, and gave the money to one of the servants, it was Betsey, to procure them; doing all this according to directions. Cold beef and ham from the eating-house, rolls and butter, penny pork pies, small German sausages, jam tarts, and a bottle of raisin wine comprised the list.Betsey smuggled the things in, and conveyed them to the play-room. Strict orders meanwhile being given to me to say that I brought them to school in my box, should the affair, by mischance, be found out. It would be so cruel to get Betsey turned out of her place, they observed; but they had held many such treats, and never been found out yet.Miss Dale came as usual for the candle that night, and took it. For a few minutes we lay still as mice, and then sprang up and admitted the rest from their bedroom. Half a dozen wax tapers were lighted, abstracted from the girls' private writing desks, and half a dozen more were in readiness to be lighted, should the first not hold out. And the feast began."Now, Anne Hereford, it's your treat, so of course you are the one to wait upon us. You must go to the decanter for water when we want it, and listen at the door against eavesdroppers, and deal out the rolls. By the way, how many knives have come up? Look Peacock.""There's only one. One knife and two plates; well, we'll make the she do for plates; or our hands.""Our hands will be best, and then we can lick up the crumbs. Is the cork screw up for the wine?""I have got that," said Clara Webb."Hush! don't talk so loud: they are hardly at supper yet, down stairs," cried Miss Tayler. "Now, mind; we'll have no disputes what shall be eaten first, like we did last time: it shall all be served out regularly. Beef and ham to begin with; pork pies and sausages next; jam tarts last; rolls and butter ad libitum, to fill up the interstices; water with the feast, and the wine to finish up with. That's the order of the day, and if any girl's not satisfied with it, she can retire to bed, which will leave the more for us who are. You see that wash-stand, Anne Hereford; well, the water's on that, and you had better put a taper near it, or you won't see to pour it out, and will be giving yourself a bath. Now then, I'll be carver."She cut the ham into ten portions, the beef likewise, and told me to give round a roll. Then the rolls were cut open and buttered, various devices being improvised for the latter necessity, by those who could not wait their turn for the knife; tooth-brush handles and fingers not being altogether absent. Next came the delightful business of eating."Get some water, Anne Hereford."I obeyed, though it was just as I was about to take the first bite of the feast. Laying down my share on the counter-pane, I brought the tumbler of water."And now, Anne Hereford, you must listen at the door.""If you please, may I take this with me?" for I had once more caught up the tantalizing supper."Of course you can, little stupid!"I went to the door, the beef and ham doubled up in one hand, the buttered roll in the other, and there eat and listened. The scene would have made a good picture. The distant bed on which the eatables were flung, and on which the tapers in their little bronze stands rested, and the girls in their night-gowns gathered round, half lounging on it, talking eagerly, eating ravenously, enjoying themselves thoroughly; I shivering at the door, delighted with the feast, but half terrified lest interruption should come from below. That unlucky door had no fastening to it, so that any one could come, as the girls expressed it, bolt in. Some time before there had been a disturbance, because they had one night locked out Miss Dale, upon which Miss Fenton had carried away the key."Our beef and ham's nearly gone, Anne Hereford. Is yours?"It was Georgina Digges who spoke, and she half turned round to do so, for she was leaning forward on the bed with her back to me. I was about to answer, when there came a shrill scream from one of the others, a scream of terror. It was followed by another and another, until they were all screaming together and I darted in alarm to the bed. Georgina Digges, in turning round, had let her nightgown sleeve touch one of the wax tapers, and set it on fire.Oh, then was confusion! the shrieks rising and the flames with them. With a presence of mind perfectly astonishing in one so young, Nancy Tayler tore up the bedside carpet and flung it round her."Throw her down, throw her down! it is the only chance!" Nancy screamed to the rest, and there she was on the ground by the time those down stairs had rushed up. Some smothered more carpet on her, some threw a blanket, and the cook further poured out all the water from the wash-hand jugs."Who is it?" demanded Miss Fenton, speaking and looking more dead than alive.None of us answered; we were too much terrified; but Miss Dale, who had been taking hurried note of our faces, said it must be Georgina Digges: her face was the only one missing.I wonder what Miss Fenton thought when she saw the items of the feast as they lay on the bed! The scanty remains of the beef and ham, the buttered rolls half eaten, others ready to butter, the pork pies, the German sausages, the jam tarts, and the bottle of wine. Did a thought cross her that if the girls had been allowed better dinners, they might have been less eager for stolen suppers? She had probably been disturbed at her good supper, for a table napkin was tucked before her, underneath the string of her silk apron."You deceitful, rebellious girls!" Miss Fenton uttered. "Who has been the ringloader in this?"A pause, and then a voice spoke from amidst the huddled group of girls—whose voice I did not know then, and have never known to this day."The new girl, Anne Hereford. She brought the things to school in her box."Miss Fenton looked round for me: I was standing quite at the back. I had not courage to contradict the words. But just then a commotion arose from the group which stood round the burnt girl, and Miss Fenton turned to it in her sickening fear.The doctors came and we were consigned to bed, Georgina Digges being taken into another room. Happily she was found not to be dangerously burnt, badly on the arm and shoulder, but no further.Of course there was a great row in the morning. Mrs. Hemson was sent for, and to her I told the truth, which I had not dared to tell to Miss Fenton. The two ladies had afterwards an interview alone, in which I felt sure Mrs. Hemson repeated every word I had spoken. Nothing more was said to me. Miss Fenton made a speech in the school to us collectively, setting forth the enormity of our offence in "sitting up at night to gormandize,"(apologizing for the broad word,) and forbidding it absolutely for the future.Thus the affair ended. Georgina Digges recovered, and joined us in the school-room: and she was not taken away, though we had thought she would be. But, in spite of the accident and Miss Fenton's prohibition, the feasts at night did go on, as often as a new girl came to be made to furnish one, or when the school subscribed a shilling each, and constituted it a joint affair. One little wax taper did duty in future, and that was placed on the mantelpiece, out of harm's way.CHAPTER IXA NEW HOMEIN the gray, gray dawn of an August morning, I stood on a steamer about to clear out from alongside one of the wharves near London bridge, and bound for France. Scarcely dawn was it yet, for the night clouds still hung upon the earth, but light was breaking in the eastern horizon. The passengers were coming on board; not many: it did not appear that the boat would have much of a freight that day. I heard one of the seamen say so; I knew nothing about it; and the scene was as new to me as the world is to a bird, flying, for the first time, from a cage where it has been hatched and reared.I was fifteen now, and had left Miss Fenton's for good; thoroughly well educated, in accordance with my age, for if the living was not good in her establishment, the system of instruction was; and now I was going to school in France.I will not tell you precisely where this school was situated; I have my reasons: though I will honestly give you my experiences of the establishment It was not at Boulogne, or at Calais, or at Dieppe, those three renowned sea-ports, inundated with Anglo-French schools; neither was it in Paris or Brussels; in short, I will not, as I say, indicate where it was. We can call the town Nulle, and that's near enough. It was kept by two ladies, sisters, the Demoiselles Barlieu. The negotiations had been made by my trustees, and Mrs. Hemson had brought me to London, down to the steamer on this early morning, and was now consigning me to the care of Miss Barlieu's English governess, whom we had there met by appointment. She was a Miss Johnstone, a very plain looking person, too young to maintain authority as a teacher, and dressed in a gray alpaca. Authority, however, I found she would have little in the school; she was engaged to teach English, and there her duties ended."You had better secure a berth, and lie down," she said to me. "The night is cold, and it is scarcely light enough yet to be on deck.""Any ladies for shore?" cried a rough voice at the cabin door."Shore!" echoed Miss Johnstone in what seemed alarm. "You are surely not going to start yet! I am waiting for another young lady.""It won't be more than five minutes now, mum.""A pupil?" I asked her."I believe so. Mademoiselle Barlieu wrote to me that two—""Any lady here of the name of Johnstone?"The inquiry came from a middle aged, quiet looking person, who was glancing in at the cabin door. By her side stood a most elegant girl of eighteen, her eyes dark blue, her face brilliantly fair, her dress handsome."I am Miss Johnstone," said the teacher, advancing to the one who had spoken."What a relief! The steward thought no governess had come on board, and I must not have dared to send Miss Chandos alone. My lady—""You would, Hill; so don't talk nonsense," interrupted the young lady with a laugh, as she threw up her white veil and brought her beauty right underneath the cabin lamp. "Would the fishes have swallowed me up any the quicker for not being in somebody's charge? Unfasten my cloak, Hill.""This young lady is Miss Chandos, ma'am," said the person addressed as "Hill," presenting the beautiful girl to Miss Johnstone. "Please take every care of her going across."The young lady wheeled round."Are you our new English teacher?""I am engaged as English governess at Mademoiselles Barlieu," replied Miss Johnstone. "They wrote to me that I might expect Miss Chandos and Miss Hereford on board.""Miss Hereford!" was the quick response. "Who is she?"But by that time I was lying down on the berth, and the rough voice again interrupted."Any lady as is for shore had better look sharp, unless they'd like to be took off to 'tother side the channel.""What fun, Hill, if they should take off you!" laughed Miss Chandos, as the former started up with trepidation. "Now don't stumble overboard in your haste to get off the boat.""Good-by to you, Miss Emily, and a pleasant journey! You won't fail to write as soon as you arrive: my lady will be anxious.""Oh, I will gladden mamma's heart with a letter, as she will be thinking the bottom of the steamer is come out," lightly returned Miss Chandos. "Mind, Hill, you give my love to Harry when he gets home."Those who were for shore went on shore, and soon we were in all the bustle and noise of departure. Miss Chandos stood by the small round table, looking in the hanging glass, and turning her shining ringlets round her fingers. On one of those fingers was a ring, whose fine large stones formed a hearts-ease: two were topaz, the other three dark amethyst: the whole beautiful."May I suggest that you should lie down, Miss Chandos?" said our governess for the time being. "You will find the benefit of doing so.""Have you crossed the channel many times?" was the reply of Miss Chandos, as she coolly proceeded with her hair, and her tone to the teacher was a patronizing one."Only twice; to France and home again.""And I have crossed it a dozen times at least, between school, and continental voyages with mamma, so you cannot teach me much in that respect. I can assure you there's nothing more horrid than stewing oneself in these suffocating berths. When we leave the river, should it prove a rough sea, well and good; but I don't put myself in a berth till then.""Have you been long with the Miss Barlieus?" inquired Miss Johnstone."Two dismal years. But I have outlived the dismality now—if you will allow me to coin a word. Mamma has known the Barlieus all her life: an aunt of theirs was her governess when she was young: and when we were returning home from Italy she left me there, instead of taking me on to England. Was I not rebellious over it I for three months I planned, every day, to run away on the next.""But you did not?" I spoke up from my berth, greatly interested.Miss Chandos turned round and looked at me."No," she laughed, "it was never accomplished: I believe the chief impediment was, the not knowing where to run to. Are you the Miss Hereford?""Yes.""What a bit of a child you seem! You won't like a French school, if this is your first venture in one. Home comforts and French schools are as far apart as the two poles.""But I am not accustomed to home comforts; I have no home. I have been for some years at an English school where there was little comfort of any sort. Do your friends live in England? have you a home there?""A home in England!" she answered with some surprise at the question, or at my ignorance. "Of course—I am Miss Chandos. Chandos is mamma's residence; though, strictly speaking, it belongs to Sir Thomas."All this was so much Greek to me. Perhaps Miss Chandos saw that it was, for she laughed gaily."Sir Thomas Chandos is my brother; the eldest, you know. Harry is the other one. We thought Tom would have retired from the army and come home when papa died, three years ago; but he still remains in India. Mamma writes him word that he should come home and marry, and so make himself into a respectable man; he sends word back that he is respectable enough, as it is.""Your papa was—?""Sir Thomas Chandos. Ah, dear! if he had but lived! He was so kind to us! Mamma remains in widow's weeds yet, and always will.""And who was she who brought you on board?""Hill. She is the housekeeper at Chandos. Some one has always taken me over until this time, generally Harry. But Harry is away, and Miss Barlieu wrote word to mamma that the English governess could bring me, so Hill was despatched with me to town.""What a beautiful ring that is!"Her eyes fell upon it, and a blush and a smile rose to her face. She sat down on the edge of my berth and twirled it over with the fingers of her other hand."Yes, it is a nice ring. Let any one attempt to give me a ring that is not a nice one; they would get it flung back at them.""Is Mademoiselle Barlieu's a large school?""Middling. There were seventy-five last trimestre.""Seventy-five!"I returned, in amazement. "What a many!""That includes the externes—I mean the out-door pupils. But I conclude you speak French. We have three school-rooms: one for the elder girls, one for the younger, and the third for the externes.""And how many teachers?""Teachers? Oh—let me see. There's Mademoiselle Barlieu, and Mademoiselle Annette Barlieu. Mademoiselle Annette is in our room, for she is more clever than her sister, and of course takes the first classes. There are three other teachers, one to each room, and there's the English teacher, who divides her time between the three rooms: and we have about six masters.""Altogether do you like being there?""Yes," she said, laughing significantly, "I like it very well now I am going on deck to watch the day break; so adieu for the present."A rough passage: of which I cannot think to this day without—without wishing not to think of it; and late in the afternoon the steamer was made fast to the port it was bound for. In the midst of the bustle preparatory to landing, a gentleman, young, vain, and rather good-looking, leaped on board, braving the douaniers, who were too late to prevent him."My darling! come at last!" I heard him whisper, as, in another minute, be was bending over Miss Chandos. I thought it must be the brother Harry she had spoken of; though the manner in which he took her hands and gazed into her eyes was not much after a brotherly fashion, and his English betrayed a foreign accent."Speak in French, Alfred," she answered, taking the initiative and addressing him in the language, her damask cheeks, her dimples, and her dancing eyes all being something lovely to behold. "I have not come alone, as I wrote to you I thought I should; a duenna, in the shape of the English governess, has come with me.""Six weeks you have been In England!" he reproachfully resumed."Mamma kept me. It is a long way, you know, to go for only a month. Besides that, she was in hopes Harry would be home to bring me back. When did you get here?""Three days ago. I left Paris—""Miss Chandos, the men are calling out that we must land."The interruption came from Miss Johnstone, who had approached, looking keenly at the gentleman. The latter mattered an impatient word, by way of requital to the governess, and assisted Miss Chandos up the landing steps. Miss Chandos turned her head when she reached the top."Be so good as look in the cabin, Miss Johnstone; I have left a hundred things there, odds and ends. My warm cloak is somewhere."Miss Johnstone looked any thing but pleased. It is not usual for pupils to order their teachers to look after their things; and Miss Chandos was of somewhat imperious manner: not purposely: it was her nature. I turned with Miss Johnstone and we collected together the items left by Miss Chandos. By the time we got to the custom-house, she had disappeared. Twenty minutes after, when we and our luggage had been examined, we found her outside, walking to and fro with the gentleman."What about your boxes, Miss Chandos?" asked Miss Johnstone."My boxes? I don't know any thing about them. I gave my keys to one of the commissionaires, and he will see to them. Or you can if you like.""I do not imagine it is my business to do so,"was Miss Johnstone's offended reply. But Miss Chandos was again occupied with her companion, and paid no heed to her."Halloa, de Mellissie! have you been to England?"inquired an English voice of Miss Chandos's cavalier."Not I,"he replied. "I stepped on board the boat when it came in, so they took their revenge by making me go through the custom-house, and turning my pockets inside out. Much good it did them!"An omnibus was waiting round the corner, in which we were finally to be conveyed to our destination, Mademoiselle Barlieu's. Seated in it was a little stout dame of fifty, with a good tempered face, Mademoiselle Caroline, the senior teacher, as I soon found. She received Miss Chandos with open arms and a kiss on each cheek. The gentleman politely handed us by turn into the omnibus, and stood bowing to us, bareheaded, as we drove away."Do you think him handsome?"Miss Chandos whispered to me, the glow on her face fading."Pretty well. What is his name?""Alfred de Mellissie. You can be good-natured, can't you?"she added."I can if I like,"I answered, smiling."Then be so now, and don't preach it out to the whole school that he met me. He—""Is that gentleman a relative of yours, Miss Chandos?" interrupted Miss Johnstone from the end of the omnibus.Miss Chandos did not like the tone or the question: the one savored of acrimony, the other she resented as impertinent. She fixed her haughty blue eyes on Miss Johnstone before she answered: they said very plainly, "By what right do you presume to inquire of me?" and Miss Johnstone bit her lips at the look."They are not related to us. Madame de Mellissie is an intimate friend of my mother, Lady Chandos."And that was all she condescended to say, for she turned her back and began laughing and chattering in French with Mademoiselle Caroline.The Miss Barlieu's received us graciously, giving us all the same friendly greeting that the old teacher had given. only to Miss Chandos. Two pleasant, kind-hearted maiden ladies were they, not very young. Miss Annette confessed to having passed thirty-five. We were their visitors that evening, and were regaled with nice things in their own parlor.I said I would give you the mode of treatment in that school; and I will. It was a superior establishment, the terms high for France; but. they were nothing like so high as Miss Fenton's. Miss Fenton's charge was about a third higher, and at Miss Fenton's we had three months' holiday in the year: those who remained during the holidays had to be paid for extra. The Miss Barlieu's gave one month's holiday in the year; it was just over now, but the pupils could remain at school during that month without extra charge. A great many did remain.The dormitories were spacious and airy, a small, separate, thoroughly clean bed being given to each pupil. No French school for either sex can be overcrowded, for they are under the close inspection of the government; and to do so would involve the loss of the license to keep one. A large, airy room is always set apart, and called the infirmary: if a pupil is sick she (or he) is instantly removed there, seduously nursed and tended, and on no account whatever may the infirmary be occupied by those in health.Clang! clang! clang! went the great bell in the morning, waking us out of our sleep at six. Dressing, practising, lessons and prayers occupied the time till eight. Miss Johnstone read prayers to the English pupils, all Protestants; Mademoiselle Caroline read them to the French, who were Roman Catholics. For breakfast there was as much bread and butter as we liked to eat, and a small basin of good rich milk for each. Some of the English girls chose tea in preference, which they were at liberty to do. On Sunday mornings the breakfast was a treat; petits pains and coffee; a petit pain being a sort of roll. We had them hot, two each, and a small pot of butter. Such coffee as that we never get in England: one-third coffee, two-thirds hot milk, and strong then. Breakfast over, we played till nine, and then came studies till twelve.The professed dinner hour was half past twelve, but the cook rarely got it in before a quarter to one. We all dined together, including Miss Barlieu and Miss Annette, at two long tables. I remember the dinner, that first day, as well as if I had eaten it yesterday. A plateful of soup first, very poor, as all French soup is; after that the bouilli, the meat that the soup is made of. The English at first never like this bouilli, but in time they learn to know how good it is, eaten with the French piquante mustard. Sometimes we had carrots with the meat, sometimes small pickled cucumbers: this day it was cucumbers. Remembering Miss Fenton's, I wondered if that comprised the dinner—sand, talking of Miss Fenton's, I have never mentioned that in her house we were not allowed bread at dinner: here, if we could have eaten a whole loaf, we might have had it.It did not comprise the dinner; there came on some roast veal and potatoes; delicious veal, two or three small onions, roasted with it, being served to each plate in the gravy: the French ate their potatoes apart: we ate them with the meat. After that we had fried pan-cakes, served with sugar. On Sundays we often had poultry in addition, and always an extra dish of vegetables, eaten apart from the meat; always a fruit or cream tart. The drink was the same as at Miss Fenton's, beer or water, as was preferred. Four or five of the girls had wine and water: but the wine was either supplied by the parents or paid for as an extra. It was commonly reported that in some other schools, in the colleges especially, the soup, the bouilli, bread and potatoes, comprised the dinner every day, with a roast joint in addition on Sundays.At two o'clock came school again till four, when we were released for half an hour, and had each a slice of bread and butter, called collation. Then school again till six, and supper at seven. The suppers varied; meat was never served, but vegetables were often: sometimes bread and cheese and salad; or bread-and-butter, with an egg, or with shrimps, or with cauliflowers and melted butter, or fried potatoes, and tea to drink. I think this was a more sensible mode of living than Miss Fenton's: altogether I can truly say that I experienced liberality and kindness all the time I continued at Miss Barlieu's; it was a far better home than the other.But I have not got over the first day yet. In looking over her boxes, Miss Chandos missed a new velvet mantle; there was some commotion about it, and she was told that she ought to have watched more narrowly the visiting her trunks in the customs, where the missing article was supposed to be left. Miss Chandos took the loss equably, as she appeared to do most things. "Oh, if it's lost, mamma must send me over another," was her careless comment.We were at our studies in the afternoon, when Mademoiselle Annette, who had not been in since dinner, entered. Our mode of sitting was different here from what it had been at Miss Fenton's. There, except when we were writing, we always sat on a hard form, no support whatever to the arms or to the back: of course, sitting in this position for hours together, stooping was the inevitable consequence, and many of the girls got a curve in the spine; or, as the saving ran, "grew aside." In France we sat at a sloping desk, on which our arms rested, so that the spine could not get fatigued: I never once, the whole period I stayed at Miss Barlieu's, saw a crooked girl. Mademoiselle Annette entered and came towards Miss Chandos."I understand," she began, "that you did not take any care of your boxes yourself at the custom-house; merely gave up your keys?"A slight accession of color, and Miss Chandos turned round her fair bright face, acknowledging that it was so."But, my dear, that was evincing great carelessness.""I don't see it, Mademoiselle Annette," was Miss Chandos's smiling dissent. "What are the commissionaires for, but to take charge of keys, and examine baggage?""Well, they have been up from the customs to say that the mantle was not left there. The commissionaire himself came; he says every thing taken out of your boxes was safely put in again."It was a beautiful mantle, Mademoiselle Annette, and I dare say somebody caught it up and ran away with it, when the man's attention was turned the other way. It can't be helped: there are worse misfortunes at sea.""What gentleman was it that you were walking about with?" resumed Mademoiselle Annette."Gentleman?"returned Miss Chandos, in a questioning tone, as if she could not understand, or did not remember. "Gentleman, Mademoiselle Annette?""A gentleman who came on board to speak to you; and who assisted you to land; and with whom you were walking about afterwards, while the other ladies were in the custom-house?""Oh, I recollect now: I had forgotten. There was a gentleman who came on board: it was Monsieur de Mellissie." Very brilliant had Miss Chandos's cheeks become; but she had turned her face to the desk as if anxious to continue her studies, and Mademoiselle Barlieu saw it not."What took him on board?" resumed Mademoiselle Annette."As if I knew, Mademoiselle Annette!" lightly replied the young lady. "He may have wanted to speak to the captain—or to some of the sailors. He die not tell me.""But you were promenading with him afterwards?""And very polite of him it was, to give up his time to promenade with me, while I was waiting for them to come out," replied Miss Chandos. "I returned him my thanks for it, Mademoiselle Annette. If the new English teacher had had a thousand boxes to clear, she could not have been much longer over it. I thought she was never coming.""Well, my dear, do not promenade with Monsieur de Mellissie. It is not the right thing for a young lady to do: and Miladi Chandos might not be pleased that you should.""On the contrary, Mademoiselle Annette, mamma charged me with twenty messages to give him, in trust for his mother," replied the undaunted girl. "I was glad of an opportunity of delivering them."Mademoiselle Annette said no more: only charged the girls as she quitted the room, to get ready their geography books, for she should return for that class in five minutes.""I say, Emily Chandos, whatever's all that about?" asked a young lady."I don't care. It's that new English teacher who has been peaching! Alfred jumped on board as soon as we touched the side, and I stayed with him till the omnibus was ready—or till we were ready for the omnibus. You did not tell, Anne Hereford?""I have not spoken of it to any one.""No; I was sure of that: it's that precious teacher. I did not like her before, but for this I'll give her all the trouble I can at my English lesson. Such folly for Mademoiselle Barlieu to engage a child; and she's no better. I could teach her.""I heard Mademoiselle Annette ask her this morning if she was really twenty-one. So that's the age she must have given in,"cried another girl, Ellen Roper. "She does not look it.""As much twenty-one al I am," said Emily Chandos. "Anne Hereford, who are you to visit?""To visit?" I returned, in surprise. "How do I know that anybody will ask me?""Are there no names given in where you may visit, if asked?" inquired Ellen Roper."Names given in? I don't understand what you mean.""Don't you know that when a pupil is placed at a French school, the parents if they wish her to visit, give in the names of the families where she may visit, and the governess notes them down. If the first families in the place asked for her she would not be allowed to go, unless the governess had received their names from the parents. It is not a bad rule.""It is a precions bad one, Ellen Roper," retorted Miss Chandos. "When the Stapletons were passing through here, last spring, they invited me to the hotel for a day, and Mademoiselle Barlieu put her veto upon it, because their name had not been given in by mamma. Lady Stapleton came and expostulated; said her husband, Sir Gregory, was the oldest friend possible of the late Sir Thomas Chandos, had been for years, and that they would take every imaginable care of me, and she knew Lady Chandos would wish me to go. Not a bit of it; you might as well have tried to move the house, as to move Mademoiselle Barlieu: Miladi Chandos had not given her the name, she said, and she could not depart from the custom. Don't you remember what a passion I was in? Cried my eyes out, and would not do a single study. I'll tell you what you can do, Anne Hereford. When you get acquainted with any of the families here, and are invited out, you must write home, and ask them to give in the names to Mademoiselle Barlieu. She'll let you go then."Write home! What home had I to write to?The next morning Miss Chandos had a letter from home. Lady Chandos had discovered that the velvet mantle, by some unaccountable mischance, had not been put into the boxes. She would forward it after her.CHAPTER XEMILY CHANDOSERE many weeks went by there was war to the knife between the English teacher and Emily Chandos. The latter's dislike swayed also that of many of the scholars, for she, with her beauty, her gaiety, and her generous willfulness, was excessively popular in the school, doing nearly as she liked, except of course with the Demoiselles Barlieu. For myself, I can truly say I had learned to love Emily Chandos. She had her faults: what girl is without them? She was vain, petulant, haughty when she pleased, and—I do think—selfish. But I know that she possessed the secret of taking hearts by storm. Now Miss Johnstone, on the contrary, very few could like: there was something in her repelling to most people: and she took care that her manners should be especially repelling to Emily Chandos. She was over strict with her class; she was over strict with her lessons and exercises; and once she went the length of reporting her to Mademoiselle Annette for some trifling fault. Miss Chandos was not of a nature to take this easily, or without retaliation, and many petty vexations were lavished on the English teacher. Her soubriquet in the school was "Peg Johnstone:" the girls called her nothing else, whether she might be within hearing, or not. Her name was Margaret, but she had incautiously left an open letter about, received from some friend, wherein she was called nothing but "Peg." That was quite enough for the school, and henceforth it was "Peg Johnstone." There was a good joke one day. A new English girl entered as weekly boarder, her friends living in the town. She went up in the hearing of the whole room and addressed her as "Miss Peg," believing that to be her name. You should have seen Miss Johnstone's dark and angry face: and you should have seen the dancing eyes of Emily Chandos.I picked up scraps of information, touching Alfred de Mellissie; not much in the whole. Madame de Mellissie, an English lady, and Lady Chandos had been intimate friends in early life; but when the former married Monsieur de Mellissie, and took up her abode in France, relations between them gradually dropped; to be renewed, however, on the return of Lady Chandos from Italy, two years previous to the present time. In passing through Paris she sought out her old friend, who was then staying near St. Cloud. Madame de Mellissie was delighted, and compelled her and Emily to remain a week with her. Her only child, Alfred, was away, so with him they made no acquaintance. The week over, Lady Chandos continued her journey to England, leaving her daughter on the way at Mademoiselle Barlieu's. Eighteen months went on, rather more, and then Madame de Mellissie came towards the coast for change of air, fixing her abode at Nulle. Her son was with her; and it was thus that Emily Chandos made her acquaintance with him, for she was frequently invited by his mother. Madame de Mellissie remained four months, and her son escorted her back to Paris: but now he was at Nulle again.The school said (for you never yet knew a school that would be silent) that his attraction was Emily Chandos. Emily laughed when she heard them; but denial she made none. They said another thing—that that valuable ring she wore, the hearts-ease, had been his gift; and still there was no direct denial, though Emily accused them of being too fond of jumping to conclusions. Pretty freely were the bearings of the affair discussed in Emily's hearing, by some of the elder English girls who knew her position in home society."She cannot think seriously of it," Ellen Roper observed one day to a knot of the girls. "It is a thing, you know, that never could be countenanced by the Chandoses.""Why?" asked I, in my innocence."Why! because she's Miss Chandos; that's why. Fancy an English girl of good family and fortune marrying a jackanapes of a Frenchman. The De Mellissies may be all very well, for French, but Monsieur Alfred is no match for Miss Chandos.""Ellen Roper, I am within hearing, I beg to inform you," said Miss Chandos, from half way down the desk, her face in a lovely glow."That is just why I said it," returned Ellen Roper, who, however, had not known Emily was near, and started at the sound of her voice. "I dare say he has not, at the very most, above a thousand pounds a year; a very fair patrimony for a Frenchman, but nothing for Miss Chandos.""Go on, Ellen Roper! I'll tell something of you by-and-by.""And, setting aside every thing else, there's another great barrier," went on Ellen Roper, half from love of talking, half from a little spice of mischief. "The De Mellissies are Roman Catholics; while the Chandos family are staunch, out-and-out Protestants. Lady Chandos would almost as soon give Emily to the Grand Turk, as to Alfred de Mellissie.""If you are a fool, Ellen Roper, I never till now knew you could be a knave," burst forth Emily Chandos, in an indignant whisper, as loud as she dared to make it. "Are you proclaiming this for the benefit of Peg Johnstone?"The startled girls turned. There, sure enough, was Miss Johnstone, who must have entered unperceived, standing behind and listening. We wondered how long she had been there."You are wanted in the saloon, Miss Chandos," said a servant at this juncture, coming in with a card in her hand. She spoke in French, of course, as did the ladies Barlieu, always: in fact it was the language of the school universally, though I deem it expedient to translate it into English. Our own private conversation among ourselves, we English girls, was carried on in English, though it was against the rules, and we should have been punished had it been known, only during the time we were with Miss Johnstone at our English lesson we had to speak English: that was all."I am wanted?" returned Emily Chandos in surprise to the servant. "Who is it?""I don't know, Mademoiselle. It's a lady and gentleman, and the lady gave this card."Emily took it. "Mrs. Trehern." "I don't know her from Adam," she exclaimed, as she leaped away, card in hand.Presently she came back with a ra-diant face, and presented herself to Mademoiselle Annette, who was in the class then."Oh, Mademoiselle, some friends are here, and they wish me to go out with them. Will you give me permission? It is Mr. and Mrs. Trehern.""Trehern? Trehern?" repeated Mademoiselle Annette. "I don't remember that name on your visiting list."Emily knew quite well it was not there, since this was the first time she had seen either of the parties: but she had trusted to the good luck of Mademoiselle Annette's believing that it was."Mamma will be so vexed if I do not go. She is very intimate with the Treherns They have only just come to the town, and are stopping at the Hotel du Lion d'Or."Which concluding words gave us the clue to Emily's eagerness for the visit. For it was at that renowned hotel that Mr. Alfred de Mellissie was sojourning. Mademoiselle Annette was firm."You know the rules of the school, my dear. We have heard nothing of these gentlepeople from your mamma, and it is impossible that you can be allowed to go."Emily Chandos carried back her excuses to the salon, and after school gave vent to her mortification in a private outburst to us."Such a dreadful shame, these horrid French rules! As if the Treherns would have poisoned me! But I despatch a letter to mamma to-night to get permission. They are going to stop a month at Nulle.""Have they just come from England?""Not at all. She is French, and never was in England in her life. She is a friend''—dropping her voice still lower—"of the De Mellissies; it was through Alfred they called upon me today. They came to Nulle partly because he was here.""Then does Lady Chandos not know them?""She knows him. We know the Treherns well; a Cornish family. This one, young Trehern, fell In love with a French girl, and has married her—a friend, I tell you, of Madame de Mellissie's. They were married last Thursday, she told me. She had the most ravishing toilette on to-day: a white and blue robe: you might have taken it for silver. She's nearly as young as I am."The letter despatched to Lady Chandos by Emily set forth the praises of Mrs. Trehern, and especially dwelt upon the fact that she was a "dear friend" of Madame de Melissie. Not a word said it, though, that Mr. Alfred was stopping at the Lion d'Or, or yet at Nulle. And there came back permission from Lady Chandos for Emily to visit them. Emily was in her glory.A great apparent friendship sprang up between her and young Mrs. Trehern, who was something like herself, inexperienced and thoughtless. She was of good family, pleasing in manners, and quite won the hearts of the Miss Barlieus. Often enough did she come there; her object always the same—to take out Emily Chandos. At length they began to grumble: Mademoiselle Chandos went out too frequently, and her studies were getting in arrear. Emily protested it was her mamma's wish and pleasure that she should take advantage of the sojourn of Mrs. Trehern in the place to go out, and exhibited part of a letter from Lady Chandos, in which the same appeared to be intimated. Mademoiselle Annette shook her head, and said it was a good thing the month of Mrs. Trehern's stay was drawing to its close.Now it happened, fortunately or unfortunately, the reader must judge, that an uncle of Miss Johnstone's came to France, and passed through Nulle on his way to Paris. He naturally invited his niece to spend the few hours of his stay with him, telling her she might bring any one of the young ladies with her. She chose me, (to my own surprise: perhaps the reason was that I had never taken an active part in annoying her as some of the rest had,) and the Miss Barlieus allowed me to go; for they looked upon it, not that I was about to pay an indiscriminate visit, but going out with one of the governesses, under her safe convoy and Companionship."Where are you off to, little Hereford," demanded Emily Chandos, who was attiring herself before the one glass in the bed-room when I went up with the like purpose, for she was to spend the afternoon with the Treherns."Miss Johnstone's uncle is at the Lion d'Or, and she asked me to dinner there. We are to dine at the table d'hote.""The Lion d'Or!" cried Emily, turning round. "What a chance! to have that sharp-sighted duenna, Peg, planted at the same table!""What, do you—do the Treherns dine at the table d'hote?""Where else should they dine? The hotel is too full, just now, to admit of private dinners."Mr. Johnstone came for us, and we walked about, looking at the old town, till six o'clock, the dinner hour. A novel scene to me was that crowded dining-room, with its array of company, of waiters, and of good cheer; so novel that for some time I did not notice four seats, immediately opposite to us, quite vacant. All eves were raised at the four who came in to fill them. Mr. and Mrs. Trehern; she dressed elaborately, perfectly; not a fold of her robe out of place, not a hair of her many braids. Following her came Alfred de Mellissie and Emily Chandos, with her gay and sparkling beauty."Just look there, Miss Hereford! do you see that?"Miss Johnstone's words were uttered in a low tone of consternation. I would not understand to whom she alluded."See what, Miss Johnstone?""Miss Chandos," she answered, devouring Emily with her eyes. "I wonder if the Demoiselles Barlieu know that while she has been pretending to visit the Treherns, it has been a cloak for her meeting that Frenchman?""Oh, Miss Johnstone! she has visited the Treherns.""I can see through a mill-stone,"was Miss Johnstone's cold answer.Never were more defiant looks cast upon a teacher than Emily Chandos threw over the table at Miss Johnstone. That the latter provoked them by her manner there was no doubt. I think—I always had thought—that she was envious of Miss Chandos, though whence or why the feeling should have arisen I cannot say. They were the most distinguished group at table, Mr. Trehern and his wife, Monsieur de Mellissie and Emily; and the waiters treated them with marked distinction: even the appurtenances of their dinner were superior, for none others within the range of my view ventured upon sparkling Moselle and ice. They rose from table earlier than many, Emily throwing me a laughing nod, as she took Alfred de Mellissie's arm to follow Mr. and Mrs. Trehern, but, vouchsafing not the slightest notice of Miss Johnstone."She may take her leave of it," I heard the latter whisper to herself.Mr. Johnstone did not mend the matter, or his niece's temper. "What a lovely girl that is!" he exclaimed. "She is English.""Yes," answered Miss Johnstone, her lips parting with acrimony. "She is one of my pupils.""One of your pupils! How is it she did not speak to you then? She took no notice of you, that I saw."Miss Johnstone made no reply, but the acrimony on her lips grew sharper.As we left the dining-room we passed the salon occupied by the Treherns. A social party they seemed: coffee on the table, and those four round it.Mr. Johnstone conducted us back to school in the evening. The large outer door was open, and he took leave of us at it. As he walked away, I turned, and had the bell of the inner door in my hand, about to ring for admission, when Miss Johnstone stopped me."Not yet. Don't ring yet. I shall not enter just at present.""But—you are not going out again, are you, Miss Johnstone? Mademoiselle Annette said we must be in before nine.""I tell you I shall not enter yet," she sharply answered. "Are you my mistress?—or am I yours?"Of course she was mine. And all I could do was to follow her. She went out into the street again, to the opposite side, and paced up and down it. Ten minutes or so we had been thus occupied, when she suddenly drew me within a doorway, precisely opposite Mademoiselle Barlieu's.It was as I thought: she was watching for the return of Emily Chandos. The latter came up on the arm of Alfred de Mellissie, Mrs. Trehern's maid following at a respectful distance. At the school-door they made a halt to converse and to say farewell. But they were pretty long over it, and Miss Johnstone crossed the street and stood close to them. Emily was the first to observe her."You here! spying! It is worthy of you, Miss Johnstone!""Spying after you. Monsieur de Mellissie, I believe it would not be satisfactory to the Miss Barlieus—""Good night, Alfred," interrupted Emily contemptuously. "Pay no attention to her: she's nothing but the English teacher."He wrung her hand, lifted his hat to me, and walked away, while Emily sounded a loud peal on the inner bell.I heard no more, knew no more till the next morning after school. And then I was summoned to the salon. Miss Johnstone had lodged a formal complaint against Emily Chandos, and called me as a witness."Seated at the table d'hote with Monsieur Alfred de Mellissie! with him in the private salon afterwards!" echoed Mademoiselle Annette. "It is not to be believed.""I was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Trehern, and he happened to be their guest yesterday also," returned Emily Chandos, her eyes sparkling anger and her cheeks glowing."How frequently has he been their guest when you have been with them?"demanded Madamoiselle Annette.Emily did not answer. It would not do to answer "Always," and she disdained to equivocate."You are wandering from the most important part of the accusation,"interrupted Mademoiselle Barlieu, speaking for the first time. "Is it true, or is it not, Mademoiselle Emily Chandos, that you came back to school last night accompanied by Monsieur Alfred de Mellissie?"Emily was obliged to answer—"thanks to that detestable spy,"she muttered—that it was true."And do you think it is right or seemly for a young lady to be seen walking through the town at light with no other protector? or with such a protector at all? You know the customs and ideas of our country are against it,"emphatically pronounced Mademoiselle Barlieu."Where was the harm of it, mademoiselle?" replied Emily, in desperation. "He did not eat me."How stupid she was! Was she going to brave it out? The Demoiselles Barlieu threw up their hands and eyes. Miss Johnstone made the mischief worse."I should be highly culpable were I to conceal my opinion," she exclaimed. "I fear the affair is serious—that he is contemplating the making Miss Chandos his wife.""Nonsense!" irritably responded Mademoiselle Annette. "What are you thinking of, Miss Johnstone?""There is a great deal more fuss being made than need be," cried Emily, who was losing her temper. "But I will take care not to come home with Monsieur de Mellissie again, mesdemoiselles, as it is not approved of. You understand, I hope, that Mrs. Trehern's maid was attending me.""My dear," said Mademoiselle Barlieu, in her quiet, firm tone, so different from the somewhat impulsive manner of her sister, "you will not again have the opportunity given you. I cannot possibly allow any young lady in my establishment to run the risk of being talked of. And had I not believed you possessed more prudence, you certainly would never have gone out.""Do you mean, mademoiselle, that I am not lo go out in future when invited?" asked Emily, her heart beating visibly."Most decidedly you will not. I am astonished that you should ask the question. I shall write to-day to Miladi Chandos, to tell her what has occurred, and that I cannot allow you again to visit one so little capable of taking proper charge of young ladies, as Mrs. Trehern has proved herself to be. If miladi chooses to sanction still your visits to others, it is very well, but I wash my hands of it, and—""Oh, mademoiselle, pray don't write to mamma!" interrupted Emily, in evident alarm."Not write!" repeated Mademoiselle Barlieu. "You cannot know what you ask. Your conduct has rendered it obligatory."And it was known throughout the school that the letter was written and despatched by that night's post."If I live I will pay her out," exclaimed Emily Chandos; meaning Miss I JohnstoneDid the sending of that letter bring on the catastrophe? did it wholly cause it? or only expedite it? or bad it nothing to do with it? I cannot say. The next day Mrs. Trehern called during afternoon school. Emily was allowed to see her; but, with her, went Mademoiselle Barlieu. Some sort of explanation took place, and Mrs. Trehern was informed that Miss Chandos not visit her again. She left, and Emily returned to the class, but the English lesson, which we had been taking, was over then. Over in disgrace, for none of us had done well; at least, Miss Johnstone said we had not. By way of punishment, she protested she should make us finish it after supper.We had bread-and-butter and shrimps for supper that night—I shall always remember it; and we prolonged it as much as we could, drinking three cups of tea each, and eating as many shrimps as we could get. Emily Chandos did not appear, and Mademoiselle Caroline—who had viewed the scandal, touching Alfred de Mellissie, with shocked displeasure—would not allow her to be called, saying she was "sulking." But the supper, spin it out as we would, could not last all night, and Miss Johnstone, as good as her word, called us up with our English books."Go and find Miss Chandos," she said to me. "She has chosen to go without her supper, but she shall not escape her lesson."I went; and came back, saying she was neither in her bed-room nor the play-room; in fact I could not find her."Miss Chandos do you want?" spoke up one of the French girls. "She is gone out to pay a visit: I saw her with her things on at dusk.""That's the way Mademoiselle Barlieu keeps her word, is it?" muttered Miss Johnstone in an under-tone. And very cross she was to us throughout the lesson.Bed-time came. The little ones had gone, and we were waiting to go. Mademoiselle Caroline sent to the Miss Barlieus' salon to inquire why Miss Chandos was not in, or whether she had leave to stop out later. Mademoiselle Annette returned with the messenger."But you are silly," she exclaimed. "sending to ask about Emily Chandos. I don't comprehend. She is not out.""She is not in," returned Mademoiselle Caroline. "She was not at supper, but we thought she was sulky, and would not come.""Well, where is she?" cried Mademoiselle Annette.Where indeed? The house was searched, but Emily Chandos was not in it. Next, the town was searched—at least every part of it where she was likely to be. The full calamity did not burst upon us until the next day. Emily Chandos had departed with Alfred do Mellissie.Mademoiselle Barlieu took to her bed and kept it: the blow had utterly prostrated her. Mademoiselle Annette showed her grief and consternation in a different way—by going about the house and lamenting openly. To simulate concealment would have been folly, for the unhappy fact was fully known to the youngest child in the school, to the lowest of the servants. A telegraphic despatch went off to Lady Chandos."It all comes of that indiscriminate visiting!" uttered Mademoiselle Annette, sobbing and wringing her hands. "I said to my sister ten times, Miladi Chandos was wrong to allow it. But she did allow it; and we are not responsible. With her own pen she wrote to my sister that Emily was to visit Madame de Mellissie as often as the latter asked for her: with her own pen she wrote that she was to visit that imprudent Madame Trehern! It is not our fault! it is not; and the world cannot say it is."The despatch to Chandos House brought a gentleman back. He was called "Mr. Chandos," and we supposed him to be Emily's brother. He was taken up stairs to hold an interview with Mademoiselle Barlieu, who had not quitted the bed of grief. Mademoiselle Annette saw him in the drawing-room, and we heard her talking loud and fast with broken voice and streaming eyes. I was crossing the foot of the inner stairs as he descended them from his visit to the bed-chamber. A tall man, with a pale face and sad expression of countenance."Do not distress yourself,"he was saying to Mademoiselle Annette. "I can see that it has resulted from no want of care on your part. Emily is alone to blame."What made me gather myself against the wall in a dark nook and gaze at him? Not the deep, mellow tones, the sweet expression of voice in which the words were uttered. No: that they were all that, did strike upon my ear; but something else struck upon my sight—his face and form. Where could I have seen him before? That I had seen him, or somebody wonderfully like him, was indisputable: but, tax my memory as I would, I could not recall when or where."What are you hiding there for? To admire Mr. Chandos?"The speaker was Ellen Roper, who had come up, and saw me gazing after his retreating figure."No. I was not thinking of admiration.""Were you not? I never saw a handsomer man: but not the least like Emily. Have you heard that there's a telegraphic despatch arrived from Monsieur de Mellissie?"No. When did it come? Does it say where they are?""He telegraphs from England to Mademoiselle Barlieu, to say they were married yesterday by special license. Miss Johnstone says those special licenses cost fifty guineas, and that they could not have been married so hastily with any other. I don't know whether it's true, that they do cost so much. She's looking green, is Peg: perhaps she had hoped for worse news of her old enemy.""It might have been worse. What a relief for Mademoiselle Barlieu!""Worse!" returned Ellen Roper, "worse! As if anything worse could overtake Miss Chandos!"CHAPTER XIMY GOVERNESS LIFEANOTHER change in my life. Time went on. I was nineteen now, and for the last twelvemonth had remained at Mademoiselle Barlieu's to assist in the school, no longer as a scholar. Mademoiselle Barlieu and her sister had undertaken the responsibility of "placing the out," as my trustees phrased it, but a slight illness with which I was attacked—not a severe one, but lasting some time—caused them to be in no hurry, and they kept me on; they liked me, and I liked them.Mr. and Mrs. Paler. They had come from England, intending to reside in Paris, had taken Nulle on their road, and were sojourning at the Lion d'Or—a sore spot in the memories of the Miss Barlieus. Mrs. Paler was inquiring for a governess for her children—some one, we understood, who spoke thoroughly English, French, and German."I think it might suit you, Anne," Mademoiselle Barlieu said to me. "They are quite respectable people, and the salary offered is sixty guineas."I seized upon the idea eagerly. The word "Paris" had wrought its own charm. To be conveyed to that city of delight, appeared only a second name for entering a modern Elysium."Do let us go and see Mrs. Paler, mademoiselle! I might suit."We proceeded to the Lion d'Or, never entered by me since the day I had gone to it to dine with Miss Johnstone's uncle. Miss Johnstone (if you are curious to hear) had left at the end of a twelvemonth; and, some time after that, news came that she had married a bookseller in London.The waiter ushered us into the bed-chamber of Mr. and Mrs. Paler, French fashion. They had no private sittingroom, for the hotel was full at that time, and the sitting-rooms (there were but two to all that large hotel) were previously engaged. He was a stout man, in gold spectacles, shy and silent; his wife, a tall, handsome woman, with large dark eyes and dark hair, talked enough for both of them."If you require a completely well-educated young lady, a gentlewoman in every sense of the term, you cannot do better than engage Miss Hereford,"spoke Mademoiselle Annette."But what's her religion?" abruptly asked Mrs. Paler. "I would not admit a Roman Catholic into my family if she paid me to come. Horrid Jesuits they all are."Which, considering she was speaking to a Roman Catholic, and that a moment's consideration might have told her she was, was any thing but complimentary or polite on the lady's part. Mademoiselle Annette's brown cheek deepened, and so did mine."I belong to the Church of England, madam," I answered."And with regard to singing?" resumed Mrs. Paler, passing to another qualification unceremoniously. "Have you a fine voice? a good style? can you teach it well?""I do not sing. Neither am I a very brilliant player. I have no great forte for music. What I do play I play well, and can teach it well.""There it is! Was there ever any thing so tiresome?" grumbled Mrs. Paler. "I declare you cannot have every thing, try as you will. Our last governess was first rate in music, quite a divine voice she had, and her style perfect; but, of all the barbarous accents in French and German, (not to speak of her wretched grammar,) hers were the worst. Now you are a good linguist, but no hand at music! What a worry it is!""May I ask what age your children are?" interposed Mademoiselle Annette, who could just speak sufficient English to understand and join in the conversation."The eldest is twelve.""Then I can assure you Miss Hereford is quite sufficient musician for what you will want at present, madam. It is not always the most brilliant players who are the best instructors; our experience has taught us that the contrary is the case."Mrs. Paler mused."Does she draw?""Excellently well," replied Mademoiselle Annette."I have a great mind to try her," debated Mrs. Paler, as if soliloquising with herself. "But I must just pay my husband the compliment of asking what he thinks; though I never allow any opinion of his to influence me. He is the shyest man! he went out, you saw, as you came in.""When you have decided upon the point, madam, we shall be glad to receive your answer,"observed Mademoiselle Annette, as she rose. "We may expect it probably in a day or two.""A day or two!" repeated Mrs. Paler, "I must decide to-day. There's not much time to lose, if I engage her, for we start for Paris the day after to-morrow, and she must accompany us."So soon!"Anne," began Mademoiselle Annette as we walked home, "I do not think that situation will suit you; you will never be comfortable in it.""But why?" I eagerly rejoined, feeling that all my golden visions of Paris were dimmed by the words. "I think it would perfectly suit me, mademoiselle.""That Madame Paler is not a nice lady; she is not a gentlewoman; she will not make you comfortable.""I am willing to risk it.""Well—there will be disagreeables and crosses wherever you go. All our lives are made up of trials; and none, save ourselves, can feel them; few, save ourselves, can see, or will believe in them. Many a governess, tossed and turned about in the world's tempest, weary of her daily task, sick of its monotony, is tempted no doubt to say, 'Oh that I were established as the Mademoiselles Barlieu are, with a home and school of my own!' But I can tell you, Anne, that often and often I and my sister envy the lot of the poorest governess out on her own account, because she is free from anxiety."Ay, she spoke truly. Every individual lot has its peculiar trials, and none can mitigate them. "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." I walked on by her side then, in my young inexperience, wondering whether all had these trials, whether they would come to me. It was my morning of life; when the unseen future looks as a bright and flowery dream. Mademoiselle Annette broke it."You will never forget, my dear, that you have a friend in us. Should you be in any trouble, should you be at any time out of a situation, come to us; our house is open to you.""Thank you, thank you, dear Mademoiselle Annette," I replied, grasping her hand. "I will try and do brave battle with the world's cares; I have not forgot my mother's lessons.""Anne," she gravely responded, "do not battle: rather welcome them."Well, I was engaged. And, as the Demoiselles Barlieu observed, it was not like my entering the house of people entirely strange, for they were acquaited with the family of Mr. Paler: himself they had never before seen, but two of his sisters had been educated in their establishment. There was some slight change made in the plans: instead of accompanying them to Paris, I was not to join them until they had been there a week or two. It would be more convenient for them to be settled first, remarked Mrs. Paler.Not precisely in Paris did they fix their abode, but beyond the Barriere de l'Etoile. "Avenue de St. Cloud, Commmune de Passy," was the address, and there I found them, established in a good house, when I reached Paris, having been conveyed thither by rail, under convoy of a lady, a friend of the Miss Barlieus."Are you Miss Hereford, the new governess?" demanded a young lady, as soon as I got in."Yes. I think I have had the pleasure of seeing you at Nulle, "I answered, holding on my hand to her."That I'm sure you've not. I never was at Nulle. It was Kate and Harriet who went there with papa and mamma. I and Fanny and Grace came straight here last week from England, with nurse."Now, strange to say, it had never occurred to me to ask Mrs. Paler, during our negotiations, how many pupils I should have. Two children were with them at Nulle, the elder, Kate and Harriet, as this one now remarked, and I never supposed that there were others; I believed these would be my only pupils. Never had the Miss Barlieus given a thought to there being more children."How many are you, my dear?""Oh, we are five.""Am I to teach you all?""Of course. There's nobody else to teach us. And we have two little brothers, but they are quite in the nursery."Had Mrs. Paler purposely concealed the number? or had it been the result of inadvertence? The thought that came over me was, that were I to engage a governess for five pupils, I should take care to mention that there were five. They all came flocking round me now high-spirited, romping girls, difficult of control, their ages varying from six to twelve."Mamma and papa are out, but I don't suppose they'll be long. Do you want to see mamma?""I shall be glad to see her.""Do you wish for any thing to eat?" put in Miss Paler. "You can have what you like: dinner or tea; you have only to ring and order it. We have dined and had tea also. Mamma has not; but you don't take your meals with her."When Mrs. Paler entered I was summoned to her."So you have got here safely, Miss Hereford?" was her salutation, spoken cordially enough. But she did nut offer to shake hands with me."I have been making acquaintance with my pupils. I did not know there were so many.""Did you not? Oh, you forgot; I have no doubt I mentioned it.""I think not. I believed that the two Miss Palers I saw at Nulle were your only children.""My only children! Good gracious Miss Hereford, what an idea! "Why, I have seven! and have lost two, which made nine, and shall have more yet, for all I know. You will take the five girls five are as easily taught as two."I did not dispute the words. I had come, intending and hoping to do my duty to the very utmost extent, whether it might be much or little. Though certainly the five pupils did look formidable in prospective, considering that I should have to teach them every thing singing excepted."I hope you will suit me," went on Mrs. Paler. "I have had many qualms of doubt since I engaged you. But I can't beat them into Mr. Paler: he turns round and politely tells me they are 'rubbish'—as any heathen might.""Qualms of doubt as to my being but nineteen, or to my skill in music?" I asked."Neither; your age I never made an objection, and I dare say your music will do very well for the present. In a year or two's time, should you remain, I must go to the additional expense of a master for the two elder girls. My doubts all turn upon serious points, Miss Hereford. If I thought you would inoculate my daughters with Roman Catholic doctrines, I—""Mrs. Paler! Roman Catholic doctrines! I told you that I was a Protestant—of the Church of England. And I told you truth.""But you have been living in a Roman Catholic establishment.""So far as that the Miss Barlieus are Roman Catholics—yes. We—the English pupils—followed the customs and doctrines of our own religion. We attended the English church; we read our Bibles at home; we were often visited by the chaplain.""But did the Miss Barlieus never try—in a sly, underhanded, insinuating way—to draw you over to Catholicism?""Never; never once, or for a moment," was my warm answer. "They are ever most cautious, most anxious, that the faith of the Protestant pupils should not be interfered with: it is regarded with reverence and respect. Were one of the English girls to become imbued with Catholic tenets, I am sure the Miss Barlieus would look upon it as a deep misfortune.""Of course—in one light " assented Mrs. Paler. "They know on which side their bread's buttered, and such a calamity would be the ruin of their school. But now—can you tell me from your heart, Miss Hereford, that you hate all Roman Catholics?"I looked at her in amazement. What did she mean? And she looked at me, sternly enough, waiting for my answer."I do not like the Romish religion: I think it one that enslaves women's minds and hearts and wills; and that it drives men to the next door to atheists," was my impulsive answer. "I would as soon become a Mormon as a Roman Catholic; I would as soon turn myself into a disciple of Brother Prince at the Agapemone. But I do not hate the Roman Catholics, Mrs. Paler: on the contrary, there are many of them whom I dearly respect and love.""You do!""Oh, yes. Believe me, there are as excellent Christians among them as there are among us: striving to fulfill their obligations in this world, hoping and working on for a better.""You are ultra tolerant, Miss Hereford.""I hope not. I should be sorry to think that people, gifted with heart and sense and intellect, could be less tolerant than I. Whatever a person's religion may be, he can serve God if he will: a Roman Catholic, if he be a good Christian, will get to Heaven as soon as we shall. We may—we must—heartily wish that he had been born to a more enlightened faith; but he was not; and we can but hope he will do his best duty, so far as in him lies.""How have you learnt these sentiments?""I do not think I have learnt them. I am naturally thoughtful.""And fond of expressing your opinions.""Not unless I am asked for them—and not on all subjects. But it was right for me to answer you fully upon this point, Mrs. Paler.""And you will be quite sure not to seek to turn my daughters from their religion? You will give me your word."But for the weighty importance of the subject, I should have burst out laughing in her face. Did she take me for a Jesuit, whose business it is to make proselytes; or a female Mormon in disguise; or a "sister" in the secret pay of the tractarian party? or what did she take me for? I had a great mind to ask."You may have my word if you think it necessary, Mrs. Paler. Your children have been reared in the same faith that I have: there is little fear, then, that I should strive to undermine it: I know of none better in the world.""Well, you must excuse my anxiety, Miss Hereford. The alarming number of converts to Romanism which we have of late years been obliged to witness, must make us all fearful.""Perverts, if you please," cried a voice behind us, and I turned round to behold Mr. Paler. "When I hear of our folks going over to the Romish faith, I always suspect they are those who have not done their duty in their own. A man may find all he wants in his own religion, if he only looks out for it.""Oh, that's very true," I exclaimed, my eyes sparkling, glad, somehow, to hear him say it. "It is what I have been trying to express to Mrs. Paler.""She has got her head full of the danger there is that her children should turn into rampant, red hot Catholics—I suppose because we are in a Catholic country," he resumed, looking at his wife through his glasses. She'll talk about it till she turns into one herself, if she doesn't mind: that's the way the mania begins. There's no more fear of the children turning Catholics, than there is of my turning Dutchman. Well, Miss Hereford, and what sort of weather have you had lately down at Nulle?""Not very fine. Yesterday it poured with rain all day.""Ah. That would make it pleasant for travelling, though.""Yes: it laid the dust.""Did you travel alone?""Oh, no; the Miss Barlieus would not have allowed it. It is not etiquette in France for a young, unmarried lady to go anywhere alone: they think it wrong. An acquaintance of theirs, Madame Bernadotte, who was journeying to Paris, accompanied me.""Well, I hope you will be comfortable here," he concluded."Thank you," was my answer; and, believing I was not further wanted, quitted the room. Another minute, however, and I was summoned back to it. Mrs. Paler was alone then."Miss Hereford, you have been reared in seclusion, mostly in school, and probably know little of the convenances of life. You will not be offended if I set you right upon a point—I have no doubt you have erred, not from want of respect, but from lack of knowledge."What in the world had I done? Of course I said I should be obliged to her to set me right, if found wrong."You are a governess; you hold a dependent situation in my house. Is it not so?""Certainly it is," I answered, wondering much."Then never forget that a certain amount of respect in manner is due to myself and to Mr. Paler. To you we are 'madam' and 'sir,' and I beg that we may be always addressed as such."I curtsied and turned away, the burning color dyeing my face. It was my first lesson in dependence. But Mrs. Paler was right: and I was vexed with myself to have forgotten that I was only a governess. Misplaced rebellion rose in my heart, whispering that I had been born a lady. A moment's commonsense reflection drove it away, and brought the firm resolution never so to transgress again.But what a life of toil I entered upon! and—where were my dreams of Paris? Have you forgotten that they came to me, in all their beautiful delusion? I did not. Delusive hopes are always the sweetest.When I had stayed three months at Mrs. Paler's I had never once been into Paris further than the Champs Elysees. Save that we went in every Sunday morning in a closed carriage to the Ambassador's chapel, I saw nothing of Paris. The streets may have been of crystal, the fountains of malachite marble, the houses of burnished gold, for all I witnessed of them—and I believe my warm imagination had pictured something of the like resplendence. There was no pleasure for me; no going out; my days were one lasting scene of toil.I am not going to complain unjustly of Mrs. Paler's situation, or make it out worse than it was. It has become much the fashion of late years—I may say a mania—to set forth the sorrows and ill-treatment that governesses have to endure: were the other side of the question to be taken up it might be seen that ladies have as much to bear from governesses. There are good places and there are bad ones; and there are admirable governesses, as well as undesirable and most incapable ones: perhaps the good and bad, on both sides, are about balanced. I was well-treated at Mr. Paler's; a generous diet, and a maid to wait upon me in conjunction with the two elder girls; when they had visitors in an evening I was admitted on an equality (at any rate to appearance); I had respect paid me by the servants; and I was not found fault with by Mr. and Mrs. Paler. Could I desire better than this? No. But I was overworked.Put it to yourselves what it was, if you have any experience in teaching. Five girls, all in different stages of advancement, to learn every thing, from German and good English down to needlework. The worst task was the music; the drawing lessons I could give conjointly. All five learnt it, piano and harp, and two of them, the second and the youngest but one, were so wild and unsteady that they could not be trusted to practice one instant alone. I was up every morning at half past six to begin the music lessons, and I was usually up till twelve and one o'clock the next morning correcting exercises, for I could not find time to do them during the day. "Make time," says somebody. I could only have made it by neglecting the children."Our last governess never did a thing after six in the evening," Kate said to me one day. "You should not be so particular, Miss Hereford.""But she did not get you on to your mamma's satisfaction.""No, indeed: mamma sent her away because of that. She did not care whether we advanced or not. All she cared for was to get the lessons over anyhow."Just so: it had been eye service. As I could have told by their ignorance when I took the girls in hand. My dear mother had enjoined me differently: "Whatever you undertake, Anne, let it be done to the very best of your ability: do it as to God; as though His eye and ear were ever present with you."I appealed to Mrs. Paler: telling her I could not continue to work as I was doing, and asking what could be done."Oh, nonsense, Miss Hereford, you must be a bad economiser of time. The other governesses I have had did not complain of being overworked.""But, madam, did they do their duty?""Middling for that—but then they were incorrigibly lazy. We are quite satisfied with you, Miss Hereford, and you must manage your time so as to afford yourself more leisure."I suggested to Mrs. Paler that she should get help for part of the music lessons, but she would not hear of it; so I had to go on doing my best; but to do that best overtaxed my strength sadly. Mrs. Paler might have had more consideration: she saw that I rarely went out; one hurried walk in a week perhaps, and the drive to church on Sunday. My pupils walked out every day, taken by one or other of the servants; but they did not go together: two or three stayed with me while the rest went, and when they came back to me these went. Mrs. Paler insisted upon my giving an hour of music so each child daily, which made five hours a day for music alone. The confinement and the hard work, perhaps the broken spirits, began to tell upon me, nervous headaches came on, and I wrote to the Miss Barlieus, asking what I should do. I wrote the letter on a Sunday, I am sorry to say, failing time on a week day. "Of course you went out on a Sunday afternoon," exclaims the reader. No. Mrs. Paler protested that nothing but sin and gallavanting was to be seen out of doors on a French Sunday; and, once home from church, we were boxed up for the rest of the day; she did not go out herself, or suffer any body else to go; Mr. Paler excepted: he took the reins in his own hands.The Miss Barlieus answered me sensibly: it was Miss Annette who wrote. "Put up with it to the close of your year from the time of entrance," she said. "It is never well for a governess to leave her situation before the year is up, if it can be avoided; and were you to do so some ladies might urge it as an objection to making another engagement with you. Give Mrs. Paler ample notice, three months we believe is the English usage—and endeavor to part with her amicably. She must see that her situation is beyond your strength."I took the advice and in June gave Mrs. Paler warning, having entered her house in September. She was angry, and affected to believe I would not go. I asked her respectfully to put herself in idea in my place, and candidly say whether or not the work was too hard. She muttered something about "over-conscientiousness;" that I should get along better without it. Nothing more was said; nothing satisfactory decided, and the time went on again to the approach of September. I wondered how I must set about looking out for another asylum; I had no time to look out, no opportunity."Miss Hereford, mamma told me to say that we shall be expected in the drawing-room to-night; you and I, and Harriet. She has some friends coming.""Many do yon think, Kate?" demanded Harriet, looking through the wires of the harp at her sister."Pretty well, I fancy," returned Kate, "but I only heard two names. The De Mellissies and the Gordons.""What De Mellissies are those?" I inquired, the name striking upon my ear with a thrill of remembrance."What De Mellissies are those! why, the De Mellissies," returned Kate, girl fashion. "She is young and very pretty; I saw her when I was out with mamma in the carriage the other day.""Is she English or French?""English, I'll vow. No French tongue could speak English as she does.""When you answer in that free, abrupt manner, Kate, you greatly displease me," I interposed. "It is most unladylike"Kate laughed; said she was free-spoken by nature, like her mamma (which was true), wad it was of no use trying to be otherwise. I waited impatiently for the evening.It was Emily. Gay-mannered, laughing, lovely as ever, the came into the saloon on her husband's arm, wearing a pink silk dress and wreath of roses. Mr. De Mellissie looked ill; at least he was pale and thinner than when I had seen him at Nulle. She either did not or would not remember me: as the evening drew on I felt sure that she did not, for the spoke cordially enough to me, though as to an utter stranger. It happened that we were quite alone once, in the recess of a window, and I interrupted what she was saving about a song."Have you quite forgotten me, Madame De Mellissie?""Forgotten you!" she returned, with a quick glance. "I never knew you, did I?""In the years gone by, when you were Miss Chandos. I am Anne Hereford."A puzzled gaze at me, and then she hid her face in her hands, its penitent expression mixed with laughter. "Never say a word about that naughty time, if you love me everybody says it ought to be buried five fathoms deep. I might have known you, though, had I had my wits about me, for it is the same face. But you have grown out of all knowledge—not that you are any thing of a size now. What an escapade that was! the staid Demoiselles Barlieu will never overget it. I shall pay them a visit some day. Were you shocked at it?""Yes. But—has it brought you happiness?""Who talks of happiness at evening soirees? You must be as unsophisticated as ever, Anne Hereford."What a strange change had come over her face!CHAPTER XIICHANDOS HOUSE. MRS. CHANDOSIT was the morning succeeding to this soiree. I had quitted the young ladies for a moment, to read a letter in my own room, just came in from the Miss Barlieus—a very kind letter, telling me to go back to them while I looked out for a fresh situation, should I not find one before leaving my present one—when the door suddenly opened, without any ceremony of knocking, and Mrs. Paler came in with a white face and an open letter.What could be the matter with her? She looked scared, sick, terrified; and she panted for breath, as she essayed to speak, with agitation or with passion."Here's news!" she brought out at length, her voice rising to a scream, "here's news to come upon me like a thunderbolt! Does he expect me to live through it?""Oh, Mrs. Paler, what has happened? You look ill and terrified. Will you not tell me?""What else have I come for but to tell you?" she retorted, speaking in a tone that betrayed as much anger as agitation. "I went to the study after you, and frightened the girls; they were for following me here, so I locked their in. I must tell some one, or my feelings will burst bounds, for they always were of a demonstrative nature. Not like his, the sly, quiet fox!"My fears flew to Mr. Paler. He had been in England some time, ever since the middle of May. Though I did not understand her anger, or the last words."You have had news from Mr. Paler, madam!" I uttered. "Some harm has happened to him!""Harm! yes, it has. Harm to me and my children, though, more than to him. Miss Hereford, he has just gone and ruined himself.""How?" I asked, feeling grieved and puzzled."It was always his mania, that turf gambling, and as a young man he got out of thousands at it. I thought how it would be; I declare I did; when he became restless, here in Paris, just before the Epsom meeting, and at last went off to it. 'You'll drop some hundreds over it if you do go,' I said to him. 'Not I,' was his retort, 'since I have had children to drop hundreds over, I don't spare them for racehorses.' A wicked, reckless man!""And has he—dropped the hundreds, madam?""Hundreds!" she shrieked; and then, looking covertly round the room, as if fearful others might be listening, sunk her voice to a whisper: "He has lost thirty thousand pounds.""Oh!" I exclaimed in my horror. Mrs. Paler wrung her hands."Thirty thousand pounds, every pound of it—and I hope remorse will haunt him to his dying day. Epsom, Ascot, Goodwood—I know not what courses he has not visited this summer, and has betted frantically at all. The mania was upon him again, and he could not stop himself. He is lying ill now at Doncaster, at one of the inns there, and his brother writes; tells me he dare not conceal the facts any longer.""Shall you not go over to him? He—""I go over to him!" she interrupted; "I would not go over to him if he were dying. But that my children are his, I would never live with him, or notice him again: I would get a divorce if I could, were it not for them. You look shocked, Miss Hereford, but you cannot realize what such tidings as these must be until you are married. Do you think a man has any right, willfully, to bring disgrace and misery upon his wife and children?""Oh, madam—no!""It is my willfulness come home to me," she wildly exclaimed, as if in soliliquy. "They told me how it would be, sooner or later, if I persisted in marrying James Paler; but I did persist, I would not listen to them. My mother and sisters will say it serves me right."I longed to ask, yet scarcely dared, whether they were quite ruined."It is nearly equivalent to it," she said: "it will take from us more than half our income; and present debt and embarrassment it must bring. Ah! see how some things—trifles—happen sometimes for the best! I thought it a great misfortune to lose you, but I am glad of it now, for I am sure I can no longer afford an expensive governess. Nor many servants either. Oh, woe's me!"I stood looking at her distress with great pity, feeling that Mr. Paler must be next kin to a madman. And yet I had liked him: he was most affectionate to his children, and solicitous for the comfort of his household. Mrs. Paler resumed."Your time is up in a fortnight, Miss Hereford. I had intended to offer an increased salary if you would stay on—but that's all out of the question now. I suppose you have no settled plans; no fresh home to go to?""Madam, it has not been in my power to look out for one.""True. Yet it is better that you should go. I don't know what may become of us—how soon we must leave here. Where we shall live, what we shall do, I cannot tell: go to some obscure place in Germany—or Scotland—or Wales, and economise: anywhere that it's cheap. I wonder that such men, who deliberately bring ruin on their families, are permitted to live! But now—We must try and find you another situation.""Perhaps Madame de Mellissie may hear of something, and I think she would interest herself for me. If I knew how to see her.""You can go and see her," replied Mrs. Paler, "you can go to-day, and call upon her. Never mind the studies: I feel as if T should not care if the girls never learnt any thing again—with this blow upon them."You may be sure I did not wait for a second permission, but proceeded to the hotel (as it was called) of Madame de Mellissie in the Rue Richelieu. I speak of old Madame de Mellissie, for it was her house, and her son and daughter-in-law lived with her. Emily was at home, surrounded by morning callers, quite a crowd of them. She looked intensely surprised at seeing me; was, or I thought it, rather distant and haughty in manner; and, pointing to a chair, desired me to wait. Did she deem I had presumptuously intruded as one of those morning callers? Very humbly waited I until the last had gone: schooling myself to remember that I was but a poor governess, while she was Madame Alfred de Mellissie nee Miss Chandos."And so you have found me out, and have come to pay me a visit, Miss Hereford!""I have come as a petitioner, rather than as a visitor, Madame de Mellissie. Can you spare me five minutes?""I can spare you ten if you like, now those loungers are gone."I forthwith told my tale. That I was leaving Mrs. Paler's, where I was overworked: that I had thought it possible she might know of some situation open: if so, would she kindly recommend me?"The idea, Anne Hereford, of your coming to me with such an errand! As if I troubled myself about vacant situations! Is Mrs. Paler sending you away?""I gave Mrs. Paler warning last June, to leave this month. I have wished to leave almost ever since I entered, but it was better to remain the year.""Because there is a rumor current in Paris this morning that James Paler has been idiot enough to go and ruin himself on the turf," she rejoined. "That he has lost a great deal of money is certain, for the newspapers allude to it. Thank goodness, Alfred has no weakness that way, though he is empty headed enough. Is it not a dreadful life, that of a governess?""At Mrs. Paler's it has been one of incessant toil. I hope to go where the duties will be lighter. It is not the life I like, or would have chosen: but we must bend to circumstances.""That's true enough. I will ask all my friends in Paris if they—By the way," she abruptly broke off, speaking with slow deliberation, "I wonder if—if—you would do—if you would like something else?"I made no reply; only waited for her to explain herself."The case is this, Miss Hereford," she resumed, assuming a light manner. "We were to have gone to Chandos last month, but Mademoiselle de Mellissie has been ailing, and Alfred said it would not do to leave her. This morning we had a half dispute over it. There's nothing much the matter with her, and, as I said, she may hold out like this for years, or may recover and be well again. Were she in danger, it would be a different matter, but it's quite unreasonable, to keep me away from Chandos for nothing but this. Monsieur Alfred was vexed, said he should not quit her, and moreover did not, himself, feel well enough to travel—for he has a sort of gastric fever hanging over him. Then I said I should go without him; with great pleasure, he complacently replied, provided I would engage a lady as companion, but alone, he would not trust me, I was too light-headed. Complimentary to my discretion, was it not?"I could not deny it—in a certain sense."But the bargain was made; it was indeed. I am to look out for a companion, and then we may be off the next hour on our road to England, destination Chandos. Would you like to take the place?"A thousand thoughts flew over me at the abrupt question, crowding my mind, dyeing my cheeks. The prospect, at the first blush, appeared like a haven of rest after Mrs. Paler's. But—what would be ray duties?—and was I, a comparative child, fit for the post? Should I be deemed fit by Monsieur de Mellissie?"What should I have to do?" I asked."What I please," laughed she. "You must amuse me when I am tired, read to me when I like, play to me when I like, be ready to go out when I want you, give orders to my maid for me, write my letters when I am too idle, and stick yourself at my side to play propriety between this and Chandos. Those are the onerous duties of a dame de compagnie, are they not? but I have no experience in the matter. Could you undertake them?""Are you speaking seriously, Madame de Mellissie?"" Of course I am. Stop though. About the payment. I could not afford to give much, for my purse has a hole at both ends of it, and I am dreadfully poor. I suppose you have had a high salary at Mrs. Paler's?""Sixty guineas.""Oh, don't talk of it," she exclaimed, stopping her ears. "I wish I could give it; but I never could squeeze out more than twenty. Anne, I will make a bargain with you; go with me to Chandos, stop during my visit there, and when we return here I will get you a more lucrative situation. For the time you are with me, I will give you what I can afford."I accepted it willingly; money wore little value in my eyes. Somewhat to my own surprise, Mr. Alfred de Mellissie also accepted it willingly, making not the least objection. A few days, and we were to start.It was well money did not wear much value to me, (the secret of which was, I had not yet found its uses,) for Mrs. Paler put off paying me my half year's salary. Thirty guineas I had received, thirty were owing. She said she was very short, failing remittances from Mr. Paler, that it would be far more convenient to her to pay me in a few weeks' time, and she would forward it to me at Chandos. I could not well object.On a lovely September morning we started for Boulogne summer: Madame Alfred de Mellissie, I, and her maid, Pauline: arrived in safety, crossed the Channel, and got to London the same night. There we stayed, and the next day went down to Chandos, a journey of fifty miles. At the terminus was a handsome carriage, with a coachman and footman—its panels bearing the imposing arms of the Chandos family, surmounted by the badge of England's baronetage, the bloody hand. The servants lifted their hands to their hats, and respectfully welcomed Madame de Mellissie."Is mamma well?" she inquired of them."Quite well, madam.""And my brother? Why is he not here?""Mr. Chandos, madam, was obliged to attend a county meeting.""Those ponderous county meetings!" she retorted. "And they never do any good. Step in, Miss Hereford."We were soon whirling along, Pauline sitting outside with the footman. Madame de Mellissie looked out on the points of road as we passed, with all the glee of a child."This is my second visit only to Chandos since my marriage. For two years mamma was implacable, would not see me; but last year she relented, and I and Alfred were invited. We stayed six weeks. I don't believe, though, mamma will ever forgive me in her heart. I'm sorry now.""Sorry for having—having married as you did?""Ay, I am. Those rebellious marriages never bring luck. They can't, you know; only, girls are so thoughtless and stupid. I made my own bed, and must lie on it: it is not so bad as it might have been, but—of course, all that's left is to make the best of it. I am glad of one thing—that I have no children. And there, in the distance, you see the chimneys of Chandos. Look, Anne!"She was wayward in her moods, wayward to me as to others. Sometimes she would be distantly polite, calling me "Miss Hereford;" the next moment open and cordial as ever she had been at school. A suspicion grew upon me that she found how sadly she had thrown herself away in a worldly point of view; that her marriage was bitterly repented of.Chandos was a red, gothic-looking house, with gables and turrets and two wings. It struck me as looking low, not elevated; no steps ascended to the house, and the rooms on the ground floor were level with the ground outside. It was but two stories high, with the exception of some rooms in the roof bed-chambers of me domestics. Handsome grounds were around it to some extent, but intersected by so many trees, except just close to the house, as to impart a weird-like, gloomy appearance: they completely shut Chandos House from the view of the world beyond, and the beyond world from the view of Chandos. The carriage had barely stopped, when a gentleman, followed by a groom, came galloping up on horseback: he threw himself from his horse, and hastened to the carriage door."Back just in time to receive you, Emily. How are you, my dear?"She jumped lightly from the carriage, and he was turning away with her when he saw me. His look of intense surprise was curious to behold, and he stopped in hesitation. Emily spoke: her tone a slighting one, almost disparaging."It's only my companion. Would you believe it, Harry, Alfred took a prudent fit, and would not suffer me to travel alone. So I engaged Miss Hereford: she was in quest of a situation, and we knew each other in days gone by."He assisted me from the carriage. It was the same fine man I had seen some years before at Mademoiselle Barlieu's: the same pale countenance, with its sad expression; the same sweet voice. He then gave his arm to his sister, and I followed them to the sitting-room. They called it the oak parlor; a large, square room, somewhat dark, its colors harmoniously blending, and its windows shaded with trained clematis and jessamine. It was the favorite sitting-room at Chandos; other reception-rooms there were; a gorgeous drawing-room, a well stored library, a spacious dining-room; but the oak parlor was the favorite, and none could wonder at it, for it was just one of those seductive apartments that speak to the feelings of repose.Where's mamma?" exclaimed Emily, as we entered."Not far; she will be here directly, you may be sure," he replied. "Is this your first visit to our part of the country, Miss Hereford?""Yes. I never was here before."Now what was there in this reply to offend Madame de Mellissie? She turned round, haughty pride stamped on every line of her countenance, rebuke on her tongue: though the rebuke lay in the tone, rather than in the words."Miss Hereford! the gentleman to whom you speak is Mr. Chandos."Had I again omitted the sign of my dependent situation, the "sir?" I, who had resolved, with my burning face (burning again now), never so to offend for the future. I supposed that that was the meaning of Madame de Mellissie; I suppose so still, to this hour. I had spoken as though I were the equal of Mr. Chandos: I must not—I would not—so offend again."Emily, my love, you are welcome."A little woman had entered the room, and was holding Madame de Mellissie in her arms. It was Lady Chandos. She wore a widow's cap, a rich but soft black silk dress, and black lace mittens. Her nose was sharp, and her small face had a permanent redness, the result of disturbed health. She was not like her daughter, not half so beautiful; and she was not like her handsome son, unless it was in the subdued, sad expression. She quite started back when her eyes fell on me, evidently not prepared to see a stranger."Miss Hereford, mamma: a young lady whom I have engaged as companion. Alfred would not let me come alone."Lady Chandos turned to me with a pleasant smile, though, (or I fancied it,) there was a moment's hesitation before she did so."I think you look more fit to take charge of Miss Hereford, Emily, than Miss Hereford of you," she said."I am the elder of the two by some three years, if you mean that, mamma. Oh, it was just a whim of Alfred's."I went up stairs to the room allotted me: it was on the first floor, as the rest of the bed-chambers were, the library being the only sitting-room. In the right hand wing were the apartments of Lady Chandos; in fact no person occupied rooms in that wing but herself and her maid—Hill, whom you may recollect. Hill was at Chandos still, lady's maid and housekeeper; a confidential servant. It seemed to me that these wings had some time been added to the house, for they were quite shut out apart from it. A green baize door, then a narrow corridor, and then another door took you to the wing—the same on both sides. These wings had each a staircase communicating their upper and lower floors, also an egress to the grounds by a small door on the ground floor: this door in the east wing had been closed up: but in the west wing, the one inhabited by Lady Chandos, it was open, though no one ever made use of it but herself, and she very rarely.My room was next to the library. I was standing at the open window, looking out, when voices near, from another open window, (I supposed the library,) struck upon my ear. They were those of Lady and Mr. Chandos."This is just one of Emily's wild tricks," the former said. "She knows quite enough of our unhappy secrets to be sure that a stranger is not wanted at Chandos. And yet she brings one!""Look for the most improbable thing in the world, mother, before you look for discretion or thought in Emily," was the reply of Mr. Chandos. "But this is but a young girl, unsuspicious naturally from her age and sex: Emily might have introduced one more dangerous. And it may happen, mother, that—""I know what you would urge, Harry; but there's no certainty. There cannot be: and it is most unfortunate that Emily should have brought her here. Every night, night by night as they come round, I lie awake shivering; if the wind does but move the trees, I start: if an owl shrieks forth its dreary note, I almost shriek with it. And, for a stranger to be sleeping in the house! Harry, I have never, I hope, done a discourteous thing, but it did occur to me to put this young girl to sleep on the upper story. I think her being so lady-like in appearance saved her from it, not my good manners. I wish now I had done it. Is it too late? Would to change her room!"There was a pause, and then Mr. Chandos's voice rose again, his tone one of indecision."You are the best judge, mother; but it appears to me that a lady would consider it in the light of an indignity. You see, those upper rooms are only reached by the back staircase; and, to gain that staircase, she must go past the kitchen and other domestic apartments. If this staircase conducted to them, it would be different.""True. But don't forget, Harry, that if this staircase led to them, we could no longer ensure privacy at night in these rooms and the wings. I cannot think how Emily can have been so senseless! when she knows that not a stranger has been admitted to sleep in this house since—since that dreadful time. Except her husband; and I am sure I trembled every night they stayed here, all the six weeks, and was thankful when they were gone again; at least, when he was.""Nothing happened then, mother. Nothing, let us hope, will happen now.""Harry, we cannot answer for it. And there's another thing—on Ethel's account a stranger is not desirable. Emily might have thought of that."The voices ceased, leaving me not over comfortable. But I could do nothing to remedy it,—to remedy either their evident embarrassment (whatever may have been its cause and nature) or my own. I wondered whether my room would be changed.It was not. We dined together, spent a pleasant evening, and then I retired to rest, to this chamber next the library. I wondered what the mystery could be; I marvelled whether I should be disturbed in my sleep. What unseemly or uncanny doings could there be in the house, rendering it inexpedient that a stranger should e its inmate? Was it haunted by ghosts? or by something worse? At any rate, they did not molest me, and my sleep was tranquil.Some letters were brought in the following morning while we were t breakfast: Mr. Chandos took them off the waiter, which the man held out. I was seated next him, and saw the addresses us he looked them over. One was for "Lady Chandos," two for "Harry Chandos, Esquire," the fourth for "Mrs. Chandos.""None for me?" pouted Emily."No," he answered, as he passed his mother's to her; and, motioning to the servant to raise his salver again, he placed the other one on it."For Mrs. Chandos."The servant carried the letter from the room, and I wondered who could be "Mrs. Chandos." They read their letters, Emily talked and laughed, and the meal came to an end. At its conclusion Mr. Chandos offered to go round the grounds with his sister."Yes, I'll go," she answered. "You can also, Miss Hereford, if yon like. But we must get our bonnets and parasols first, Harry."My bonnet and parasol were soon got, and I stood at my bed-room door, waiting for Emily. As she came out of her chamber, the green baize door, leading to the east wing, opened, and a middle aged lady appeared at it. Madame de Mellissie advanced and cordially saluted her."I should have paid you a visit yesterday, Mrs. Freeman, but that I heard Mrs. Chandos was ill.""You are very kind, madam," was the lady's reply. "Mrs. Chandos was exceeding unwell yesterday, but she is better to-day. She—"Mrs. Freeman was interrupted. A lovely looking girl—girl she looked, though she may have been six or seven-and-twenty—appeared at the door of one of the rooms in the wing. Her dress was white, trimmed with lavender ribbons, and she came forward eagerly, smiling."I heard you had come, Emily, dear, and should have joined you all yesterday, but I was so poorly," she said, clasping Madame de Mellissie's hand. "How well you look!""And you look well also," replied Emily. "We must never judge you by your looks, Mrs. Chandos.""No, that you must not: I always look in rude health, in spite of my ailments," laughed Mrs. Chandos. "Will you not come and sit with me for half an hour?""Of course I will," was Madame de Mellissie's reply, as she untied her bonnet and threw it to me carelessly, speaking as careless words."Have the goodness to tell Mr. Chandos that I am not going out yet." Mrs. Chandos, who had not noticed me before, turned round in surprise, and looked at me; but Madame de Mellissie did not, I suppose, deem me worth an introduction.I went down stairs to deliver her message. Mr. Chandos was waiting in the oak parlor, talking to his mother."Madame de Mellissie has desired me to say that she will not go out yet, sir.""I did not expect she would," he answered, with a laugh, "for she is changeable as the wind. Tell her so from me, will you, Miss Hereford?""Very well, sir.I returned to my own room, took off my things, and sat down to think.Who was Mrs. Chandos?CHAPTER XIIITHE HOUSE TO LET OUTSIDE THE GATES OF CHANDOSTHAT day was a dull one, for I had not felt at home, and could not make myself feel so, try as I would. Madame de Mellissie went out in the carriage with Lady Chandos, and I stayed chiefly in my room. I saw no more of Mrs. Chandos; she did not appear at dinner or in the evening; which set me wondering whether she lived alone, shut up in that wing. Mr. Chandos dined out, and returned but just as we were retiring to rest.We assembled at breakfast the next morning, as on the previous one, four of us, not Mrs. Chandos. It did puzzle me very much to know who she could be: the most probable supposition was, that she was a daughter-in-law of the house, wife of one of the sons."How many brothers have you?" I had inquired of Emily, when musing over this."Two," she answered. "Harry, and my eldest brother, Tom.""Have you lost any?""Any brothers? A little one; Greville. He died when he was six years old. Why do you ask?""I was only wondering who Mrs. Chandos was."She turned on me a haughty face of reproof."It certainly is no affair of yours, Miss Hereford. Mrs. Chandos is Mrs. Chandos; she is no impostor.""I beg your pardon, madam," I meekly answered, feeling I had deserved it. What right had I, Anne Hereford, to be curious, and to show it?This had been the previous clay, and we met, I say, at breakfast. The letters were brought in: only two; one for Mr. Chandos, one for Madame Alfred de Mellissie."I thought he would be writing," she exclaimed in a tone of apathy, as she stretched out her hand for the letter. "Though I know he hates it like poison, Frenchman like.""It is not your husband's hand, Emily," said Mr. Chandos."No? Why—I declare it is old Madame de Mellissie's! What can be amiss?" she uttered as she tore open the letter."There! was ever any thing like that?" she continued. "Alfred's taken ill: his fancied gastric fever has turned into a real one. And I must go back without delay," she says."Is he very ill?" inquired Lady Chandos."So she says. In danger. But the old lady is timid and fanciful. Mamma, must I go?""You are the best judge, Emily," replied Lady Chandos in a grave tone. "If you will allow me to see the letter, I could better advise you, possibly.""See it and welcome; read it put for the public benefit, if you will. Look at Harry, staring at me with all his eyes; deeming me no doubt the very model of a loving wife.""Emily! can you have read this letter?" sharply interrupted Lady Chandos. "If so, how can you hesitate? Your husband is in danger: he may not survive: he will not, unless a change takes place. You must hasten away by the first train.""Mamma, you need not take the half of it for gospel. Madame de Mellissie is so wrapt up in her charming son that if his finger aches she sends for a doctor, fearing it may mortify.""Child! I must recommend you to go.""Of course I shall go, I never meant to hesitate," was the peevish answer. "But it is excessively tiresome."She hastened from the breakfast-table when the meal was over, and Mr. Chandos went with her into the hall, speaking of the time and arrangements for departure. I was following."You need not come, Anne. I do not want you just now," she said."But I have my own things to pack.""Your own things! What for? I am not going to take you."What was I to answer? I could not say, "You shall take me; but, after the conversation I had heard between Mr. and Lady Chandos, the idea of remaining behind was not pleasant."I shall not be away more than a few days," she added. "You and mamma can let her stay for that time, can't you, Harry?""Provided Miss Hereford will make herself at home with us, which I do not fancy she has yet done," was his reply, looking at me with a smile."Oh, she is one who always gives you the notion of being shy," carelessly returned Emily.And no more was said then. Whether any remonstrance was made on the part of Lady Chandos, I cannot tell. I hinted to Emily, when we were alone, that my staying might not be agreeable to Chandos House; her reply was, that they must make it agreeable, for there was no accommodation for me at old Madame de Mellissie's. And by midday she was gone, Pauline attending her, and Mr. Chandos accompanying her to the station.What was I to do with myself? Put on my things and go out? As I came down with them on, and was crossing the hall, Lady Chandos met me."Going abroad, Miss Hereford?""If you have no objection, madam. But I was only going because I felt at a loss for something to occupy myself with. Perhaps you can give me something to do, Lady Chandos?""I cannot aid you, I believe. It is a pity Madame de Mellissie should have left you here, for I fear you will find it dull: but I suppose there was no help for it. You will meet with many pleasant walks in the neighborhood. There is one particularly so, to the left, as you leave the gates, exceedingly rural and quiet."I found the walk she spoke of, and stayed out for nearly two hours. Not a single house, but one, did I pass: I found afterwards that what houses there were in the neighborhood lay to the right. This one house stood in view of the entrance gates; a substantial, moderate-sized house, closed at present, and displaying a board "To Let." I had half a mind to open its front gate and explore the garden, but I had been out long enough, and turned to Chandos.I was not to go home without an adventure. In passing through the small iron gate, by the side of the large one, an awfully fierce and large dog sprang forward, savagely barking. Be you very sure I flew back and shut the gate between us: why he did not leap over the gate, I don't know: he stood there barking, and rattling part of a chain that was attached to his collar.Now I make no hesitation in confessing that I am afraid of dogs; of a dog which appears fierce, terribly afraid. It may arise from my never having been brought into contact with them, or it may arise from innate dislike and dread. I cowered there in an agony of fear, not daring to run away, lest the angry animal should leap the gate and spring upon me.Footsteps came, and I looked round. It was Mr. Chandos. He saw what the matter, and seemed to make but one bound to the gate."Stay there, Miss Hereford."He passed through it himself, and Confronted the dog: the dog confronted him, barking still."Nero!"The voice allayed the angry passions, and the dog stepped up. Mr. Chandos seized the end of the chain."You and I must have a settling for this, Nero. Will you come here, Miss Hereford, and I will teach him to know you, so that he does not alarm you again, should he get loose. He must have broken his chain.""Oh, sir, pray don't make me come near him!"Mr. Chandos turned his face quickly towards me."Are you afraid of dogs?""Very much, sir. I don't think any thing could overcome my fear of them."Up came one of the grooms at this; moment, running in search of the dog. What passed exactly I cannot tell; I was too agitated: Mr. Chandos spoke sharply to him, and the man answered, in a tone of deprecation, that it was no fault of his; that the dog sometimes, in his fits of effort to get loose, was as a "born devil," and in one of those fits had, a quarter of an hour before, snapped his chain, and burst through the stable window.

"He has run the fit off, then," said Mr. Chandos, "for he is quiet enough now. Take him back, and mind you secure him fast."The man took the chain in his hand, and went off, leading the dog. Mr. Chandos came through the gate again. I was leaning against the iron rails then, wiping the perspiration from ray face; I could feel its ashy paleness."My poor child!" he uttered. "It has indeed frightened you. Do you feel faint?""I shall not faint, sir. I never fainted in my life."He helped me through the gate, and then, placing my hand within his arm, walked on. Underneath the thick ey press trees, we came to a bench—many such benches were about the grounds—and Mr. Chandos made me sit down, and seated himself beside me."You will be all the better for resting here before walking in. How did it happen? Where did you and Mr. Nero encounter each other?""I had been out walking, sir. Lady Chandos told me of a pretty walk there is to the left, outside the gates. In coming back, I was just inside the gate, when the dog came up, leaping and barking.""And you were frightened?""Very much frightened. Had I not occasion, sir? One moment later, and he might have torn me to pieces.""It is my dog," he resumed, "and I am exceedingly sorry he should hare given you the alarm. Will you return good for evil?""Good for evil! In what manner, sir?" I asked."By not mentioning this to my mother," he replied. "She has a great dislike to dogs being on the premises, and when a friend, who was then dying gave me this dog some months back, she would only consent to its coming here on condition that it should be kept tied up. It is a valuable dog, though fierce on occasions, the confinement to which it is condemned making it more fierce. I will take care it does not break bounds again, and I would prefer that ray mother should not know of this.""I will not tell her, sir. I suppose Lady Chandos dislikes dogs as much as I do.""She does not dislike dogs: she rather likes them. But she objects—at least she has objected latterly—to have dogs loose about the premises.""She fears their going mad perhaps."Mr. Chandos laughed."No, she does not fear that. How long have you known my sister?" he resumed, rapidly changing the subject."I knew her a little at Mademoiselle Barlieu's. I entered the school just before she left.""Then you must have known—have known—the circumstances under which she quitted it?"He had begun the sentence rapidly, as if impelled to it by impulse, but after the hesitation, continued it more slowly."Yes, sir. They could not be concealed from the school.""A mad act—a mad act!" he murmured: and if I may read signs—heartily repented of. It was an exemplification of the old saying, Miss Hereford, 'Marry in haste, and repent at leisure.' Poor Emily has leisure enough for it before her. I went over at the time to Mademoiselle Barlieu's.""Yes sir, I saw you. I saw you coming down with Mademoiselle Annette from Mademoiselle Barlieu's chamber, and I hid myself in a niche of the hall while you passed. I knew you again as soon as I met you here.""You must have a good memory for faces, then," he laughed, "to have recollected me after so passing a sight.""I think a circumstance made me recollect you. It was, that your face struck upon me at Mademoiselle Barlieu's as being familiar to my memory: I felt sure that if I had not seen you before, I had seen some one very like you."He turned round and looked at me a full minute ere he spoke."Like whom, Miss Hereford?""I cannot tell, sir. I wish I could tell. The resemblance haunts me still."Mr. Chandos was about to reply, when a gentleman advanced from the direction of the road. He was a stout man, carrying a roll of paper or parchment, and was. wiping his brows, his hat off."You look warm, Dexter. How are you?""It's a close day for autumn, and I walked over," was the response of the new comer. "I'm glad to catch you at home, Mr. Chandos. I have had an offer for this house.""Which house?" repeated Mr. Chandos, making room for him to sit down."I have been turning myself into a knight-errant, Dexter; delivering a lady from the fangs of a ferocious dog."Mr. Dexter looked as if he did not know whether to take the words in jest or earnest."That dog of mine got loose. He appears to have been appropriately named Nero; he terrified this young lady nearly out of her life. I really do not know but he would have attacked her, had I not come home at the very moment. She is sitting here to gain breath and courage. About the house?""I speak of this house by your gates, sir," resumed Mr. Dexter, after giving me a polite nod. "Haines came over to me this morning, saying a gentleman wished to take it, and required to enter immediately.""What gentleman? Who is he?""Nobody in this neighborhood, sir: a stranger. He spoke of a Mr. Freshfield; but was not clear upon the point whether it was for Mr. Freshfield himself, or for a friend of Mr. Fresh field's. It's all perfectly right, Haines says; he will be answerable for that; rent as safe as if it were paid beforehand.""Well, I shall be glad to let the house," returned Mr. Chandos. "You need not rise, Miss Hereford; we are not discussing secrets. It has been empty these nine months, you know, Dexter; and empty houses bring no good to themselves.""Very true, sir. I had an offer for it some days back, but did not trouble you with it, for I know you would not have accepted the tenant. It was that Major Mann, and his lot," added Mr. Dexter, dropping his voice."Oh," shortly replied Mr. Chandos, his lip curling. "I should be sorry to have him in view of my gates.""I was sure of that. He was pressing over it too; seemed to have taken a fancy for the place. I put him off as civilly as I could; it's no use to make enemies of people, where it can be helped. 'My Lady Chandos will only let it to a quiet tenant,' I told him. 'Wants a Darby and Joan, perhaps,' said he turning up his nose. 'Something of that sort, major,' I answered; and so the thing dropped through. Haines assures me the present applicant is most respectable; all that could be desired.""Very well, Dexter, I give you power to treat. You know who would be acceptable and who not, just as well as I do.""Haines wants the bargain concluded to-day," said Mr. Dexter, rising. "He has orders to furnish at once.""Is he going to furnish?""As it appears. I should fancy it may be for somebody just come from abroad. There's plenty of money, Haines says. I had better put a man on to the garden at once, had I not?""Yes, do that: it wants looking to. And don't have those complaints about the locks; like we had, you remember, when the last house on the estate was let. Let them be examined throughout the rooms.""I'm off, then," said Mr. Dexter. "Good-day, sir. My respects to my lady. Good-day, ma'am.""Good-day," I answered."Possessions bring trouble, Miss Hereford," cried Mr. Chandos, as Mr. Dexter moved away. "There are several houses on this estate, and they are almost as much plague as profit. One tenant finds fault and grumbles; another must have this, that and the other done; a third runs away, leaving no rent behind him, and his premises dilapitated. Our last agent was not a desirable one; accepted tenants who had no business to be accepted; he died some months back, and a pretty game we found he had been carrying on; grinding them down, and cheating us. Dexter, recently appointed, appears to be a keen man of business, and straightforward: that is, as agents go: they are none of them too honest.""I think I should let the houses for myself, sir, on my own estate, and not employ an agent.""Do you mean that as a piece of advice to me, Miss Hereford?" he returned, smiling. "What I might do on my own estate, I cannot answer for: bat this one is not mine. It belongs to my brother, Sir Thomas Chandos. The mistress of it, for the time being, is my mother, but I take the trouble off her hands. Why! here's Dexter, coming back again!""It is not often I go away and leave half my errand undone, though I have this time," he called out as he came up, and extended the roll of paper he held. "This is the plan of the proposed alteration in the stables at the farm, sir, which you wished to look over. Shall I carry it to the house?""By no means. I'll carry it myself if you will give it me," replied Mr. Chandos. And the agent finally departed."Are you sufficiently rested, Miss Hereford?"My answer was to rise and proceed towards the house. Mr. Chandos, walking by my side, seemed absorbed in the roll, which he had partially opened. Lady Chandos came forward as we were entering."What is this—about the dog attacking Miss Hereford?" she exclaimed.The words so took to me, after the wish expressed by Mr. Chandos, and the promise I had given him, that I remained like a stupid mute. He answered,"Nero got loose, mother. Miss Hereford was in the act of entering the gate—or had just entered, was it not, Miss Hereford?—and be, like a castle's zealous watch-dog, prevented her advancing further.""Did he touch you, Miss Hereford?" Lady Chandos asked, turning to me."He was not quick enough, madam: I ran back beyond the gate. My fear was, that he would leap over, but he did not. Perhaps it was too high.""But he would have attacked you had you not gone back?""I think he would. He seemed very savage.""Harry, this is just what I have feared," Lady Chandos observed to her son, in a peculiarly significant tone. "A fierce, powerful dog like that is liable to break his chain and get loose: and then, should it happen that any stranger is on the premises, he might kill them or maim them. You know why I have feared this.""The stables are safely closed at night, mother," was the somewhat curious sounding reply of Mr. Chandos."Robin says the dog sprang through the window; dashed through the glass. There can be no security against that, day or night.""My opinion is, that some of the men must have been teasing him, and so worked him into a fury. I shall inquire into it, and if I find it to be the fact, whoever it may have been shall go. Better precaution shall be observed for the future.""Yes," said Lady Chandos, in a decisive tone, "and that precaution must be the sending away of the dog.""But really, mother, there is no necessity. He will not—""Harry, I am surprised at you. You know why I urge it; why I ought to urge it."The conversation did not make me feel very comfortable, and I interrupted it."I do beg that no change may be made on my account, Lady Chandos. No harm is done. I am not hurt.""It is not on your account I am speaking, Miss Hereford. And—as you are not hurt—I am pleased that the thing has happened, because it must prove to Mr. Chandos the necessity of sending away the dog. He could not see it previously.""I should see it equally with you, mother, were the dog to be insecurely fastened. But if we make him secure—""You deemed him secure now," she interrupted. "I will not risk it. Good heavens, Harry, you have forgotten the stake!"What stake? I thought, as I went up to my room. Certainly the words savored of mystery.Standing at a window of the corridor and looking out, was the young lady whom they called Mrs. Chandos. She wore a bonnet and shawl, and spoke as I approached."I do believe it is raining!""Yes," I replied, "it was beginning to fall when I came in."But it appeared that Mrs. Chandos, when she spoke, had not thought she was addressing me, for she turned round in astonishment at sound of my voice."Oh—I beg your pardon," she coldly said. And then I saw that she had a white kitten in her arms. I went into my room, but did not close the door, and in a minute I heard the approach of Mrs. Freeman."Did you ever know any thing so tiresome?" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos to her. "It is raining fast. I'm sure it is not once in a month, hardly, that I make up my mind to walk in the grounds, but, so sure as I do, I am prevented. It rains, or it snows, or it's too hot, or there's thunder in the air! it comes on purpose, I know.""Perhaps it will not be much," replied Mrs. Freeman, who, by the sound of her voice, appeared to be also now looking out at the window."It will: look at those clouds, gathering fast into one thick mass. Ugh!" she added, with a shiver, "I don't like to hear the dripping of the rain in the trees: it puts me in mind of—of—""Of what, my dear?" asked Mrs. Freeman."Of the night I first heard those awful tidings. It was raining then, a steady, soaking rain, and I had been listening to its falling on the leaves till the monotony of the sound worried me, and I began wishing he was at home. Not on these trees, you know; we were at the other place. Drop, drop, drop; like the rain never sounds but where there are trees for it to fall on. The opening of the room door interrupted me, and my lady came in. Ah! I shall never forget her; her face was white, her eyes were starting, her hands were lifted; I saw there was something dreadful to be told. She sat down, and, drawing me to her, said—"Hush—sh—sh!" interposed Mrs. Freeman, with sharp caution. "You may be speaking for other ears than mine.""I was not going to allude to facts. My lady asked me if I could bear trouble; fiery trouble, such as had rarely fallen on any in my station of life before; and my answer was to fall into a fainting fit at her feet. Never, since then, have I liked to hear the rain pat-tering down on the leaves where the trees are thick."I would have shut my door, but feared it might look ungracious to do so. They had eyes, and could see that it was open, did they please to look; therefore they might choose their subject accordingly. Mrs. Chandos resumed."Who is that young lady? She came up the stairs, and I spoke without looking round, thinking it was you.""I don't know who. A Miss Hereford. She came here with Madame de Mellissie.""But she is a stranger to Lady Chandos?""Entirely so.""Then why does Lady Chandos permit her to be here? Is it well, in this house of misfortune? Is it prudent?""Scarcely so. Of course Lady Chandos can only hope—How you are squeezing that kitten, my dear!""Pretty little thing! it likes to be squeezed," responded Mrs. Chandos. "It is hiding itself from you; from that ugly bonnet. You do wear such frightful bonnets! as bad as the weeds of Lady Chandos.""I do not think widows' weeds ugly," was the reply of Mrs. Freeman. "To some faces they are particularly becoming.""They are so ugly, so disfiguring, that I hope it will be long before I am called upon to wear them," returned Mrs. Chandos, speaking impulsively. "Were my husband to die—but oh! why am I dwelling upon trifles, when these shuddering griefs are over me; over the house!""Suppose you walk about the corridor, my dear? I see no chance of the rain's leaving off.""No, I'll go back and take my things off, and play with pussy. Poor pussy wanted a walk in the grounds as much as I did. Oh"—with a shriek—"it's gone!"For the kitten, allured perhaps by the attractions of a promenade in the grounds, had leaped from the arms of Mrs. Chandos on to a shrub below. The shriek brought out Mr. Chandos from the house; he looked up."My kitten, Harry," she said. "It has flown away from me. Get it, will you; but I am sorry to give you the trouble."Mr. Chandos took the kitten from the bush and once more looked up; at my window as well as at theirs."Who will come for it? Will you, Miss Hereford?—and oblige my—oblige Mrs. Chandos."Oblige my—what? Was he going to say "sister-in-law," when he suddenly stopped himself? But, if so, why should he have stopped himself? And how could she be his sister-in-law? Were she the wife of Sir Thomas she would be Lady Chandos; and Emily had said her brother Thomas was not married. She had said she had but two brothers, Thomas and Harry; who, then, was this young Mrs. Chandos? That she had a husband living was apparent, from the conversation I had just heard; and I had imagined all along that she must be the daughter-in-law of Lady Chandos.These thoughts passed through ray head as I ran down for the kitten. Mr. Chandos handed it to me, and turned away, for he was called to by some one at a distance. At the same moment the kitten was taken from my hands. It was by Mrs. Freeman, who had also come down."I hope it is not hurt, poor thing," she said, looking at it. "It seems lively enough.""Mr. Chandos said it was not hurt, when he gave it to me.""Oh that's right. Had it been hurt Mrs. Chandos would have grieved over it. She is fond of this kitten; and she has so few pleasures, poor child.""Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I asked, in a low tone."Madam?" returned Mrs. Freeman.The tone, cold, haughty, reserved, struck upon me as conveying the keenest reproach for my unjustifiable curiosity; unjustifiable so far as that I had betrayed it. I humbly faltered forth the question again—for she seemed looking at me and waiting."Who is Mrs. Chandos?""Mrs. Chandos?" was the answer; "who should she be? She is Mrs. Chandos."That same night I saw the dog Nero being taken away.CHAPTER XIVTHE NEW TENANT. MR. CHANDOS IN THE MOONLIGHTMY time passed monotonously enough. Not sufficiently at home to sit down to the musical instruments, uninvited—and no one did invite me—I was reduced to walking and reading. Mr. Chandos told me the books in the library were at my service, and I availed myself of them. One particular book-case in a dark corner was kept locked: it had glass doors before it through which you might read the titles of the books. I was standing before this one morning when Lady Chandos entered."Are you searching for a book, Miss Hereford?""There is one here which I should so much like to read," I answered, "but the case is locked. It is—"The evident astonishment with which Lady Chandos advanced and gazed at the book-case caused me to pause ere pronouncing the title of the book. She appeared to be absorbed in its contents. There were books of all sorts, large, small, pamphlets, and papers. Without another word to me she turned to the door and called her son."Harry," she began, in a sharp, displeased tone, when he entered, "who has been at this book-case and left its curtains undrawn?""I have not," he replied. "It must have been Mrs. Chandos.""Very thoughtless of her; very negligent!" aspirated Lady Chandos. "The keys had better not be left where she can get at them, unless she can be more cautious. You can tell her so."Mr. Chandos came near and tried the doors."It is locked, mother, there is no great harm done.""Locked! Of course it is locked," quickly responded Lady Chandos: "even Ethel would scarcely be sufficiently careless to leave it unlocked. But look here."She pointed to one of the books: it was covered with white paper, and there was some writing on it: it appeared to be a name. Mr. Chandos knitted his brow as he bent closer, and turned away hastily. His mother remained before the book-case, as if she would prevent my view of the writing—so it struck me.He returned with some keys in his hand, opened the glass doors, drew their crimson silk curtains, closed and relocked them. All sight of the contents was hidden now. They were quitting the room when Mr. Chandos apparently remembered that I was in it, and came back." Can I reach any book for you, Miss Hereford? Were you in search of any one in particular?"I pointed to the first my eye fell upon, and he handed it down to me with a smile. What should it be but a Greek classic!" I did not suppose you were so learned a scholar," he remarked, and I could not help laughing as I gave it back to him."It was a stupid mistake, sir. I thought the back of it looked like Shakspeare.""You will find Shakspeare in this compartment," he said, moving lower down. " The volumes are all here, on the under shelf.""Thank you," I answered, "I will select for myself." He left me to do so and quitted the room. But somehow that little episode of the locked bookcase and the undrawn curtains seemed to bar my free use of the library, and I quitted it for my own room, carrying a volume of Shakspeare with me.It was a lovely day, and I thought I would go out and enjoy the air: I could read as well indoors as out. But before settling myself on a bench, I went to the park gates to see how they were getting on with the furnishing of the house. They had been busy over it for two days, and I—for want of something better to do—had taken an interest in it and watched the things go in. It appeared all in order this morning; there was no bustle, no litter: curtains were up, blinds were half-drawn, and smoke was ascending from more than one chimney. The tenant or tenants must have arrived and taken possession.As I stood leaning over the small side gate there came out of that house a man, a gentleman, short, and with a dark face. But of the latter I caught but a passing glimpse, for he turned his back immediately to look up at the front of the house. Calling to a servant, he appeared to be pointing out something that he wished done, or finding fault with something that had been left undone. I could not hear the words, but I could the tones: they were authoritative, as was his manner. He was evidently the master.I thought I had seen him before, for there was something in his figure and even in the passing sight of his face which struck upon me as being familiar. I waited for him to turn again that I might obtain a better view, but he did not, and soon went in. I returned to one of the most private seats I could find, and opened my book.Ere a quarter of an hour passed, the sound of two people, apparently encountering each other, was heard behind the shrubs. I recognized the voice of Mr. Chandos."Are you out here alone, Ethel?""Yes, I took a fancy to come; I and my kitten. Mrs. Freeman said, wait an hour or two, and perhaps she could come with me. She is ill.""Ill! I thought Mrs. Freeman was never ill.""So did I: but she is ill to-day. At least, not well. She has strange pains in her head, she says: I cannot make it out.""Did you unlock the book-case in the library, and undraw the curtains?" resumed Mr. Chandos." What book-case?" she asked."that book-case.""What next, Harry! As if I should do any thing of the sort!""No one goes to that book-case, except yourself."There was a pause; and then Mrs. Chandos spoke again. She appeared to have been reflecting."I remember I went to it last night. Mrs. Freeman was ill, no company for me, and I took a fancy to look over some old letters. I did draw the curtains back to shake the dust off; they were covered with dust; but I'm sure I thought I drew them again.""They were undrawn to-day. Lady Chandos—""Did Lady Chandos know of it?" she quickly interrupted."It was she who first discovered it, and she called to me.""Was she very angry?""She was vexed; and begged me to caution you for the future. You see, Ethel, while this stranger is in the house, we must be more guarded than ever.""But she has not the run of the house, to go about it as she likes; she has no business in the library.""I told her the library was at her service; meaning the books," observed Mr. Chandos.V"Then, Harry, I think it is you who must be reproached with want of caution," spoke Mrs. Chandos."But why? There is no reason whatever why she may not be in the library, provided that case is kept locked. Who was to suppose you would leave the curtains undrawn? And some of the books bear a name on the outside, remember."I moved away. Now that their conversation was turning upon me, I did not choose to stay willingly to listen to it. Passing over a border of grass, with a light and noiseless step, I seated myself upon a bench in the broad open walk. Not long had I sat there when Mr. Chandos approached."Are you fond of Shakspeare, Miss Hereford?""I have never read his works.""Never read Shakspeare!" he repeated in an accent of surprise. "Had you assured me this morning you could read and enjoy that Greek poem I handed you down, I should have been less astonished.""But, sir, I have always been at school. And school girls have no opportunity of obtaining such works. At a school I was at in England, Miss Fenton's, there were some volumes of Shakspeare in the governess's private parlor, but I never saw any thing of them but their backs.""Have you no home—no parents?""None.""Have you never read Byron?""Oh no.""Nor any novels?""No books of that kind."He looked at me with a half smile, standing with his back against a tree."Your later years have been spent in France, I understood my sister to say; did you never get any French novels?""Indeed no. Mademoiselle Barlieu would have been in fits at the bare thought. And since I left them I have been too fully occupied to road for recreation. This is the first leisure I have had.""Indeed! It must seem strange to you.""So strange, sir, that I feel like a fish out of water," I laughed."Emily says she read French novels at Miss Barlieu's. You look doubtfully, Miss Hereford?""Yes, sir; for I do not see how that could have been. We were too well supervised to allow opportunity for it. But Miss Chandos was permitted to visit a good deal, and she may have met with them out of doors.""Ah," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me, "it was that visiting that did all the mischief. My mother sees it now. Did you visit, Miss Hereford?""No, sir. I had not a single friend in the town. Towards the last, Miss Annette would sometimes take me with her when she went out to spend the evening. Visiting, like this charming class of literature"—laying my hand upon the volume I held—" is almost as a sealed book to me."He did not immediately speak, and of course I did not; was I not as a dependent? Presently he turned his eyes upon me."Will you allow me to direct your reading, Miss Hereford?""Oh, sir, if you would!" I answered eagerly. "For in truth that library seems to me like a wild sea, with its multitude of books.""Yes: and a young lady might get amidst its shoals, for all the books are not equally worthy. I will look out a few and give them to you.""Thank you, sir. Meanwhile may I go on with this, as I have begun it?"He left the tree, took the book from my hand and looked at it. "Othello; yes, you may read that."As he returned the book to me and resumed his position against the tree, some one approached from the outer gate. I thought it was a visitor. He came strolling on, his arms underneath his coat-tails, and soon I perceived it was the gentleman I had seen at the newly occupied house, giving his directions to the servant. But ah, as he neared us, remembrance, with its cold chill of terror, struck upon my heart. I knew him instantly; it was Mr. Edwin Barley. Mr. Edwin Barley and not in the least altered."Do you want any thing, sir?" somewhat haughtily demanded Mr. Chandos. For the intruder was passing us without ceremony, and peering about as curiously and freely as he might have done in the public road."I don't want any thing," was the rough answer. "The open air is free to walk in; I believe.""Quite so—when you are beyond these boundaries. But these are private property.""I am aware that they are the grounds belonging to Chandos House; but I did not know a stranger might not be permitted to walk in them.""Lady Chandos prefers privacy.—Strangers are not in the habit of entering here; nor can their doing so be sanctioned.""I presume that I am speaking to Mr. Harry Chandos?"Mr. Chandos bowed his head, very coldly: and Mr. Edwin Barley prepared to turn and depart the way he came."I suppose I must beg your pardon, then, for intruding," he observed. "It did not occur to me that it might be unwelcome."He slightly raised his hat and departed. Mr. Chandos returned the courtesy, and looked after him."Who can he be, I wonder? A queer sort of a customer, to all appearance.""I think it is the tenant of your house, sir. I saw him there just now.""He the tenant!" uttered Mr. Chandos. "But—Miss Hereford, what is the matter with you? You are as white as that statue."I turned it off, giving no explanation; and Mr. Chandos walked towards the gate. I daresay I did look white, for the sight of Mr. Edwin Barley brought back all the old horror of the events that had occurred during my sojourn in his house. Not that it was so much the recollection that drove the color from my cheeks, as the dread fear lest he should recognize me. Of that I should have had little fear, however, had I been calm enough to look at the matter dispassionately: he had, as it were, remained stationary in appearance, whilst I had changed from a child into a woman.But what brought Mr. Edwin Barley entering as the tenant of that small and inferior house? he, with his fine fortune and his fine estates! There seemed to be mystery enough at Chandos: was this going to be another mystery?"I believe you must be right, Miss Hereford: he has entered the house," said Mr. Chandos, returning. "If he is really the new tenant—as I suppose he is—he appears by no means a prepossessing one. I wonder what his name may be?"I could not for the world have told Mr. Chandos that I knew his name; I could not have told that I knew him. All my hope was that it might never be betrayed that I had known him.I rose to return indoors, a dim idea of putting the walls of Chandos House between me and Mr. Edwin Barley prompting me. Mr. Chandos walked by my side. Luncheon was ready in the oak parlor, and we sat down to it, Lady Chandos presiding."Harry, Hickens says that our new tenant has arrived," she observed.Hickens, who was the butler, and in waiting then, turned to Mr. Chandos."He came in last night, sir, so Brooks told me; himself and two or three servants. It's only a single gentleman, they say; no family.""I have seen him," said Mr. Chandos, addressing his mother. "He came into our gates, deeming, possibly, that Chandos was public property, and I had to warn him off, by informing him that it was private.""But what did he want?" she rejoined."Nothing that I could gather, save to look about him. He is a short, dark, ill-favored man.""And who is he? what is his name?""I do not know. Have you heard it, Hickens?""No, sir.""But you ought to have known it, Harry, before accepting him," remonstrated Lady Chandos."My dear mother, Dexter has made the arrangements: he is to be trusted. A man may not be the less desirable tenant for possessing an ugly face. Were we all bought and sold by our looks—"He stopped, and rose in consternation: we all rose. Mrs. Chandos had burst wildly into the room, her hands raised in agitation, her face livid."Oh, Lady Chandos! oh, Harry, do come! She has fallen on the floor in a fit, or something. I think she'll be dead!""Excited again, Ethel!" exclaimed Lady Chandos, in a tone of contrasting calmness. "When will you learn to take trifles quietly and rationally?—Who has fallen? The kitten?""There's nothing to reproach me for this time," vehemently returned Mrs. Chandos. "I speak of Mrs. Freeman, and I do believe she is dead, or dying.""Take care of her, Harry," whispered Lady Chandos. "I will see what it is.""Shall I go, mother? It may be better. You can stay with Ethel."Lady Chandos only answered by waving him away, and she quitted the room. Mrs. Chandos trembled excessively, and Mr. Chandos placed her in an easy chair."Calm yourself, Ethel—as my mother says.""What rubbish you talk, Harry! as if every lady could have their feelings under control like her—and you!—Time was when I was calm and heedless enough, goodness knows, but since—since—you know!""Yes, yes; be still now. I think you might acquire a little more self-control if you tried, considering that excitement does you so much harm.""It weakens me; lays me prostrate for three or four days: I don't know what other harm it does me.""Is not that enough? Where is Mrs. Freeman?""She is in my dining-room. I will describe it to you. We were at luncheon—that is, I was, for she sat by and would not take any. ' I think you might eat a bit of this fowl,' I said to her, 'it is very nice.' Well, she made no answer; so I spoke again. Still she said nothing, and I got up to look at her, wondering whether she could have dropped asleep in a minute. I went round the chair, and there she was with a face drawn in the most frightful manner you can conceive, and the next moment she had slipped from the chair to the carpet. And you and Lady Chandos blame me for not retaining my calmness.""Will you take any thing?" he inquired, pointing to the luncheon tray."No, thank you. I have had enough of luncheon for one day, in the sight of Mrs. Freeman. Suppose you come and see her for yourself: I don't mind going with you."Mrs. Chandos put her arm within his, and they departed. I saw no more of them or of Lady Chandos for some hours, but as I sat in my own room I heard bustle in the house, and once I caught a glimpse of Mr. Chandos in the grounds. I asked a maid servant, who was passing in the corridor, what was the matter."It was a sort of fit, miss, but she's better now. The doctor says she must be still and have rest for some time to come, and she is going away this evening""Going away! Do you speak of Mrs. Freeman?""Going, miss, by her own choice. She has a sister who lives about thirteen miles from this, and she wishes to go at once to her house. My lady urged her to wait, at any rate till to-morrow, but Mrs. Freeman says she would rather go, especially as she can be of no further use at present to Mrs. Chandos. I have a suspicion that she fears another attack, and thinks she had better get to her sister's without delay. So it's all settled, and Hill is to go with her."The maid departed, leaving my door on the latch. I sat reading, when there sounded two more encountering voices outside: those of Lady Chandos and Hill, her attendant."My lady," said the latter in one of those loud whispers which penetrate the ear worse than open speaking, "is it right that I should go to-night? I could not allude to it before Mrs. Chandos.""Why should it not be right, Hill?""It is the full of the moon, my lady."Lady Chandos paused before replying, possibly in reflection. "There is no help for it, Hill," she said. "Mrs. Freeman is too ill to be trusted to the care of any one but you."We were sitting down to dinner in the oak parlor, when the carriage came round to bear away Mrs. Freeman to the railway station. She was supported down the stairs and into it, Hill and the doctor accompanying her. Lady Chandos stood beyond the portico as it drove away, when Mr. Dexter came up and accosted her. Placing a letter in her hand, he had turned away when Lady Chandos called him back. Her precise words I could not catch, save that they related to the new tenant.What a change had come over Lady Chandos when she re-entered the room? Her face presented a picture of bewildered consternation, not to say fear, her eyes were thrown upon her son. "Harry! Harry!" she uttered, apparently forgetting my presence in her excitement, "the man—the man who has taken the house!""What is the matter, mother? What agitates you?"It is Edwin Barley!"Mr. Chandos appeared to be struck dumb: he was some minutes before he spoke. "Edwin Barley!" he ejaculated at length."Edwin Barley of Nettleby. Harry, is the agreement signed?""It was signed before he entered, mother. Dexter told me so.""Then we cannot get rid of him! What has brought him here? here, of all places in the world! Chance? accident, think you?""It may be. But I should scarcely think so. I told you he was an ill-favored man.""Hush!—another time," she hastily interposed, as Hickens entered with the soup. I turned away from the window to take my place, and the cheeks of Lady Chandos flushed as her eyes fell upon me. She must have forgotten my presence.The dinner was eaten in silence: the servants were present, and that one topic appeared to absorb the minds of Lady Chandos and her son too greatly to admit of their entering upon an indifferent one. There was little cere-mony observed in the every-day life at Chandos: Lady Chandos sat as long at the dessert table as her son—which was but a short time—and then it was cleared and tea came in."Will you oblige me by making tea this evening, Miss Hereford?"Had the request not been preferred, I should have withdrawn to my room with an excuse that I did not wish for tea: how entirely I felt in the light of an interloper, sitting there, when I knew they must want to converse on their own affairs and would naturally wish me at the other end of the earth, none but myself can tell. Before the tea was over, Lady Chandos rose."I am going to sit with Ethel, Harry. Will you come?""She does not want me," was his rejoinder, and his mother left the room.He rang for the tea things to be taken away. I was standing then near the mantelpiece: happening to look up, I saw his eyes fixed on me, something peculiar in their expression."Mr. Chandos," I rallied myself to say, "I am very sorry to be in this position—an intruder here.""And but for one thing I should be very glad of it," was his ready answer. "It is a pleasant break-in upon our monotonous life.""And that one thing, sir?""Ah! I cannot tell you all my secrets," he laughed, and left the parlor laughing: coming in again only just as we were going to rest."You must be tired, Harry," observed Lady Chandos: "you seem to have been upon your legs all day.""I am tired," was his reply; "I shall sleep to-night without rocking. Good night, mother. Good night, Miss Hereford."He went on up before us, entered his room and closed the door. I passed into mine, and I heard Lady Chandos disappear within the door of the west wing.I did not feel sleepy. I undressed slowly and in silence, and, putting out the light, threw a large shawl over me and leaned from the open window, in the bright moonlight.I leaned there, lost in thought. Dwelling over my own uncertain fate, the strange coincidence which had brought me to that spot and left me planted in it; dwelling over the mysteries which seemed to envelope Chandos; over the ominous appearance of Mr. Edwin Barley. How long I remained there, still as a statue, I knew not, certainly an hour, when I was startled by observing a movement in the garden.And a very extraordinary movement, too, if it was that of a human being. Something dark, the height of a tall man, appeared to emerge from the clusters of trees by the pathway, approach a few steps, and then dart in again: and this was repeated over and over again, the man advancing always. It was like the motions of one who wished to come on, yet feared being seen: a full minute he stood within these dark trees, each time that he penetrated them.I waited, gazing eagerly: it did strike me as being so singular, and my heart beat with a sudden chill. As he left the trees behind him he stood for a moment in the open moonlight, and took off his cap as he looked up at the windows. He was enveloped in a dark concealing cloak, but I saw enough to recognize the features as those of Mr. Chandos; and he entered the private door in the wing of his mother's apartments—stole in, as it seemed to me, with a hasty, covert movement, like one afraid of being seen.How had he got out of his room? That he had not come out of its door, I felt sure; for I had been so silent that I must have heard it, had it opened: besides, that door of his would only open with a jerk and a creaking noise. If there was another door to his apartment, it must lead into the wing inhabited by Mrs. Chandos. Why had he been dodging about in that strange way in the grounds? why was he enveloped in a disguising cloak and cap? why had he entered the apartments of his mother? now in the midnight hour, when he had pretended to retire, and everybody had gone to rest? There was mystery at ChandosCHAPTER XVTHE REVELATION OF MR. CHANDOS"GOOD morning, Miss Hereford."The words came from Mr. Chandos, who was following me into the breakfast room, having that instant quitted his own. The breakfast hour, eight o'clock, had struck, but Lady Chandos had not appeared: generally speaking she was punctuality itself."I hope you slept well, Miss Hereford?""Perfectly well, sir, thank you. Better than you did, probably.""That is scarcely possible," he laughed. "I fell asleep the instant I got into bed, and never woke till past seven this morning. That makes—let me see—it was eleven when we went up stairs; makes eight hours' sleep."Why was he mystifying me? somehow it caused me vexation. I fixed my eyes upon his."You did not go to rest at eleven O'clock, sir.""Indeed I did. Why do you say that?""Then, sir, you must have risen again within an hour.""Be assured I did nothing of the sort. Don't you remember my remark to my mother; that I should sleep without rocking? I was dead tired last night.""But why do you speak so to deceive me, sir? I almost passionately asked—for in truth his deceit pained me beyond control, though I did not stay to analyze the reason why: I would rather he had struck me a blow." I saw you myself in the grounds last night at twelve O'clock.""Saw me in the grounds!" he echoed, with every apparent astonishment. "You were dreaming, Miss Hereford.""No, sir; I was wide awake. You wore a cloak, and were dodging amidst the trees.""You say that I was dodging amidst the trees!—that I wore a cloak!""Yes, sir, I do say it, for I most certainly saw you.""Then most decidedly, Miss Hereford, it must have been my ghost. Ghosts—""Are you here, Mr. Harry?" interrupted Hill, opening the door and looking in."So you are back, Hill I" he exclaimed."I have been back an hour, sir: came by the Parliamentary train. And I am glad I did come back, sir, for my lady is ill."Mr. Chandos swung himself short round on his heel. "My mother ill! What is the matter with her?""Well, sir, I hardly know. I came to ask you to go in and see her?""She was very well last night," he exclaimed, striding up stairs in the direction of the west wing."You had better make breakfast, Miss, as there's nobody to do it," Hill continued to me. "My lady won't be here. I'll order the urn in."I made the breakfast, and waited; waited and waited. Mr. Chandos did not come, and I rang to inquire whether any was to be taken in to Lady Chandos.My lady's breakfast had already been carried in by Mrs. Hill, was the reply of the footman.At length he came, Mr. Chandos. His face was pale, troubled, and he appeared lost in inward thought. From the signs I gathered that Lady Chandos's malady was serious."I fear you have found Lady Chandos worse than you anticipated, sir?""Yes—no—yes—not exactly," was the contradictory answer. "I hope it is nothing dangerous," he more collectedly added, "but she will not be able to leave her rooms to-day.""Is she in bed, sir?""No, she is sitting up. My tea? thank you. You should not have waited for me, Miss Hereford."He took his breakfast in silence, ringing once for Hill, to inquire after Mrs. Freeman. Hill said she was no worse. Afterwards he went into the grounds, and paced them with his arms folded, his head bent, as if in thought. I leaned against the window of the oak parlor, equally buried in thought, and was somewhat startled to hear his voice close to me."Will you allow me to make a confidant of you, Miss Hereford?—and an apology at the same time?"I stammered forth "Yes;" for he took me by surprise. His tones were cautious and low, as though he feared eavesdroppers, though no one was within hearing, or could have been, without being seen."You accused me of wandering about the grounds last night," he began, sitting on the stone ledge of the window outside, and putting his face within; "and I wrongly and foolishly denied it to you. As it is within the range of possibility that you may see me there again, at the same ghostly hour, I have been deliberating whether it may not be the wiser plan to impart to you the truth. You have heard of sleep-walkers?""Yes," I replied, staring at him."What will you say if I acknowledge to being one?"Of course I did not know what to say, and stood there like a statue, looking foolish. The thought that rushed over my heart was, what an unhappy misfortune to attend the sensible and otherwise attractive Mr. Chandos."You see," he continued, "when you accused me of having been in the grounds, I did not know that I had been there, and denied it, really believing at first you were mistaken.""And do you positively walk in your sleep, sir?—go out of your room, out of the locked doors of the house, and pace the grounds?" I breathlessly exclaimed."Ay. Not a pleasant endowment, is it? Stranger things are heard of some who possess it: they spirit themselves on to the roofs of the houses, to the tops of the chimnies, and contrive to spirit themselves down again, coming to no harm. So for as I am aware, I have never yet attempted that feat.""Does Lady Chandos know of this?""Of course. My mother saw me last night, I find: she felt unable to sleep, she says, thinking of poor Mrs. Freeman, and rose from her bed. It was a light night, and she drew aside her curtains and looked from the window.'"You went into her apartments, sir, through the little door of the wing.""Did I?" he uttered, looking eagerly up at me. "What freak guided my steps there, I wonder. Are yon sure? Did you see me come out again?""No, sir. I remained at the window, but I never saw you again. I am sure you went in.""I must have come out as soon as I entered, no doubt. A pity you missed the sight a second time," he continued with a half laugh: "I understand I had decorated myself off with a travelling cloak.""I told you so, sir. And you wore a cap. As you emerged from the trees into the moonlight, you took the cap off, and turned your face up to look at the windows of the west wing. But for the view that I obtained then of your features, I should not have known it was you."He sat still, pulling to pieces the petals of a white rose, and scattering them one by one. "I trust I did not disturb you by any noise," he presently said: "in leaving my chamber I have to pass yours.""On the contrary, sir, so entire was the absence of all sound, that I felt sure you could not have quitted your chamber after going into it. I concluded there must be another egress from it, opening to the east wing.""Oh, you don't know how quiet and cunning sleep-walkers are: the stillness with which they carry on their migrations is incredible," was his rejoinder, delivered eagerly. But I noticed one thing, that he did not deny the existence of a second door. In spite of his plausible reasoning, I could not divest myself of the conviction that he had not left his chamber by the entrance near mine."How do you get back to your room?" I asked."Always by the way I leave it. How else should I?""And is it a nightly occurrence, sir?""What—my walking about? Oh dear no. Months and years sometimes elapse, and I have nothing of it. The last time I 'walked'—is not that an ominous word for the superstitious!—must be at least two years ago.""And then only for one night, sir?""More than one," he replied, a strangely grave expression settling on his countenance. "So, if you see me again, Miss Hereford, do not be alarmed, or think I have gone mad, to be prowl-ing outside the house at midnight, like a robber.'"Mr. Chandos, can nothing be done for you? to prevent it, I mean.""Nothing, that I am aware of.""If—if Lady Chandos, or one of your men servants, were to lock you in the room at night?" I timidly suggested."And if I—finding egress stopped that way—were to precipitate myself from the window, in my unconsciousness?—what then, Miss Hereford?""Oh, don't talk of it!" I shuddered, placing my hands before my eyes. "I do not understand these things: I spoke in ignorance.""Happily few do understand them," he replied. "I have told you this in strict confidence, Miss Hereford; and you will allow it to remain such. My mother is the only depository of the secret; but you must be careful not to speak of it to her.""And the servants do not know it?" I returned in a whisper."Not one: not even Hill. It would be most disagreeable to me, were the unpleasant fact to penetrate to them: neither might they be willing to remain in a house where there was a sleep-walker. The last time the fit was upon me, some of them unfortunately saw me from their upper windows: they recognized me, and came to the conclusion by some subtle force of reasoning, explainable only by themselves, that it was my 'fetch,' or ghost. It was the first time I had ever heard of ghosts of the living appearing.""Do you think they saw you last night?" was my next question."I hope and trust not," he replied, in a tone of ill-concealed anxiety. "The fear is worrying my mother. You perceive, possibly, why I have told you this, Miss Hereford? You would not be likely to adopt the ghostly view of the affair, and might have spoken of what you saw, in the hearing of the servants, or of strangers. You have now the secret: you will keep it?""With my whole heart, sir," was my impulsive rejoinder. "No allusion to it shall ever pass my lips." And Mr. Chandos took my hand, held it for a moment, and then departed.I pondered over the revelation: it was a strange one: and I asked myself whether this physical infirmity attaching to him, was the cause of what had appeared to me mysterious at Chandos. That it might account for their not wishing to have strangers located at Chandos, sleeping in the house, was highly probable. Why! was not I myself an illustration of the case in point? I, a young girl, scarcely a week in the house, and it had already become expedient to entrust me with the secret! Oh, yes! no wonder, no wonder that they shunned visitors at Chandos!I quitted the oak parlor and went up stairs. Hill stood in the corridor."Lady Chandos is up, I understand," I observed to her."Well, I don't know where you could have understood that," was Hill's rejoinder, spoken in a sullen and resentful tone. "My lady up, indeed, ill as she is! if she's out of her bed in a week hence, it will be pretty well. Don't give credit to all you hear, miss."Which was correct, Mr. Chandos or Hill? He had asserted that his mother was up; Hill now said the contrary: why should they hold to different tales? Each, when they spoke, had but just left her presence.Hill went into her rooms again, now, as she gave me the short answer, and I remained in deliberation. Ought I, or ought I not to proffer a visit to Lady Chandos?—to inquire if I could do any thing for her. It seemed to me that it would be respectful so to do, and I moved forward and knocked gently at the green baize door.There came no answer, and I knocked again—and again, softly always. Then I pushed it open and entered; I found myself in a narrow passage, richly carpeted, closed doors being on either side. The green baize door made a noise in swinging to, and out rushed Hill from one of the rooms: if ever terror was implanted in a woman's face, it was so then in hers."Heaven and earth, Miss Hereford! do you want to send me into my grave with fright?" ejaculated she."I have not frightened you! What have I done?""Done! Do you know, miss, that no soul is permitted to enter these apartments of my lady, except myself and Mr. Chandos? I knew it was not he, for there he is in view under the distant pine trees: and I thought—I thought—I don't know what I did not think. Be so good, miss, as not to serve me so again."Did she take me for a wild tiger, that she made all that fuss?"I wish to see Lady Chandos," I said aloud."Then you can't see her, miss," was the peremptory retort."That is, if it be agreeable to her to receive me.""But it's not agreeable, and it never can be agreeable," returned Hill, working herself up to excitement. "Don't I tell you, Miss Hereford, my lady never receives in these rooms? Perhaps, miss, you'll be so good as to quit them.""At least you can take my message to Lady Chandos, and inquire whether—""I can't deliver any message, and I decline to make any inquiries," interrupted Hill, evidently in a fever of anxiety for my absence. "Excuse me, Miss Hereford, but you will please return by the way you came."Who should appear next on the scene but Lady Chandos! She came out of the same room that Hill had done, and closing the door held the handle of it in her hand. I was thunderstruck: not so much at her appearance, as at her looking apparently quite well. She wore her usual morning dress, a black gown and a widow's cap, and seemed as well as I was. In short, she looked just as usual. There stood she, gazing at the commotion. Hill made no ceremony, but took me by the shoulders as you would take a child, turned me towards the entrance and bundled me out of it, shutting the green baize door with a slam and propping her back against it."Now, Miss Hereford, you must pardon me; and remember your obstinacy has just brought this upon yourself. I couldn't help it; for to have suffered you to talk to my lady to-day, is almost as a matter of life or death.""I think you are out of your mind, Hill," I gasped, recovering my breath, after the summary exit."Perhaps I am, miss; let it go so. All I have got to say, out of my mind or in it, is this: never you attempt to enter my lady's room in the next wing: they are kept sacredly private: and it's what would not be pardoned to you, after this warning, if you lived to be ninety years old.""Hill, you take too much upon yourself.""If I do, my lady will correct me; so do not trouble your mind about that, Miss Hereford. I have not been her confidential attendant for sixteen years to be taught my duty now. And when I advise you to keep at a distance from these apartments, miss, I advise you for your own good. If you are wise you will heed it; ask Mr. Chandos."She returned within the wing, and I heard a strong bolt slipped, effectually barring my entrance, had I felt inclined to disobey her: but I never felt less inclined for any thing in my life than to do that. Certainly her warning had been solemnly uttered.Now, who was insane?—I? or Lady Chandos? or Hill? It seemed to me that it must be one of us, for assuredly all this savored of insanity. What was it that ailed Lady Chandos? That she was perfectly well in health, I felt persuaded: and she was up and dressed and active; no symptom whatever of the invalid was about her. Could it be that her mind was affected? or was she so overcome with grief at the previous night's exploits of Mr. Chandos as to be obliged to remain in retirement? The latter supposition appeared the more feasible—and I weighed the case in all its bearings.But not quite feasible, either. For Hill appeared to be full mistress of the subject of the mystery, whatever it might be, and Mr. Chandos had said she had no suspicion of his malady. Oh, dear! I dwelt upon it all till my head ached; and, to get rid of my perplexities, I went strolling into the open air.It was a fine sunshiny day, and the blue tint of the bloom upon the pine trees looked lovely in the gleaming light. I turned down a shady walk to the left, which took me to a part of the grounds where I had never yet penetrated, remote and very solitary. The path was narrow, scarcely admitting of two persons passing each other, and the privet hedge on either side, with the overhanging trees—those very pines I spoke of; but there were other pine trees near the house—imparted to it an air of excessive gloom. The path wound in its course; and, in turning one of its angles, I came right in face of some one advancing, some one who was so close as to touch me; and my heart leaped into my mouth, for it was Mr Edwin Barley."Good-morning, young lady.""Good-morning, sir." I stammered, sick almost unto death, lest he should recognize me; though why that excessive dread of his recognition should be upon me, I cannot explain. He was again trespassing on Chandos; but it was not for me, in my timidity, to tell him so; neither had I any business to set myself forward in upholding the rights of Chandos."All well at the house?" he continued."Yes, thank you. All, except Lady Chandos. She keeps her room this morning.""You are a visitor at Chandos, I presume?""For a little time, sir.""So I judged, when I saw you with Harry Chandos. That you were not Miss Chandos, who married that Frenchman, I knew, for you bear no resemblance to her; and she is the only daughter of the family. I fancied they did not welcome strangers at Chandos."I made no answer; though he stared at me with his jet black eyes, as if waiting for it.How I wished to get away! but it was impossible to pass by him without rudeness, and he stood blocking up the confined path."Are you a confidential friend of the family?" he resumed."No, sir; I am not to be called a friend at all; quite otherwise. Until a few days ago, I was a stranger to them. Accident brought me then to Chandos, but my stay here will be temporary.""I should be glad to make your acquaintance by name," he went on, never taking those fierce eyes off me. "Will you favor me with it?"I felt my face grow red and white, hot and cold. I had answered his questions, feeling that I dared not resist; that I feared to show him aught but civility; but—to give him my name; to rush, as it were, into the lion's jaws! No, I would not do that; and I plucked up what courage was left me."My name is of no consequence, sir. I am but a very humble individual, and little more than a school girl. I was brought here by a lady, who, immediately upon her arrival, was recalled home by illness in her family, and I am in daily expectation of a summons from her; after which I daresay I shall never see Chandos or any of its inmates again. Will you be kind enough to allow me to pass?""You must mean Miss Chandos—I don't recollect her married name," said he, without stirring. "I heard she had been here; and left almost as soon as she came."I bowed my head and tried to pass him. I might as readily have tried to jump the privet hedge."Some lady was taken away ill, yesterday," he resumed. "Who was it?""It was Mrs. Freeman.""Oh—the companion. I thought as much. Is she very ill?""It was something of a fit, I believe. It did not last long.""Those fits are ticklish things," he remarked. "I should think she will not be in a state to return for some time—if at all. They'll be wanting to fill up her place, won't they?""I cannot say, I'm sure, sir. The family do not speak of their affairs before me.""Who is staying at Chandos now?" he abruptly asked."Only the family.""Ah! the family—of course. I mean what members of it.""All; except Madame de Mellissie and Sir Thomas Chandos.""That is, there are Lady Chandos, her son, and daughter-in-law. That comprises the whole, I suppose—except you.""Yes, it does. But I must really beg you to allow me to pass, sir.""You are welcome now, and I am going to turn, myself. It is pleasant to have met an intelligent lady; and I hope we often shall meet, that I may hear good tidings of my friends at Chandos. We were intimate once, but a coolness has risen between us, and I do not go there. Good day."He turned and walked rapidly back. I struck into the nearest side walk I could find, and nearly struck against Mr. Chandos, who was walking down it."Are you alone, Miss Hereford? I surely heard voices.""A gentleman met me, sir, and spoke.""A gentleman—in this remote part of the grounds I" he repeated, looking keenly at me as a flush rose to his face. "Was it any one you knew?""It was the same who came into the broad walk, and whom you ordered out; the new tenant. He is gone now.""He! and he was here?—in this walk?" reiterated Mr. Chandos, his broad brow contracting, and the flush deepening."I found out the walk by accident, sir, and I met him in it. He stopped and accosted me with several questions—which I deemed rude of him to do.""What did he ask you?""He wished to know my name; who I was; but I did not satisfy him. He inquired also after your family, and asked what members of it were at home.""And you told him?""There was no need to tell him, sir, for he mentioned the names to me: yourself, Lady, and Mrs. Chandos.""Ethel! how dared he mention her? What did he call her?—Mrs.Chandos?""He did not mention her by name, sir; he said 'daughter-in-law.'" I did not tell Mr. Chandos that the designation made an impression upon me, establishing the supposition that Mrs. Chandos was a daughter-in-law."And pray what did he call me?""Harry Chandos.","Well, now mark me, Miss Hereford. That man accosted you to worm out what he could of our every-day life at home. His name is Barley—Edwin Barley. He is a bitter enemy of ours, and if he could pick up any trifle that he might turn about and work up into an injury to us, he would do so. You—you did not tell him what I imparted to you this morning touching myself?" he continued anxiously."Oh, Mr. Chandos! How can you ask the question? Did I not promise you to hold it sacred?""Forgive me," he gently said—"nay, I am sorry to have pained you," for the tears had risen to my eyes."Do not doubt my good faith, Mr. Chandos""I will not: I do not. But be upon your guard should Mr. Edwin Barley stop you again. He is a cunning, bad man, and were you to betray much of our affairs to him, it might do us an incalculable mischief: a chance word, which to you might appear innocent and trifling, might be sufficient for it. Will you remember this, Miss Hereford?"I promised him I would, and went back to the house: the meeting with Mr. Edwin Barley had cured me of my wish to walk. A gentleman—it was the curate of the parish—stood at the hall door as I reached it, conferring with the butler: he was asking to see Lady Chandos."My lady is sick in bed, sir," was Hickens's reply, his long, grave face giving ample token that he held belief in his own words."I am sorry to hear that. Is her illness serious?""Pretty well, sir, I b'lieve. Mrs. Hill fears it will be days before her ladyship is down again. She used to be subject to dreadful bilious attacks: I suppose it's one of them come back again."The curate gave in a card, left a message, and departed. So it appeared that Hill was regaling the servants with the same story that she had told me. I could have spoken up, had I dared, and said there was nothing the matter with the health of Lady Chandos.CHAPTER XVITHE COMMOTION IN THE CORRIDORI WENT down to dinner, wondering who would be at it, who preside. I think I have said that it was generally laid in the oak parlor, avoiding any ceremony of parading from drawing-room to dining-room. The servants were placing the dishes on the table, but no one was there: in another moment Mr. Chandos came in."A small company to-day, Miss Hereford; only you and I," he laughed, as we took our seats"Is Lady Chandos not sufficiently well to dine, sir?" I asked."She will eat something, no doubt. Hill takes care of her mistress. I met her carrying up the tray as I came down.""I hope I am not the cause of your dining down stairs," I rejoined, the unpleasant thought striking me that it might be so. "Perhaps, but for me, you would take your dinner with Lady Chandos?""Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Were it not for you, I should sit here in solitary state and eat my lonely dinner with what appetite I might. And a solitary dinner is not good for the digestion, the doctors tell us. Did any one call while I was out, Hickens?""Only Mr. Jarvis, sir. I think he wanted to see my lady about the new schools. He was very particular in asking what was the matter with her, and I said I thought it might be one of those old bilious attacks come on again. My lady had a bad one or two at times, years ago, sir, you may remember.""Ay," replied Mr. Chandos: but it was all the comment he made."Is Lady Chandos subject to bilious attacks?" I inquired of Mr. Chandos."Not particularly. She has been free from them latterly.""Did you know, sir," continued Hickens, "that we have had news of Mrs. Freeman?""No. When did it come? I hope it's good.""Not very good, sir. It came half an hour ago. She had another fit to-day, in the forenoon, and it's certain now that she won't be able to come back here for a long while, if she is at all. The relation that she is with wrote to Mrs. Hill, who took up the note to my lady. Hill says she fancied when she left there were symptoms of a second attack."Mr. Chandos leaned back for a moment in his chair, forgetful that he was at dinner and not alone. He was in a reverie; but, as his eye fell on me, he shook it off, and spoke."Her not returning will prove an inconvenience to Mrs. Chandos.""I'm afraid it will, sir," rejoined Hickens, who had fancied himself addressed; though in point of fact Mr. Chandos had but unconsciously spoken aloud his thoughts. Hickens had been a long while in the family, was a faithful and valued servant, consequently he was allowed more license than some would have been. "I warned Mrs. Chandos's maid, sir, not to tell her mistress about Mrs. Freeman's being worse," he went on: "'twould do no good, and only worrit her."Mr. Chandos slightly nodded, and the dinner then proceeded in silence. At its conclusion Mr. Chandos, after taking one glass of wine, rose."I must apologize for leaving you alone, Miss Hereford, but I believe my mother will be expecting me to sit with her. Be sure you make yourself at home: and ring for tea when you wish for it.""Shall you not be in to tea, sir?""I think not. At all events, don't wait."Dreary enough was it for me, sitting in that great solitary room: it seemed that it would be less dreary out of doors; and, when the servants came in to move the dessert, I threw on a shawl and passed quietly out. It was scarcely to be called dark yet, though I suspect it would have been but for the unusually clear, calm atmosphere, and the moon I suppose was near its rising, though I could not see it.All seemed still: no soul was about, no voices were to be heard; neither did any light gleam from the windows of the west wing: a slight glimmering, as of fire, sparkled up now and then in what I had understood was Lady Chandos's sitting room, for the curtains were not drawn. In the east wing, the apartments of Mrs. Chandos, there appeared plenty of cheerful blaze, both from fire and candle, and as I glanced up I saw the slight form of Mrs. Chandos come to the window, stand at it to look out, and then vanish. I passed round to the back of the house: never having explored that locality, it was a good opportunity to do so then. But I did not bargain for a great sheet of light into which I was thrown on turning an angle. It proceeded from a room where the maid servants were ironing, and I hastily drew aside under cover of a projecting out-building. I knew the maids of the house by this time by name, and recognized those in the room for Harriet and Emma: a third, Elizabeth—called generally by the other servants Lizzy—sat by the ironing stove, taking no part in the employment. They were talking fast, in that tone of voice which betrays the subject to be a covert one, and every word penetrated to me through the window, which they had thrown open to let out the heat."You may preach from now till to-morrow morning," exclaimed Harriet, "but you will never make me believe that folks's ghost appear before they die. It ain't in nature's order.""His appears; I'll stand to that; and, what's more, I'll stand to it that I saw it last night," cried Lizzy. "I had got a bit of sewing that I wanted to finish, so I set to it after I got up to bed. Emma went into bed, but didn't go to sleep, for we were talking. After that I undressed myself, and put out the candle; and, in taking a last look from the easement—for there never was a lovelier night—there I saw him. I thought I should have swooned off dead. Ask Emma.""But it might have been Mr. Chandos himself: not his ghost," argued Harriet."You might be a fool, but I daresay you'd stand to it you are not," retorted Lizzy. "Don't I tell you that in the old days we'd used to see that apparition when we knew Mr. Harry was safe it his bedroom? and once—I can be upon my oath to it, if you like—it appeared when Mr. Harry was miles and miles away, and half the household saw it; over the wide sea he was, gone to that French place where Miss Emily was at school. It was at the time she left it. Who but an apparition would dodge in and out of trees after that fashion? Mr. Harry would no more do such idiot's work, in his sober senses, than he'd try to fly in the air."There was a pause. Harriet wisked her iron away to the stove, changed it, and came back again. "Did you see it last night, Emma?" she presently said."Yes, I did. Lizzy gave a shriek, saying that the ghost had come again, which made me bundle out of bed in double-quick time, for I never believed it for a moment. There it was, safe enough.""Who was it like?""Like! It was Mr. Chandos; there's no mistaking him. A tall, handsome, upright man such as him, with them beautiful features, ain't hard to know, or easy to mistake.""It is a thing uncredible," uttered Harriet. 'Let's suppose—for sake of the argument under discussion—that it is Mr. Chandos's ghost that walks: what good does it do? what does it come for?""I never heard yet that ghosts stooped to explain their motive," said Lizzy. "How should we know why it comes?''"And I never heard yet that ghosts of live people came at all," persisted Harriet, in recrimination. "And I don't think anybody else ever did.""But yon know that's only your ignorance, Harriet. There are certain people born into the world with their own fetches or wraiths, which appear sometimes with them, sometimes at a distance, and Mr. Harry must be one. I heard of one person—she was a lady's maid—and while she was with her mistress in Scotland her fetch used to walk about in England, startling acquaintances into fits. Some people call 'em doubles.""But what's the use of them?" reiterated Harriet: "what service do they render?""Harriet, don't you be profane, and set up your back against spirituous things," rebuked Lizzy. "I knew a man as never could be brought to reverence such; he mocked at 'em like any heathen, saying he'd fight single-handed the best ten ghosts that ever walked, for ten pound a side, and wishing he could get the chance. What was the awful consequences? that man got blind drunk one night at the public, walked into the canal in mistake for the path, as he was going home, and was drowned."Another pause. Emma replenished the stove, took a fresh iron, singed a rag in rubbing it, and continued her work. Where I stood I could see all their movements."How was it first seen?" resumed Harriet, "or came to be known that it was Mr. Chandos?""Mr. Chandos's ghost," corrected Lizzy, petulantly stamping her foot, for the other's disbelief was irritating her. "And as to its being known for Mr. Chandos, have human creatures got eyes, or have they not?""It is to be hoped most of us have," returned Harriet."It happened in this way," said Lizzy. "Mr. Harry was over the water, as I tell you, and—""But report went that it had been seen a year or two before that," interrupted Emma."I know; I heard; but I can't say nothing to it, for I wasn't here," rejoined Lizzy. "I wish you wouldn't interrupt me. Mr. Harry was over the water, and one of the servants stopped out late one evening without leave: Phœby it was, who's married now. She had missed the train and had to walk, and it was between twelve and one when she got in, and me and Ann sitting up for her, in a desperate fright lest Mrs. Hill should find it out. In she came, all in a fluster, saying Mr. Harry was in the shrubbery and she was afraid he had seen her. Of course we thought it was Mr. Harry come home and that the house would be called up to serve refreshments for him. But nothing happened; no bells rang, and to bed we went. The next morning we finely laughed at Phœby, asking her what she had taken so to obscure her eyesight—which made her very mad. Evening came, and my lady had one of them wire messages sent her by the telegraph; it came from Mr. Harry, and proved he was at the French town then. But law! that night, there he was in the dark path as before, walking about it, and all we maids saw him. Hickens came to hear of it, and didn't he go on at us, calling us all the simpletons he could lay his tongue to. The next day Mr. Harry came home, and we saw it for more than one night after that, when we had watched Mr. Harry safe into his chamber. Now!" cried Lizzy, by way of wind-up, "do you want a clearer tale than that?''"You see, what staggers me is, that Mr. Chandos should be alive," returned Harriet, rather veering round. "I could believe it all fast enough if he were dead."At that moment there was an interruption. The still-room maid came in with her things on, followed by Hill: but the latter remained in the background, looking at some ironed laces, and not one of the four girls observed her presence. The still-room maid advanced to the ironing board, throwing up her arms, "I say, you know Mrs. Peters, over at the brook?" cried she in excitement. "Well—she's dead.""Dead!" uttered the girls, pausing in their work. "Why, it was only a few days ago that she was here!""She's dead; and they were a laying of her out as I came by, just now. Some fever, they said, which took her off in no time: and what's worse they say it's a catching fever; which when I heard made me scudder away from the door like any thing. A mortal fright it put me in, for I shouldn't like to be wrapped in a winding sheet yet awhile.""If fever has broke out in the neighborhood who knows but it's that that's the matter with my lady! exclaimed Emma, in consternation, as she let the iron fall on its stand. "All our lives may be in jeopardy.""Your places will be in greater jeopardy if you don't pay a little more attention to work, and leave off talking nonsense," called out Mrs. Hill from the background. They all started at the sound of her voice, turning their heads towards her, and I thought it a good opportunity to pass the window again, and slip away.No candles yet in Lady Chandos's rooms, but the same cheerful light in those of Mrs. Chandos. I looked through the window into the oak parlor—the, shutters of which were frequently not closed until bed-time, only the white muslin curtains let down. The tea things were on the table, but the room was empty; and I bent my steps towards the walk where I had the previous night seen Mr. Chandos.But some one was there before me. I saw a white figure flitting about; and, what with the solitary hour, the loneliness of all around, and the recent conversation of the servants, I am not sure but I began to think about ghosts myself. Ghost or no ghost, it glided up to me: Mrs. Chandos in a white silk evening dress."How you startled me!" she whispered. "With that shawl over your head and shoulders, you look like nothing human—but I saw, from the deficiency of height, that it was not he. Did you know that he was here last night?" she continued, in a most awestruck tone."Yes," I stammered, not liking to acknowledge it to her after the promise given to Mr. Chandos, although she was of the family."You did not see him, surely? "Why don't you speak?" she impatiently added."I did see him, madam; but I shall not mention it. The secret is safe with me.""Oh, heaven! what will he do when he knows that you saw him?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "I did not see him, though I was looking from my window. Mrs. Freeman was not there; when she is, she will not let me look, for fear I should see him: it is so sad, you know. I thought he might be out again now, and came to see: but I expect he is closeted with Lady Chandos. You can't think what a long while it is since—since—and the shame is that they have not let me know it, so you must give me your promise not to tell them that I do. I found it out; Harry never said a word. You know Harry's not friends with me; through my having treated him badly: but he never—"During the last few words, Mrs. Chandos's eyes had been strained on a particular spot near to us. What she saw, or fancied she saw, I know not, but she broke into a low, smothered shriek of fear, and sped away swiftly to the house. Too startled at first to follow her, I bent my eyes in the same direction, foolishly expecting to see Mr. Chandos perambulating in his sleep—and I believe had I done so I should have run away terrified as from any ghost.There did appear to be a figure standing between two trees; in a line with them, as if he were another tree himself. Not Mr. Chandos; some one at least a head shorter. He looked all dark, as if he were in dark clothes, with a dark face, and there was something in his outlines which made me think of Mr. Edwin Barley. I knew not whether it was he: it was but the fancy of the moment, but it caused me to turn and fly, as Mrs. Chandos had done."Are you ready to make tea, Miss Hereford? Because I have come to have some."It was the greeting of Mr. Chandos, as I ran breathless into the oak parlor. He was sitting there, near the table, and looked surprised to see me dart in, as if some wild tiger were pursuing me, a shawl over my head. I threw it off, sat down, and made the tea."Don't you think it strange, sir," I inquired, "that we hear nothing of Madame de Mellissie? Except the first short note she wrote, on her arrival in Paris, no news whatever has come.""I think most things strange that Emily does," was his answer. "But I am not surprised at them. She may not write for weeks to come.""If we do not hear to-morrow, I shall write to her. I do not know what to be at, and can but feel myself in an embarrassing position.""It is probable you may have passed from her memory as completely as though she had not brought you and left you here.""Then what am I to do?" I asked, the words bringing to my mind I know not what of perplexity. Mr. Chandos smiled."As you are here, you can only stay for the present. At any rate, until you hear from Emily."With the tea things, disappeared Mr. Chandos, and a sort of disappointment fell over my heart. Why? In ten minutes he came in again."The moon is getting up," he remarked. "It will be a lovely night.""Have you been out, sir?""No. Only to my mother's rooms.""Is she better this evening?""Much the same."He laid his elbow on the mantelpiece as he spoke, and rested his head upon his hand, as if in deep thought, a strange look of anxiety, of pain, falling over his countenance. I would not disturb him, even by a movement: I was near the window at the time, and I softly pushed aside the muslin curtain to look out on the gradually lightening night.What was it made me draw back again with a scream? Whose face was it, planted close to one of the panes, overlooking what might be passing in the room? A fierce, dark face, with its fierce black eyes: that of Mr. Edwin Barley. In my terror, I grasped the arm of Mr. Chandos, who was advancing towards me."What has alarmed you? what is it?""Oh, sir,"I panted, "I—I—thought I saw a man's face, a man's face pressed against one of the window panes, and peering in."He hastily put me in the nearest chair, drew aside the curtain, threw up the window and leaned out. It appeared that he could see no one."Are you sure you saw some one, Miss Hereford?""I am quite sure, sir.""Who was it? Any one of the servants?"I could readily answer that I did not believe it to have been any of the servants, but I shrank from avowing that it was Mr. Edwin Barley. A curious and most unpleasant suspicion had rushed over me, dim glimpses of which had been haunting me during tea, as I thought of the dark form in the trees—it was, that Mr. Edwin Barley had recognized me, and came, thus intruding stealthily into Chandos, to watch me, to take note of my movements, not of those of the owners of Chandos. Why he should do so, with what motive, I had not the time to ask myself in that hurried moment, but the conviction that it was so, fixed itself upon me. Mr. Chandos went outside, returning after an interval."I cannot see any one about," he observed, "all seems perfectly free and still. I cannot help thinking you must have been mistaken, Miss Hereford."I shook my head: but I did not care to say much, after the notion that had come to me."Possibly you may be a little nervous to-night," he continued, "and in such a case the fancy considers itself at liberty to play us tricks. My having told you what I did this morning, relating to myself, may have taken hold of your imagination. When you ran in at tea time, I thought you seemed scared."I let him remain in this belief, and the subject dropped.Would Mr. Chandos—or his ghost, as the servants had it—be out again that night in his somnambulent state? The subject had taken hold of my most vivid interest, and after undressing I sat at the window in a warm wrapper, watching the grounds. Eyes and ears were alike strained. But to no purpose: not a sound disturbed the house indoors, and all appeared still without: I got tired at my post; and, soon after twelve went to bed.Not to sleep for very long. I was awoke by what seemed a commotion in the corridor outside. Voices were heard in alternate soothing and expostulation, followed by the resisting shriek of a woman: all, save the shriek, carried on in a subdued tone. Oh, it is fearful to be awoke by this sort of sounds in the night! my heart beat painfully, my veins throbbed: what had happened? or was taking place?The sounds continued. I threw on the large wrapper, thrust my feet into slippers, and softly opened my chamber door. Dusky forms were moving about, but at the first moment I recognized none, for the moonlight did not shine brightly into the corridor. Presently I made them out. Lady Chandos in her night-dress, Mrs. Chandos in a white night-dress also, with her hair streaming down, and Mr. Chandos partially attired. The latter had his arm round Mrs. Chandos's waist, and was gently leading her towards her own apartments: or rather, drawing her, for she did not seem willing to go."You never would have told me," she sobbed, passionately dashing her hair from her brow; "you know you never meant to tell me. It is cruel—cruel! What am I here but as a caged bird?—and whose fault is it that I am kept so, but yours?"Mr. Chandos answered; but the words were spoken in a whisper, close to her ear. Not a syllable did I catch: and they were then near the east wing. Lady Chandos's tribulation appeared to be great: she followed, wringing her hands, and wailing a reproach in a low tone."Oh, Ethel, Ethel, you will ruin and betray all! yon will bring misery and desolation on the house! To think that you should shriek out! It might arouse the servants, and then what would be the consequence!"They disappeared within the east wing, which closed behind them. In my consternation I still stood looking and trembling; stood till Mr. Chandos came swiftly and suddenly out of his own chamber. It scarcely appeared a minute, yet he had found it sufficient time to finish dressing, for he was now fully attired. His appearing from his chamber after disappearing within the east wing, established the fact that his room did communicate with it. In this same moment, Hickens, in fancy attire, assumed in a hurry, ran up the stairs from the hall, a light in his hand. Mr. Chandos advanced upon him and peremptorily waved him back."Go back to bed, sir. You are not wanted."But as the light fell on Mr. Chandos's face, I saw that he was deadly pale."I heard a scream, Mr. Harry," responded poor Hickens, evidently taken to. "I'm sure I heard it; and I—I—thought some thieves or villains of that sort had got in, sir.""Nothing of the kind. There's nothing whatever the matter to call for your aid. Mrs. Chandos is nervous tonight, and cried out—it is not the first time it has happened, as you know. She is all right again now. Go back and get your rest as usual.""Shall I leave you the light, sir?" asked Hickens, perceiving that Mr. Chandos had none."Light? No. What do I want with a light? Mrs. Chandos's ailments have nothing to do with me."He stood at the head of the stairs, watching Hickens down, and listening to his quiet closing of the doors dividing the hall from the kitchen passages. Then Mr. Chandos returned; and that treacherous moonlight betrayed me standing there.At least, if Mr. Chandos did not see me, he could see that my door was pulled a few inches open, and would naturally arrive at the conclusion that my hands must have done it. He came straight to wards it with his stern, white face; ceremony and he appeared to be at variance that night."Miss Hereford! I beg your pardon, but I must request that you retire within your room, and allow your door to be closed. Mrs. Chandos is ill, and the sight of strangers would make her worse. I will close it for you; I should so act by my sister were she here.""He shut it with his own hand and turned the key upon me. Turned the key upon me! Well, I could only submit. I got into bed, and at length fell asleep, nothing more disturbing me that night.But how strangely mysterious it all appeared! one curious commotion, one unaccountable mystery succeeding to another. I had heard of haunted castles in romances, of ghostly abbeys; but surely the events enacted in them could not be more startling than these at Chandos.CHAPTER XVIITHE STRANGER APPLICANTMORNING dawned. I was up betimes, putting on my things to go out, anxious to get rid of the night's impressions, longing for the fresh air to blow on my heated face. But it is a positive fact that until I had my hand on the handle of the door to open it, I never remembered I had been locked in.It was unfastened now, however, I found, and I at liberty. The first person I came upon in the garden, not many paces beyond view of the house, was Mr. Chandos."Did I offend you last night, Miss Hereford?""No, sir.""Then take my arm in token of peace, and walk with me as far as the gates. I assumed the liberty of treating you as a sister: like I should have treated Emily, as I told you, had she been in your place."I took the arm held out to me; a glowing crimson rising to my face. Mr. Chandos saw it, and we walked on a few moments in silence Presently he turned his head to me."What caused you to be looking from your room door in the night?""The noise in the corridor awoke me, and I was frightened. Then came that loud shriek of Mrs. Chandos, and I naturally opened my door to look.""How do you know it came from Mrs. Chandos?""I saw her, sir.""You saw Mrs. Chandos?" he hastily returned; looking at me with a strangely fixed expression. "How and when did you see her?""I saw her then, sir. You were with her, persuading her—as it seemed to me—to enter her own rooms; and Lady Chandos followed. You were without your coat."For the space of a full minute he never took his eyes from my face; and it seemed to me that he questioned my veracity."Suppose I were to tell you that it was not Mrs. Chandos whom you saw?" he said."But I am sure it was Mrs. Chandos, sir. I recognized her in spite of her hanging hair, and I also recognized her voice.""And you are equally sure, I presume, that it was myself?""Undoubtedly it was yourself, Mr. Chandos.""Well I cannot dispute it. But I think you must possess good eyesight, Miss Hereford to have distinguished us so correctly in that obscure corridor.""It was by no means obscure, sir. On these bright moonlight nights the passages are light. At the first moment, I certainly did not recognize either Lady or Mrs. Chandos, but I did as soon as my eyesight became accustomed to the light. Do you know how Mrs. Chandos is this morning?""She is better.""What—" I began, and stopped dead."Proceed," said Mr. Chandos."I was going to ask what was the matter with her, sir, and I stopped because it occurred to me that I should be taking an unwarrantable liberty.""There are certain points connected with Mrs. Chandos and her history, which may not be imparted to a stranger," he gravely answered. "In saying a stranger, Miss Hereford, I include the whole world, save myself and my mother: not even to Emily would they be spoken of. You will not, therefore, feel offended that I cannot disclose to you any particulars relating to Mrs. Chandos. May I inquire what you heard her say?""I heard her say that she was kept as a caged bird, and that it was your fault, sir. She seemed also to be reproaching you with not having told her something, and said it was cruel.""Told her what? what 'something'?" he rejoined, with almost feverish impatience."I—I cannot tell you, sir.""Do you mean that you are unable, or that you prefer not to tell me?""That I prefer not, sir. I do not consider myself at liberty to tell.""It seems that you have also a mystery, Miss Hereford," he said."A very slight one, indeed, sir. When I saw Mrs. Chandos out here last evening, she let fall a few words to me upon a certain subject, and I believed that those other words of hers in the night referred to the same. She bade me not speak of it, and therefore I would rather not.""When and where did you see Mrs. Chandos?""I ran into the oak parlor at tea time: looked scared, as you observed afterwards. It was then. I had met Mrs. Chandos in the walk underneath the pines, and she ran in just before me.""Then she must have been out alone?""Quite alone, sir, in her white silk evening dress.""And she talked to you of—Miss Hereford," he abrubtly broke off, standing still, and taking within his own hand mine, that rested on it, "I heard you say the other day you were a reader of countenances, of character, of qualities. How have you read ME?""What do you mean, sir?""Do you think I am a man to be confided in? In a word, can you, do you feel that you can place implicit confidence in me, in my truth, my honor?""The first moment I saw you, sir, all those years ago, at Miss Barlieu's, I felt that you were one in whom I or any might repose perfect trust. I feel so still.""That is all right," he answered, his face brightening, "and now there is no fear of your misapprehending me, or of thinking I should say what I am about to say without good and sufficient motives. You say that Mrs. Chandos spoke to you last evening upon a confidential topic; that her words in the night appeared to refer to the same: will you exemplify your trust in me now, when I assure you there are reasons, imperative reasons for my being made acquainted with those words.""I will tell you them at once, Mr. Chandos, if you deem that I shall be doing right.""Entirely right. The matter is momentous; almost one of life or death."I repeated to Mr. Chandos the words—every word, for he made me—she had used, in the garden, hurrying over my explanation that I believed them to refer to the dreadful infirmity relating to himself which he had confessed to me. "I supposed she was angry with you for not telling her, sir," I concluded, "and reproached you with it as you took her through the corridor to the east wing.""Yet she need not have been angry with me for that," he said, playing unconsciously with my fingers. "It was not news that she need covet: do you think it was?""No, sir.""Did she tell you how she found it out?""She did not mention that. She had not been speaking to me two minutes when she broke into a smothered scream and ran to the house. I thought she must have seen something to alarm her; and, upon looking to the spot where her eyes had been fixed, I detected the outlines of a man's form, standing there and watching us. I was alarmed also, and burst into the oak parlor in the manner you saw.""All fancy, on both your parts," said Mr. Chandos."No, sir. The man was certainly there—as certainly as that I saw one afterwards at the parlor window. He stood between the trunks of two trees: I think I could show you the very trees.""But this must he looked to," muttered Mr. Chandos. "What was he like?""I cannot tell, sir.""As tall as I am?""Oh, no. Very much shorter.""If there are spies at Chandos they must be exterminated, that's all. I wish my mother had not insisted on my sending away the dog: he seems to have gone just when he is wanted.""I would rather Mrs. Chandos did not know that I have told you this, sir," I said, as we neared the gates.'"She shall not know it. You have entrusted it to me, as I entrusted you with my unfortunate story, and we must keep each other's confidence. There is one thing I must ask of you, though.""What is that, sir?""To leave off calling me 'sir.' It does not sound well on your lips."He laughed as he spoke, and so did I, heartily, blushing also till I was ashamed of myself."Have you any love for the appellation?" he continued."No, indeed. But Madame de Mellissie—""Just so," he interrupted. "I suspected as much. You would not have fallen into it of your own accord.""I don't know that, sir—""Sir?""It was a slip of the tongue, indeed," I cried, laughing merrily. "I have got into the habit of saying it. I was going to observe that in my late situation as governess, I had to say 'sir' and 'madam:' I was bade do so there.""Well you are not à governess at Chandos, and we can dispense with it," he concluded, as he released my hand and departed through the gates."Shall you be in to breakfast?" I inquired before he was out of hearing."Breakfast! I took it an hour ago. I am going over to see Mrs. Freeman. You will be condemned to make a solitary one this morning."A very pleasant one, for all that. It is pleasant to live amidst the luxuries of life. The bare fare of a governess had been exchanged for the liberal table of Chandos. Not that I cared much what I ate and drank; I was young and healthy; but I did like the ease and refinement, the state and the innocent vanities pertaining to the order of the Chandoses.Mr. Chandos returned in the course of the morning. Hill came into the room almost as he did."Well, sir, and Low is she?" she begun."She is in that state, Hill, that there is no probability of her coming back," be replied, throwing back his velveteen coat from his shoulders, for he was in sporting clothes—and very handsome he looked in them, as a tall, well made man generally does."There's a bother!" was Hill's retort. "Then the other thing must be seen about directly, Mr. Harry, without loss of time.""I suppose it must. Things seem to be working tolerably cross just now.""Cross and contrary, as they always will do, sir, when it's specially necessary they should work the other way. Will you go up and see my lady, sir?""I am going up. Let Hickens bring in the tray. I am hungry after my early breakfast.""You have not been walking over to Mrs. Freeman's, Mr. Chandos?" said I, as Hill departed. For neither carriage nor horse had gone out."That would be a twenty mile walk, there and back. I honored the omnibus with my company as far as the station, and then went on by train; coming home in the same way."The luncheon tray was on the table when he descended from his mother's rooms, and he hastily sat down to it. He was dressed differently then."I will not invite you to take it with me," he observed, "for I must not sit five minutes, and can barely snatch a mouthful.""Are you going far?""Not very far: but I wish to be home to dinner. That will do, Hickens: you need not wait.""Let me wait upon you, Mr. Chandos," I said, springing up."Very well. How will you begin?""I don't know what to begin with. I don't know what you want first.""Nor I. For I do not want any thing at all just now. What have you been doing with yourself all the morning?""Working; and reading. Not Shakspeare, but a play of Goldsmith's: 'She stoops to Conquer.' It is—""Why, where did you pick up that?" he interrupted. I did not know the book was about.""I saw it lying in the window seat near the east wing, and dipped into it. After that, I could not lay it down again—although it was not in the list of books you gave me.""You thought you would enjoy this mischief first, like the children, whether the scolding came afterwards or not.""Ought I not to have read it?""You may read it again if you like. It is an excellent comedy; more entertaining, I fancy, to read than to witness, though. I suppose Mrs. Chandos must have left it there; she may have taken it out of the closed book-case. Did you fall in love with Tony Lumpkin?""Not irrevocably. Here comes your horse round, Mr. Chandos.""My signal for departure. And I believe I am speeding on a useless errand.""Is it an important one?""It is to inquire after a lady to replace Mrs. Freeman as companion to Mrs. Chandos. A friend of my mother's was recommending one strongly some six months ago; but it's ten chances to one, her being disengaged still."A strong impulse came over me to offer myself to supply the place—until I should be called away by Madame de Mellissie. If I could but make myself useful, it would take away the compunction I felt at having been thus thrust upon Mrs. Chandos. I spoke in the impulse of the moment, blushing and timid as a school girl. Mr. Chandos smiled and shook his head."No. It is not a situation that would suit you; or you it.""But temporarily? until we have news from Madame de Mellissie. I should like to repay a tithe of the obligation I am under to Lady Chandos.""A great obligation, that! No, it could not be; we should have you and Mrs. Chandos running into the shrubberies after sleep-walkers and ghosts, as it seems you did last night. Besides," he added, taking up his gloves and riding whip, "if you became Mrs. Chandos's companion, what should I do for mine?"He nodded to me after he got on his horse, laughed, and rode away at a brisk canter, followed by his groom. Hill came in almost directly."Is Mr. Chandos gone, do you know, miss?""He has just gone.""There! And my lady wanted him to call somewhere else. I suppose a note must be posted.""Stay an instant, Mrs. Hill," I interposed as she was leaving the parlor. "There's a new companion wanted, is there not, for Mrs. Chandos?""Of course there is. What of it?""Can I see Lady Chandos?""Now, miss, you listen: we have had that discussion once before, and we don't want it gone over again. So long as my lady keeps her rooms, neither you nor anybody else can be admitted to her; you wouldn't be if you paid for it in gold; and I'm much surprised that a young lady, calling herself a lady, should persist in pressing it, in the eyes and teeth of Lady Chandos's wishes.""Hill, I am not pressing it, I only asked the question. As I cannot see her, will you deliver a message for me. If I can be of any use in taking the duties of companion to Mrs. Chandos—"Hill's countenance stopped my words. I wish you could have seen it—the open mouth, the stare of astonishment."You take the duties of companion to Mrs. Chandos!" uttered she, at length. "Bless the child! you little know what you ask for.""But will you mention it to Lady Chandos!"No answer. She cast a glance of pity on my ignorance or presumption, whichever she may have deemed it, and flounced out of the room.There came a ring at the house bell in the course of the afternoon, which one of the footmen answered."Is Lady Chandos at home?" was the applicant's demand, in a lady-like and firm voice.'Her ladyship is at home, ma'am," answered Joseph, "but she does not receive visitors.""I wish to see her.""She is ill, ma'am; not able to see any one.""She would admit me. My business is of importance. Were you to refuse me admission, Lady Chandos might not pardon it.""I'll call Mrs. Hill,ma'am and you can speak to her," returned Joseph; but I am certain you can't be admitted to my lady."She was ushered by Joseph into the oak parlor. A good-looking woman, with her veil down, dressed in a soft black silk, and handsome shawl. She did not raise her veil, but bowed to me."I presume that I have the honor of speaking to a Miss Chandos?""I am not Miss Chandos. Be so kind as take a seat.""I grieve to hear that Lady Chandos is ill. Is she so ill that she cannot see me? one pays no attention to what is said by servants."What I should have answered I scarcely know, and was relieved by the entrance of Hill. The visitor arose."I have come here, some distance, to have an interview with Lady Chandos. I hear she is indisposed; but not, I trust, too much so to grant it to me.""I'm sorry you should have taken the trouble," bluntly returned Hill, who was in one of her ungracious moods. "My lady cannot see any one.""My business with her is of importance.""I can't help that. If the Queen of England came, Lady Chandos would not receive her.""To whom am I speaking?—if I may inquire," resumed the lady."I am Mrs. Hill. The many years confidential attendant of Lady Chandos.""You share her entire confidence?""Her entire confidence. Any thing you may have to say to her ladyship, you can, if you please, charge me with it, be it of ever so secret a nature. I do not urge or covet it," Hill hastily added; "I only mention it because it is impossible that you can see Lady Chandos.""Mrs. Chandos requires a companion, I have heard.""What of that?" returned Hill."I am come to offer myself for the appointment; I flatter myself I shall be found eligible."Hill looked surprised, and I felt so. Only a candidate for the vacant place!—after all that circumlocution!"Why on earth couldn't you have said at first what you wanted?" uttered Hill, sans ceremonie, in her exasperation. I don't think you'll suit.""Why not?""In the first place, we are after one. Mr. Chandos is gone to inquire for her now."A flush, and a shade of disappointment, immediately hid under a smile, appeared on the lady's face."Mr. Chandos may not engage her," she said."That's true enough. Yet she would have suited well; for she is not a stranger to the Chandos family.""Neither am I," quietly replied the applicant. "My name is Penn—Mrs. Penn.""Penn? Penn?" repeated Hill, revolving the information. "I don't recognize the name; I remember none bearing it, known to us.""Neither would Lady Chandos recognize it, for personally I am unknown to her. When I said I was no stranger to the Chandos family, I meant that I was not strange to certain unpleasant events connected with it. That dreadful misfortune—""It's not a thing to be talked of openly, in the light of day," shrieked out Hill, throwing up her hands to stop the words. "Have you not more discretion than that? Very fit, you'd be, as companion to young Mrs. Chandos!""Do you not alarm yourself for nothing," coolly rejoined Mrs. Penn. I was not going to talk of it, beyond the barest allusion: and the whole world knows that the Chandos family are not as others. I was about to observe, that I am acquainted with every thing; all the details; and therefore I Should be more eligible than some, to reside at Chandos.""How did you learn them?""Lady Chandos had an intimate friend—Mrs. Sackville, who is now dead. I was at Mrs. Sackville's, and heard all from her. Perhaps Lady Chandos may deem it worth while to see me, if you tell her this.""How can she see you, when she's confined to her bed?" irritably responded Hill, who appeared fully bent upon admitting none to the presence of Lady Chandos: nay, the very mention of it excited her to anger. "I will go and speak to her, and inform her of what you say.""Tell her also, while you are about it, that should she approve of me, and admit me to her family, she will find a faithful friend; one in whom she may confide and trust.""Shall I leave the room?" I whispered to Hill when she returned."There's no need for it." So down I sat again."Would you be so obliging as to put your veil up?" continued Hill, to the stranger.The veil—a thick one—was raised in compliance, and the lineaments of the face fell on my memory like a flash of lightning. They seemed so familiar—as Mr. Chandos's had done; but, like his, they puzzled me, for I could not remember where I had seen them."My lady desired me to look at your features, and report to her, for I am a judge of countenances," unceremoniously pursued Hill. "It is possible, she allows, that Mr. Chandos may not find the person he is gone in search of: but she wishes to know how you came to be aware that a lady was required at Chandos.""I heard it accidentally mentioned. A group of people were talking in a shop where I was this morning, at Marden, and one spoke of it to the other—that Mrs. Chandos's companion was ill, and a substitute was sought for.""Very strange—for I am positive it has not been mentioned from the house," cried Hill, attentively surveying Mrs. Penn."I heard it, as I tell you; and the words arrested my attention, being in search of a similar situation for myself. So I took the train and came over.""Well, my lady desires me to say that she cannot entertain your application until she hears the result of Mr. Chandos's journey. But you may leave your address and references: and should her ladyship think further of it, she will first apply to those references, and then appoint an interview here.""In the event of being engaged, I presume I should be wanted immediately?""Without any delay at all, after things are proved satisfactory.""I have lived with but three ladies; and two are dead. The third is at present at Marden, and will speak personally for me."Hill noted down the addresses given, and the stranger departed, first talking with Hill in an under tone in the portico. I watched her from the door, watched her eagerly: as if I could recall, looking at her back, what I had not been able to do looking at her face.The dusk of evening drew on, and the dinner waited, and Mr. Chandos did not come. Hickens inquired whether I would sit down without him. No, I did not care to do that, and I stepped out of the hall door and strolled down the carriage path. It was not so pleasant an evening as the previous one: clouds chased each other across the sky, the air was cold, and the wind was sighing and moaning in the trees.There broke upon my ear the footsteps of a horse. I did not care that its master should see me walking there, and turned to gain the house. But—what sort of a speed was it coming at? why should he be riding in that break-neck fashion? little chance, in truth, that I could outstrip that. So I went into hiding amidst the trees, and in another moment there tore furiously by Mr. Chandos's horse covered with foam, without its rider, the bridle trailing after it on the ground.CHAPTER XVIIITHE WOMAN IN GRAYAWAY tore I in the opposite direction. Mr. Chandos must have met with an accident, and might be lying in desperate need. Where could it have happened? and where was his groom who had rode out in attendance upon him? I soon saw a dark object in the distance, lying in the midst of the road, nearly as far as the entrance gates. It was Mr. Chandos, and he was trying to raise himself."Are you hurt?" I asked, leaning over him."Some trifling damage, I suppose. How came you here, Miss Hereford?""I met the horse, and ran to see what the accident might be. How did it happen?""I was riding fast, being late, and in passing this spot, some—I should say 'devil' to any one but a young lady—darted out of those trees there, and threw up its hands with a noise, right in front of my horse to startle it. The animal reared bolt upright, bounded forward, and I lost my seat. I had deemed myself a first-rate horseman before tonight: but I was sitting carelessly.""Was it a man?""To the best of my belief it was a woman. The night is dusk, and I observed less than I might have done in a more collected moment. It was a something in a gray cloak, with a shrill voice. I wonder if you could help me up?""I will do my best."I stooped, and he placed his hands upon me, and raised himself. But it appeared that he could not walk, and, but for holding on to me, he would have fallen."I believe you must lay me on the ground again, and go and send assistance, Miss Hereford. Stay: who's this?"It was one of the servants, Lizzie, who had been on an errand to the village. She called out with astonishment and dismay when she comprehended the helpless position of Mr. Chandos."Now, don't lose your wits, Lizzie, but see what you can do to help me," he cried. "With you on one side, and Miss Hereford on the other, perhaps I may make a hobble of it."The woman put her basket down, concealing it between the trees, and Mr. Chandos laid his hand upon her shoulder, I helping him on the other side. She was full of questions, calling the horse all sorts of treacherous names, in her concern. Mr. Chandos said the horse was not to blame, and gave her the explanation that he had given me."Master, I'll lay a hundred guineas to one that it was one of them gipsy jades!" she exclaimed. "There's a lot of them 'camped on the common.""I'll gipsy them, if it was," he answered. "Miss Hereford, I am sorry to lean upon you so heavily. The order of things is being reversed. Instead of the knight supporting the lady, the lady is bearing nearly the whole weight of the knight.""Not the whole on it," put in Lizzy, "for I have got my share of the weight, too. But never mind, master; if it was ten times as much I'd get you along somehow. Don't I wish I had them gipsy wretches under my thumb now, and could give 'em what I'd like!""Where was your groom, sir?" I inquired. "He went abroad with you.""Yes, but I despatched him on an errand, and rode back alone.""Should you know the woman again, air?" resumed Lizzy."I think I should know her scream. It was shrill as a seagull's. Her head was enveloped in some covering, concealing her face: probably the hood of the gray cloak.""Who's to know that it was not a man?" next cried Lizzy."If so, he wore petticoats,"said Mr. Chandos. "A seat at last!" he added, as we approached one. "I will remain here whilst you go and send two of the men.""Can't we get you on further, sir?" said Lizzy."No. I have taxed your strength too much in this short distance. And ray own also, through endeavoring to ease my weight to you."In point of fact, the weight had been great, for the one foot seemed quite powerless. He sat down on the bench, his brow white and moist with pain, and motioned to us to go on. "I think they had better bring my mother's garden chair," he said."I'll run and send it," cried Lizzy; "miss had better stop with you, sir.""What for?" asked Mr. Chandos."Look you here, master. That woman, whoever she might have been, was trying to do you an injury; to cause you to lose your life, I should say; and the chances are that she's concealed somewhere about here still. Look at the opportunities for hiding there is! why, a whole regiment of gipsies and murderers and thieves might be skulking amid them trees, and us none the wiser till they came out upon us with guns and knives. That woman may be watching to come out upon you, sir, if she can catch you by yourself."Mr. Chandos laughed, but Lizzy seemed in any thing but a laughing mood. "I will stay with you, sir," I said, and sat down resolutely on the bench—Lizzy going off with a nod."Now, Miss Hereford, you and I have got an account to settle," he began, as her footsteps died away in the distance. "Why am I 'sir' again?""That girl, Lizzy, was present," I answered, giving him the truth. I had not liked that she should see me familiar with him; or, as it were, putting myself on a level with Mr. Chandos; she might have commented upon it in the household; but this I did not say. Mr. Chandos looked keenly at me."Never mind who is present; I am not 'sir' to you. And now," he continued, taking my hand, "how am I to thank you?""For what?""For coming and looking for me. I might have lain till morning inhaling the benefit of the night dews; or until that gray witch had 'come out again with a gun' and finished me."The last words, a repetition of Lizzy's, were uttered in joke. I laughed."You would soon have been found, had I not come to you. Lizzy was not many moments after me.""See how you destroy my romance, Miss Hereford. I wish there was a probability that the woman was gone into hiding in the groves of Chandos; I would soon have her hunted out of them.""Whom do you suppose it was?""I am at a loss for any supposition on the point.""Is there any one whom you have cause to think regards you with ill will?""Not that I am aware of. I am unconscious of having given offence to any person or persons.""Do you think you are much injured?""There are worse misfortunes in hospitals than the injury to my foot. I believe it to be nothing but a common sprain, although it has disabled me. The pain—""That's great, I am sure.""Pretty well. I should not like you to experience it."That it was more than pretty well I saw, for the drops were coursing down his face. The men soon came up with the garden chair, and Mr. Chandos sent me on.He was laid on the sofa in the oak parlor, and Hill examined the foot and housed it up, but one of the grooms had been despatched for a medical man. Dinner was taken in a scrambling sort of way, but by tea time things were comfortable. The doctor had pronounced it to be but a sprain, and Mr. Chandos was quietly reading, the lamp at his elbow. From his conversation with Hill, I gathered that the lady whom he had been inquiring after, was engaged, and could not come to Chandos."It's just as I thought, and so I told my lady," said Hill. "A desirable person, like that, was not likely to remain long on her own hands. But we have had another here, Mr. Harry.""Another! How could you have another? Who knew that one was wanted?""There's the odd part of the business," returned Hill. "She said she heard it mentioned this morning in a shop at Marden.""Is it any one likely to suit?""My lady thinks so, now that I have informed her of the result of your journey; she wouldn't listen at all to it before. It's a Mrs. Penn: and, Mr. Harry,"—dropping her voice—" she knows all about that secret trouble."Mr. Chandos laid down his book and looked at her."Every unhappy syllable of it, sir, more than my lady knows herself," continued Hill. "When I went out with her to the door, she mentioned one or two points which I am sure we had never known, and she said she could tell my lady more than that.""Most extraordinary!" uttered Mr. Chandos. "Who is she? Where did she hear it?""From Mrs. Sackville. You must remember her, sir? Mrs. Penn was companion to her at the time.''"This comes of my mother's having made a confidant of Mrs. Sackville?" he uttered. "I always thought Mrs. Sackville a chattering woman. But it does not account for this Mrs. Penn's knowing the particulars that my mother does not," he added, after a pause. "I shall be carious to see Mrs. Penn.""My lady is bent upon engaging her, should her references suit, so you will have the opportunity shortly, sir. I put the question to Mrs. Penn—where could Mrs. Sackville have learnt these details, and she said, from Sir Thomas himself. So I conclude that he told her what he spared my lady."Mr. Chandos shook his head with a proud, repellent sir."I don't believe it, Hill. However Mrs. Sackville may have learnt it, rely upon it it was not from Sir Thomas. Hill, who sleeps to-night in Mrs. Chandos's rooms?""I do, sir, of course. There's no one else we could put there.""But if my mother should require you in the night?""My lady has talked it over with me, sir, and of the two evils, my leaving her alone will be the least. Misfortunes never come singly, but Mrs. Freeman could not have fallen ill at a worse time.""And now I am disabled!""Oh, well, sir, let's hope for the best. When troubles come, the only plan is to look them steadily in the face, and meet them bravely.""Bravely, ay!" sighed Mr. Chandos. "That may be done in any house but ours.""Mr. Dexter has called up, sir," said Hickens, entering the room. "Would you like to see him?""Does he want any thing in particular?" asked Mr. Chandos."No business, sir. He heard of this accident to you, and hurried here." be says."Let him come in. You need not leave us, Miss Hereford," he added to me, for I was rising. "Dexter will thank you for a cup of tea.""Well now, Mr. Chandos, how was this?" cried the agent, as he bustled in. "News came into my office that Mr. Chandos's horse had thrown him, and he was supposed to be dying. Hickens says it is only an injury to the foot.""And that's enough, Dexter, for it is keeping me a prisoner. However, it might have been as you heard, so I must not grumble. The question is, what ill-working jade caused it?'"Ill-working jade?" repeated Mr. Dexter. "Was it not an accident? I don't understand?""An accident maliciously perpetrated. Some woman, or demon in the guise of one, sprang before my horse with a shouting scream, and threw up her arms to frighten it. I was riding carelessly, and lost my seat.""Bless my heart!" uttered Dexter, after digesting the news with open mouth and eyes. "Who was it? Is she taken?""A tramp, probably. Though why she should set upon me I am unable to conjecture. Where she vanished to, or what became of her, I know not. I raised myself on my elbow directly I could collect my wits, which I assure you were somewhat scattered, but the coast was already clear: and I had not been down a minute then.""What was the woman like?" pursued the agent, as I handed him some tea."I can tell you nothing of that, excepting that she wore a gray cloak which completely enveloped her person, face and all. I should not know her if she stood before me at this minute.""Was the cloak assumed for the purpose of disguise, sir, think you?" eagerly returned the agent."It looked uncommonly like it.""Then I tell you what, Mr. Chandos, it was no ordinary tramp, or jail bird of that description: depend upon it you must look nearer home.""Nearer home!" repeated Mr. Chandos. "Do you allude to our household servants? or tenants?""I don't allude to any party or parties in particular, sir. But when a disguise is assumed for the purpose of molesting a gentleman, riding to his home in the dusk of night, be sure that the villain is no stranger. This must be investigated, Mr. Chandos.""I sent two of the men to scour the plantations near the spot, but the result was nothing, for they came back as they went. So far as they could ascertain, to live body, worse than a hare, was concealed there.""I could understand it if you were obnoxious to any of the tenants, or to any others round about, but the exact contrary is the case," pursued Mr. Dexter, after an interval of silence. "The tenants often say they wish Mr. Chandos was their real landlord: not that they have any cause of complaint against Sir Thomas; but Sir Thomas is a stranger to them, and you are in their midst; one, as it were, of themselves.""Talking about tenants—and to leave an unprofitable subject, for we shall make nothing of it in the present stage of the affair—I don't like the new tenant by the gates here, Dexter?""No! Why not, sir?""And I should like to get rid of him."The agent put his bread-and-butter down on the plate and turned his head, as if looking whether Mr. Chandos might be in jest or earnest."What is your objection to him, sir?" he asked, after a pause."I cannot state any objection in detail. I have seen the man, and I don't like him. How can he be got rid of, Dexter?""He can't be got rid of at all, sir, till the lease is out—three years. Unless he chooses to quit of his own accord. There's a clause in the lease that he can leave at the end of any twelvemonth, by giving proper notice.""That's his side—as regards the agreement. What is mine?""You have no power to dismiss him until the three years are up.""How came you to draw up a one-sided deed, such as that?""The agent on the other side said his client wished to have the option of quitting at the end of either year, though he would probably continue for three. In point of fact, Mr. Edward Barley is a yearly tenant; but wished to have the power in his own hands of remaining the three years. I did speak to you, Mr. Chandos, and you made no objection."Mr. Chandos sat, twirling the watch key that drooped from his gold chain. It was self-evident to him that what might appear just terms for any other man on the face of the earth, who might have offered himself as tenant, looked any thing bat just, now that the tenant proved to be Mr. Edwin Barley."The agreement is signed, of course, Dexter?""Signed, scaled, and delivered," was the answer."Then there are no legal means of getting rid of this man?""None at all, sir, for three years, if he pleases to stop. But, Mr. Chandos, he appears to me to be an eligible tenant—so very wealthy and respectable a man!"Wealthy and respectable as you may deem him, I would give a thousand pounds to be quit of him, Dexter.""But why, sir?" repeated the agent, in surprise."He is not likely to prove an agreeable neighbor.""Pardon the suggestion, Mr. Chandos, but you are not obliged to have any thing to do with him. So long as he keeps his house respectable and pays his rent, that's all you need know of him, unless you like.""What brought him to settle himself here?" abruptly asked Mr. Chandos."Well, I inquired once, but got no satisfactory answer. Gentlemen liked to go about the country and please their fancy for change," Haines said. "Which is true enough, sir. And now that I have seen you, and ascertained the damage to be less than was said, I'll be going back again," he added, rising. "But I shall keep my eyes open as I go along, Mr. Chandos, for a woman in a gray cloak; if I meet one I'll pounce upon her, as sure as my name's Bob Dexter."Scarcely bad he departed when Lizzy came in."You'll never guess where I have been to, master," she began."Where have you been to?" asked Mr. Chandos."I couldn't get it out of my head, sir, that it was them gipsies, so I just put my best foot foremost and went up to the common. Such a sight! a big tent, lighted with a torch, and four or five women and children in it, and a pot aboiling on the fire outside. But I have had my walk for nothing, for the women looked quiet and peaceable enough, and they had never a gray cloak between 'em that I saw. One old creature there was bent double, who could hardly hobble a dozen yards, two young women with babies to their breast, and a growing girl or two. I'm bound to Bay that they none of 'em looked wicked enough to have been the one that set on you, sir.""We will just forget it, Lizzy," said Mr. Chandos. "I am tired of the subject, and I don't suppose it was any of the gipsies. Tired of every thing I think to-night," he added, as Lizzy withdrew. "Tired even of reading.''"Can I do any thing to amuse you, Mr. Chandos?" 1 asked, for he threw his book down."Ay. Sit down on that low, comfortable chair, near me, and relate to me sketches of your past life.""They would only be sketches of my school days. I have not had a home, as others have.""Not had a home!" musingly spoke Mr. Chandos. "How you must long for one!""No, I keep my longings down. It may never be my happiness to know one; certainly there is no present prospect of it; and I resign myself to my position, doing my duty cheerfully without looking beyond it.""What do you call your 'position?'""That of a dependant; a governess.""Yet you are of gentle blood?""Oh, yes.""Well now, begin. If you don't tell me something worth hearing, I shall be asleep."I laughed and related to him anecdotes of my school life, till bed-time. When I was leaving him he took my hand, as he said good-night, kept it a moment in his, and said he wished me pleasant dreams."I shall dream of a woman in a gray cloak. But what a good thing it is, Mr. Chandos, that you can make certain of a night's uninterrupted rest?""In what way?""With that disabled foot, there's no fear that you—that you will leave your bed to-night to walk in the moonlight.""You go to bed and to sleep, and never mind looking for me in the moon-light; to-night or any other."A vivid flush had risen to his brow, his voice was stern, and I thought what an idiot I had been to allude to his infirmity."I beg your pardon," I humbly said, and he released my hand without another word. Very beautiful was the moon that night, but I went to bed and slept through it. My last thought, as I laid my head on ray pillow, was to wonder whether Lizzy and the maids would watch for the ghost of Mr. Chandos.I was taking my breakfast the next morning in solitary state, when Hill came to me."Will you transact a little commission for my lady, Miss Hereford?""With great pleasure," I answered, starting up with alacrity, glad that they were going to give me something to do at last. "What is it?""Well, it's nothing that you need be in such a hurry as to lose your breakfast," grimly responded Hill. "My lady is sick, Mr. Chandos is disabled, I can't be spared, so we want you to go to Harden, to see the lady mentioned by Mrs. Penn, and make inquiry respecting her.""Am I to go by train?" I inquired, after Hill had finished the catalogue of instructions, touching the questions I was to put to the lady."My lady would not send you alone by the train. Her own carriage will be round at ten o'clock, to convey you to Marden."At ten precisely the carriage drew up, with its coachman and footmen. An elegant chariot with its handsome hammer-cloth and its baronet's badge on the panels. I was ready, and stepped in; and away went I into Marden in state as if I had been my lady herself.Number nine King street, the address given, I found to be a pastry-cook's. The coachman drew up to the private door; and, on inquiring for Mrs. Howard, I was shown up-stairs into handsome apartments. A lady very much dressed, rose at my entrance—Mrs. Howard. A higher character than she gave to Mrs. Penn could not be tendered; faithful, good, discreet, trustworthy, and invaluable as a household manager, should that be required, or in sickness. Her regret at parting with her was great; but she was going to Brussels on a long visit to her daughter, and it was not convenient to take Mrs. Penn. The reference being satisfactory (though I should have liked Mrs. Howard better had she been less fine in graces and airs, and less flourishing with her tongue) I obeyed Hill's instructions in asking to see Mrs. Penn, and desiring her to proceed to Chandos that day, to hold an interview with Lady Chandos.""It might be a good plan for Mrs. Penn to return with you now in the carriage," suddenly observed Mrs. Howard, as I was going down to it. "She will be there all the quicker and save herself the trouble of walking to the station."I hesitated to consider. But such had not been my instructions, and I told them I thought it better that Mrs. Penn should proceed by train.The moment the refusal had passed my lips, the face of Mrs. Penn darkened. She evidently attributed it to a feeling of exclusiveness, of pride on my part; though I can declare that nothing was further from my thoughts. I saw her looking from the drawing room window as I drove away; looking at me with an offended eye.Mr. Chandos lay on the sofa in the oak parlor when I got back, and Hill, who appeared to have been doing something to his foot, stood by with a linen bandage on her arm."So your mission has been successful, miss," she said to me."It has. But how do you know it?""She's already here, Mrs. Penn, and up-stairs with my lady."Was I dreaming? I had left her behind me, in Mrs. Howard's drawing-room. Had she flown through the air? Mr. Chandos laughed."The triumph of steam over chariot wheels, Miss Hereford. A train must have been on the point of starting, so she got here before you.""And now, miss, please to report to me what Mrs. Howard said," interposed Hill. "My lady won't complete the engagement until she knows."I could but report what I had heard. Mr. Chandos and Hill pronounced it satisfactory in a high degree, and both, as I could see, immediately took Mrs. Penn into favor on the strength of it. Hill went up to the library—in which room it appeared Lady Chandos, wrapped up in shawls, received the candidate, and presently Mrs. Penn departed.Was she engaged? Mr. Chandos asked, when he next saw Hill. Yes, and to come that day; which she said she could do without inconvenience.I was leaning over the outer gates in the dusk of evening, when a fly came steadily bowling along the road. It contained a lady inside, and some luggage out; and it made for the entrance of Chandos. I had not cause long to speculate upon who she might be, for the face of Mrs. Penn looked from the window as the gate was passed. She did not see me, and I watched her closely, every turn of her countenance: where was it that I had seen it?Standing with his arm round the thick trunk of a roadside tree, was another watcher, Mr. Edwin Barley. But so quietly had he stood there, gathered as it were into himself and the tree, as if he were part and parcel of the latter, that I never saw him till he bent his head forward to look after the fly and the lady's face, of which he obtained a good view. I would have stolen away then if I could; I, and my beating heart; but he came up to me, so I stayed; for I was as fearful of offending him as I was anxious to escape him."Visitors to Chandos?" he demanded, with an imperative air, as he pointed towards the fly."Only a lady who is entering as companion," I said, shivering inwardly."Not in Mrs. Freeman's place?""Yes, in Mrs. Freeman's place.""I heard that Mrs. Freeman was recovering and returning to her place.""It was a mistake, sir. Mrs. Freeman is too ill to return.""Egad, they have not been long in finding a substitute for her, then! They do things speedily at Chandos. Who is it? A stranger, or some one from the neighborhood?""I believe a stranger. Good evening, sir.""Oh, but you are not going off like that," he said, holding me by the sleeve. "At least until you have told me how progresses Mr. Harry Chandos.""He cannot put his foot to the ground, but there's no danger.""Is it true that his horse was frightened purposely? Report runs that a gipsy woman in a red cloak started out before the horse and threw up her arms to frighten it.""It was a woman, and Mr. Chandos is not sure that it was one of the gipsies.""Who else would do such a thing? Were I Harry Chandos, I'd hang the whole community up by the neck till they confessed, men and all. And their tents are on the common still, I see, braving it out: I wish I possessed authority here, that's all. You are anxious to be gone, I see, young lady. Good evening.""Good evening, sir." And away flew I, almost as swiftly as Mr. Chandos's startled horse had done. Mrs. Penn was already in the east wing, being introduced by Hill to Mrs. Chandos, and Mrs. Penn's luggage was being carried up.CHAPTER XIXTHE GHOST OF CHANDOSANOTHER lonely breakfast. Lady Chandos was not so well, Mr. Chandos better, was the invalid report, but neither appeared, and I had to sit down alone. The meal was half over when Mrs. Penn came in, her bonnet and shawl on."I don't know what your grim old butler will say to me, but I have forstalled him with the postman," she began. "Unless I step into the open air for ten minutes of a morning, I feel stifled for the day: the postman came up while I was in the broad walk, and I took the letters from him. "Only two," she added, laying them on the table and regarding the directions as she did so with a free-and-easy sort of air that I deemed presumptuous and unbecoming. "Both foreign letters," she went on to comment: "one for Harry Chandos, Esquire, the other for Miss Hereford. That is yourself, probably?""I am Miss Hereford.""What a very pretty name!" she exclaimed, after a pause, spent in regarding nay features with eager curiosity, "as pretty as you are. Do you remember in the English history we are told of the banishment of Lord Hereford by his sovereign, and how it broke his heart? Is your Christian name as pretty?""It is Anne?""Anne Hereford: a pretty name alto-gether," she continued, while I rose and rang the bell.Hickens entered."The letters, Hickens. Here is one for Mr. Chandos."Hickens looked alternately at me and the letter: I held my own in my hand. He wondered how they came there; and I spoke out."Mrs. Penn says she saw the postman in the shrubbery, and took them from him.""Please to let the man bring the letters to the house, ma'am, should you meet him again," he respectfully observed to Mrs. Penn. "My lady never allows any one to take them from the postman: he brings them into the hall and delivers them into my hand. Miss Emily, when she was at home, once took them from the man in the grounds, and my lady was so displeased with her: her lady-ship is very strict about the post letters."Hickens departed with his master's letter, and I opened mine, and read as follows:"The idea of your making all this dreadful fuss—though I suppose it is mamma, not you. She's neither poison nor a tiger, and therefore will not do the house irretrievable damage. It's not my fault if Alfred has taken this gastric fever, and I am detained here: I'd rather he in the wilds of Africa, I do assure you, scampering over the sandy desert on a mad pony, than condemned to be pent up in sick chambers. Fancy what it is! Alfred reduced to a skeleton in his bed, taking nothing but tisane and that sort of slops, and lamenting that he won't get over it: Madame de Mellissie in her bed, groaning under an agonizing attack of sciatica; and I doing duty between the two. It's dreadful. I should come off to Chandos to-morrow, and leave them till they were better, but for the fear that one or other might die, in which case the world would call me hard-hearted and every other ill name it could lay its tongue to. You see what my present fate is; wretched enough, without you going on at me for thoughtlessness and all the rest of it. How I should get through the dreary day but for some novels and a few callers, I don't know: but the novels are not exciting, and the visitors are stupid. Paris is empty just now, and as dull as a dungeon. Don't go worrying me with any more letters reflecting on my 'prudence,' or I shall send them back to you: if mamma orders you to write, tell her plainly that you won't. Ever yours,"EMILY DE MELLISSIE."P. S. Pray who is Anne Hereford that she should disturb the peace of Chandos? I'll come over and relieve you of her as soon as I can; and meanwhile if it's inconvenient, as you broadly hint, to entertain her as a visitor, put her with the servants: only do not inundate me with mamma's lectures second hand."I had read to the end of this letter, where my own name occurred, before it struck me that it could not be meant for myself. Having written one letter to Madame de Mellissie, to which she had hitherto sent no reply, the circumstance tended to mislead me in reading this—which was probably meant for her brother. Before I could fold it up Mr. Chandos entered: a stick in one hand, leaning on Hickens with the other. Since the accident, a temporary bed had been made up for him on the ground floor, so that he had only to cross the hall. I said nothing till Hickens retired; then I advanced to him with the note."This letter must be intended for you, I think, Mr. Chandos, although it was addressed to me. It is from Madame Alfred de Mellissie.""Just so," he said, taking it, and handing me the one he himself held. "This I presume is for you, as it begins 'My dear Anne Hereford.' Emily has betrayed her characteristic heedlessness, in sending my letter to you, and yours to me."He ran his eyes over the note, and then called to me."Have you read this?""Every word. Until I came to ray own name, I never suspected that it was not written for me. I am very sorry, Mr. Chandos, but I hope you will not blame me: indeed it was done inadvertently."So am I sorry," he answered, speaking more to himself than to me, as a scowl contracted his open brow.The following was her letter to me:—"My dear Anne Hereford,"You need not trouble yourself at all about being what you call 'an incumbrance' at Chandos, but just make yourself contented until I can come over. Mamma and my brother ought to be glad to have you there, for they are mured up alone from year's end to year's end. Keep out of their way as much as possible, so as not to annoy them, and believe me yours,"EMILY DE MELLISSIE."That was the note, and a fine specimen of contradiction it presented. Mr. Chandos took it from my hand."May I read it? I have not done So."I replied that he was welcome; and he perused it and handed it me back in silence, Hill, who entered, preventing what he was about to say."I must ask you to leave the room for an instant, miss," she said, addressing me. "I wish to speak alone to Mr. Chandos."I quitted the room, note in hand."Mr. Harry," I heard her say, "this is becoming serious. We must have a doctor.""Stop a moment, Hill. Miss Hereford.""Yes, sir," I answered, putting in the "sir" before Hill, in defiance of his injunctions, as I looked back into the room."Were you thinking of writing to Emily?""I was going to write now.""Oblige me by not doing so until I have spoken with you."Hill's face was serious, her voice also, as she spoke those few words of the necessity for a doctor. I was grieved to hear it; grieved for Lady Chandos; for, that the words related to her, there was no doubt. Mrs. Penn was standing at the corridor window as I went up stairs. She dressed handsomely, did this new companion; a gray silk robe she wore this morning, flounced to the waist, a gold chain, and a pretty blonde lace cap. It was the first time I had seen her without a bonnet, save for a few minutes at Marden, and I scanned her features well: but I could not any the more account for their seeming familiar to me."What is the matter with Lady Chandos?" she asked me in a low tone.Now, I cannot explain the why or the wherefore, but I was not prepossessed in favor of Mrs. Penn, and was determined not to be the one to enlighten her as to any strange thing that passed at Chandos. If she found out for herself, well and good; that was no affair of mine. I answered with indifference."I heard her speak of a bilious attack. Lady Chandos is subject to them, I believe.""Mrs. Hill came out of the west wing just now, wringing her hands, her face a mixture of keen perplexity and trouble," resumed Mrs. Penn. "She did not observe me at first, but the instant she saw me the expression of care was soothed as if by magic, and her hands were applied to smooth down her apron. I asked her what was amiss. 'My lady's worse,' she answered, and brushed by me. So I should fancy that Lady Chandos must be alarmingly ill, to cause that concern, and as she appeared tolerably well when she received me yesterday, the change for the worse must have been sudden.""She appears to be a woman of delicate health. Is Mrs. Chandos well today?""Oh, she is quite well. There was a scene with her the other night, I understand," she added, in a whisper. "Did you see any thing of it?"I shook my head in silence: not to her would I acknowledge aught: unconsciously scanning her features all the while with interest."Why do you look at me so earnestly?" she resumed."It is not very polite of me," I said, with a slight laugh, "but I cannot divest my mind of the notion that I have met you before. I cannot recollect where.""Shall I assist you? I remember you.""Do you indeed! Oh, pray tell me, for I have puzzled my brains over it since the first hour I saw you here.""Where you not once at Nulle?" she said."Yes, at school; at Mademoiselle Barlieu's.""And attended the Sunday services regularly at the English Protestant church. It was there you and I used to see each other.""There?" I repeated, in incredulity."I was staying in the town for some weeks, and remember your face well. You were wont to study mine quite as much as you studied your prayer-book, for you were always looking at me. I used to wonder what you found in my face to admire," she concluded with a gay laugh.I threw my recollection back; but, for the life of me, could not connect her with my associations of Nulle. It certainly might have been there that we met—and indeed why should she say so, were it not?—but it did not seem to be. As to the looking off the prayer-book part, I was sure there could not have been much of that, the English teachers always looked us up so sharply."Did you know the Miss Barlieus, Mrs. Penn?""I had no acquaintance with them. Quite old maids they are.""They are kind, good women," I broke out indignantly, and Mrs. Penn laughed."Somewhat careless withal, are they not? I think that was exemplified in the business relating to Miss Chandos."I could not answer. The whole blame had lain with Emily, but I did not choose to say that to Mrs. Penn. She was turning her gold chain round and round her finger, and when she spoke again her voice had dropped to the previous low tone."Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Hereford?""Ghosts?" I echoed, astonished at the question."Ghosts," she repeated. "Do you believe that the dead come again?""When I see any ghosts I will tell you whether I believe in them or not," I said, jokingly. "Up to the present time it has not been my good fortune to fall in with any.""It is said," she proceeded, looking round with caution, "that ghosts are seen at Chandos. Have you not seen strange sights?""No indeed. It would very much astonish me to see such—if by 'strange sights' you mean ghosts.""I saw one once," she said."Oh, Mrs. Penn!""A lady died in a house where I was; died almost suddenly; and I fancy she was not easy in her mind; at least, I do not think I should have been, had my conduct been what hers was. If ever I saw any thing plainly in my life, I saw her, after she was in her grave. You look at me with incredulity.""I cannot fancy that a real genuine ghost was ever seen. I am aware that strange tales are told—and believed: but I fancy they are but tales of the imagination.""In speaking of strange tales do you allude to Chandos?""Certainly not. I spoke of the world in general.""You take me up sharply. Nevertheless, strange tales are whispered of Chandos. On a moonlight night, as report runs, the spirit of Sir Thomas may be seen in the walks.""Does it come over from India to take its promenade?" I mockingly asked."You are thinking of the present baronet: I spoke of the late one. Look out some of these moonlight nights, and tell me if you don't see him.""My mistress is dressed, ma'am," said Mrs. Chandos's maid, emerging from the east wing; and Mrs. Penn departed at the summons.Hill came up at the same moment, and was passing me without stopping, but I arrested her."Is Lady Chandos dangerously ill?''"I think there's danger, I know that," responded Hill, cross at being spoken to. "And so much else as I have on my hands at present, and Mr. Harry helpless! my head is turned with the worry!""Hill, Hill, let me assist you," I said, running before her and standing at the entrance to the west wing. "I know I could be a good and attentive nurse if Lady Chandos would but try me. I will not stir from here till you ask her.""Well, this caps all," irascibly uttered Hill, after a prolonged stare. "If you'll step this way, miss, we'll see about it."She motioned me before her down the stairs, passed me in the hall, and opened the door of the oak parlor."Mr. Harry, perhaps you will have the goodness to say a word of a sort to this young lady," she burst forth, in a heat. "I have got trouble enough upon my hands at this moment, as you know, sir, without being waylaid by Miss Hereford at every turning and corner, worrying me with demands to be admitted to nurse my lady. She'll believe you, possibly, when you tell her that it can't be."Hill bounced out again, leaving me alone with Mr. Chandos."I am sorry to have given offence to Hill," I said, hastily. "I only wished to serve Lady Chandos.""Do not think of it again," said Mr. Chandos. "As Hill says, it cannot be.""Hill deems me young and inexperienced, one to give as much trouble as help; Lady Chandos may deem the same; but I have assisted to nurse serious cases of illness at Miss Barlieu's.""Shall I tell you how you may best help?""Yes, if you please.""By making no further allusion to the matter. My mother never admits strangers to her private apartments: and to press it would only have the effect of bringing Hill to an open rupture.""I did not mean to offend," I humbly said."No; you meant to be kind and useful. We must thank you all the same, and take the will for the deed."I think Mr. Chandos was going to speak further, but there came a knock at the door of the room, and Lizzy entered."Please, sir, may I speak with you?" she began."Speak away," said Mr. Chandos."Them gipsies are off, sir.""What if they are?" he answered."I have had my eye and my thoughts upon 'em ever since you were thrown, sir, and last night I walked to the common again, to see what I could make out. There was none of 'em about: the men were away, and the women were close inside their tent; but presently one came out, and I went up to her, and she took and asked me, the fool, whether I wanted my fortin told! 'No,' says I, 'I don't; but some of you wants yours told, and perhaps you'll get it done at the country's expense. Which of you female cheats was it that sprung before the gentleman at the great house and flung him from his horse?' Well, with that she abused me—oh, sir, the language she uttered! and all in a foreign tongue, for not a word could I make out, and the rest came out of their tent, and I should most likely have been pulled to pieces, if I hadn't left 'em. This morning they are gone, cleared right off, not a trace of 'em left on the common but some charred turf, where their wicked fires have been. But now, sir, what can be a clearer proof that your assailant was one of these women, than the fact of their decamping the instant they heard they were suspected? There's no doubt that what I said last night has driven them away."A long speech for Lizzy, and delivered somewhat curiously. She went through it very fast, and all in the same tone, as if repeating a piece from a book, imparting the idea that it had been rehearsed. Her eyes were on the ground, too, the whole of the time, never meeting those of her master. He looked at her a few moments before replying."Lizzy, girl, what is your motive for thus following up the gipsies to cast suspicion on them?""Motive, sir!" echoed Lizzy, with as much show of indignation as she dared assume."Ay, motive," he pointedly returned. "I shall begin to suspect that you know more of this attack upon me than you would like made public. I think it is you we must look to for explanation, not the gipsies."Did you ever see a pale face turn to a glowing, fiery red?—the scarlet of confusion, if not of guilt? So turned Lizzy's, to my utter amazement: could she have had any thing to do with it? She stammered forth a few deprecatory words, that, in suspecting the gipsies, she had only been actuated by the wish to serve Mr. Chandos, and backed out of the parlor.Backed out to find herself confronted by a tall, swarthy man, who had made his way into the hall without the ceremony of knocking for admittance. He was one of the gipsies. Lizzy gave a half shriek and flew away, and the man came inside the parlor, fixing his piercing eyes upon those of Mr. Chandos."It has been told to me this morning that you and your people accuse us of having assaulted you," he began, without prelude. "Master, I have come back ten miles to set it right.""I have not accused you," said Mr. Chandos. "The assault upon me—if it can be called such—proceeded from a woman, but I have no more cause to suspect that it was one of your women than I have to suspect any other woman in the wide world.""'Twas none of ours, master. We was 'camped upon your common, and you let us stop there unmolested; some lords of the soil drive as off ere we can pitch our tent, hunt us away as they'd hunt a hare. You didn't; you spoke kind to us, too, more than once in passing; and we'd have protected you with our own lives, any one of us, had need be. Do you believe me, master?"The man's voice was earnest, and he raised his honest eyes, fierce though they were, to Mr. Chandos, waiting for the question to be answered."I do believe you.""That's well, then, and what I came back hoping to hear. But now, master, I'll tell ye what I saw myself that same night. I was coming up this way toward your gates, and you passed me, riding fast. May be you noticed me, for I touched my hat.""I remember it," said Mr. Chandos."You rode in at a hand gallop, for I could hear the horse's hoofs in the silence of the evening. I met one of our fellows, and stopped to speak to him, which hindered me three or four minutes, and—you know them trees to the left of the gate, master, with posts afore 'em?""Well?" said Mr. Chandos."There stood a woman there when I got up. She was taking off a gray cloak, and she folded it and put it on her arm and walked away. Folks put on extra cloaks at night, instead of taking 'em off, was in my thoughts, and I looked after her.""Did you know her?""I never saw her afore. She was one in your condition of life, master, for her clothes were brave, and the rings glittered on her fingers. Next morning when we heard what had happened, we said she was the one. I have not seen her since.""Why did you not come and tell me this at the time?""Nay, master, was it any business of mine? How did I know I should be welcome? That's all, sir.""Will you take some refreshment?" said Mr. Chandos. "You are welcome to it.""Master, I don't need any."The man, with a rude salute to me, turned and departed, and we saw him treading the gravel walk with a fearless step. Mr. Chandos turned to me with a smile."What do you think of all this?""I am sure that the gipsies are innocent.""I have been tolerably sure of that from the first, for I knew that their interest lay not in wantonly attacking me. But what else do you think?""I think Lizzy's manner just now was strange; there was something not straight-forward in it; but I think it stranger still the account that man gave of the woman taking off the gray cloak, of her dress, and the rings glittering on her fingers.""There appears to be some mystery in it, to which we have not yet the clue," he remarked."If the motive was ill will to you, the same person may set upon you again, Mr. Chandos.""Then I must be upon my guard," he laughed, "and look out before me well, on a dark night."He rose as he spoke, took a stick in one hand, laid the other heavily on the table, and essayed to make a walk of it. But it was both painful and difficult. I approached him."Shall I not make a better aid than the table?""I can lean nearly my whole weight upon the table; I should not like to do so upon you.""I should like it indeed, Mr. Chandos. Let me help you."He smiled, and laid his hand upon my shoulder, taking a turn once up and down the room. Then he sat down on the 'sofa, put his foot upon a rest, and gently pulled me down beside him."I want to speak to you, Miss Hereford. You said you were going to write to Emily; what to say to her?""I intend to write to cancel my engagement with her, and to seek another.""And the motive power is, that you fear you are regarded as an encumbrance at Chandos."I could not deny it; but the color flushed into my features."I am grieved that through Emily's carelessness, a letter intended for my hands alone should have fallen into yours. But, as it has done so, you must listen to an explanation. There are certain family reasons which render it inexpedient for a stranger to be located at Chandos; even Emily herself would not at all times be welcome. Emily left you here. As the days went on, and we heard nothing from her, my mother desired me to write and inquire when she would be over, and to reprove her thoughtlessness in leaving you at Chandos, when she knew why it was more expedient that we should be alone. I simply wrote what my mother desired me; no more; and this letter of Emily's to-day is the answer to it. Now you have the whole gist of the affair. But I must ask you fully to understand that it is not to you personally my mother has an objection; on the contrary, she likes you; the objection applies to any one, save its regular inmates, who may be at Chandos. Did a royal princess offer a visit here, she would be equally unwelcome. Do you understand this?""Quite so. But, understanding it, I can only see the more necessity for my leaving.""And where would you go?"In truth I had nowhere to go, no asylum; and my silence told it him."No," he resumed, "Emily has left you here under our charge, and we cannot part with you, except to her. You said you must be guided by me in your reading; you must be guided by me also in this.""I should only be too willing," was my reply, "but you cannot imagine how uncomfortable is the feeling of knowing that I am intruding here in opposition to the wish of Lady Chandos.""She does not blame you for it; be assured of that; Emily gets all the blame. And I can tell you my mother has other things to think of just now than you—or Emily either. Will you try and make yourself contented?""If you say I am to do so. But I wish I could render myself useful to some one.""So you can; you can be so to me. I will constitute you my head nurse and useful companion. I shall use your shoulder at will, till my foot has its use again. Take care I don't tire you out.He held my hand in his, and gazed at me with those speaking eyes. A thrill of rapture ran through me, and I asked myself wherefore. Could it be that I was learning to love Mr. Chandos?I sat in the oak-palor through the live-long day; I had nowhere else to sit but in my bedroom. Dangerous companionship!—that of an attractive man like Mr. Chandos.He contrived to hobble up-stairs by the aid of Hickens in the afternoon, and remained some time in the apartments of Lady Chandos. In the evening he was back again, reading to me from a volume of Tennyson. Never had poetry sounded so sweet before; never will it sound sweeter; and when I went up-stairs to bed, that melodious measure and that still more melodious voice yet rang in my ears.To bed, but not to rest. What was the matter with me? I know not, but I could not sleep. Tossing and turning from side to side, now a line of the poems would recur to me: now would rise up the face of Mr. Chandos; now the remembrance of Lady Chandos's vexation at my being there. As the clock struck one, I rose from my uneasy bed, determined to try what walking about the chamber would do. Pulling the blind aside, I paused to look out on the lovely night.Why!—was I awake? or was I dreaming? There, under shade of the thick trees, keeping close to them as if not wishing to be seen, but all too plain to me nevertheless, paced Mr. Chandos. What had become of his lame foot? That he walked with difficulty, as one does who is weak, there was no denying, but still he did not walk lame. Did, or would, a state of somnambulancy cause a disabled limb to recover temporary service and strength? Every particle of reason I possessed answered NO. Then was Lizzy's theory right—that it was Mr. Chandos's spirit which walked there? I could not tell; the sight bewildered my brain and set my heart beating; and involuntarily there rushed over me Mrs. Penn's words—that it was the ghost of the dead Sir Thomas which haunted the grove of Chandos. With a smothered cry of superstitious terror, I flew back to the bed, leaped in, and covered my face with the bedclothes, one idea uppermost, of the many that crowded on me; if that was the spirit of Sir Thomas, he must have died a young man, and have borne an extraordinary likeness to Mr. Chandos.CHAPTER XXLIZZYA FEW uncomfortable days went on; uncomfortable in one sense. Heaven knows I was happy enough, for the society of Mr. Chandos was not becoming, but had become all too dear, and in it I was basking away the golden hours as they flew. But with most of the other inmates of the house, things did not seem to be at ease. Lady Chandos was still invisible, and, by what I could gather, growing rapidly worse. Mr. Chandos looked bowed down with a weight of apprehensive care. Hill was in a state of fume and fret, and the women servants gathered in groups in odd corners, and shiveringly whispered of the ghost that nightly haunted Chandos.What astonished me more than any thing, was, that no doctor was called in to Lady Chandos. Nor a day passed, but Hill was conferring upon the point with Mr. Chandos; but there appeared to be some impediment or dread attached to the calling one in—so far as I could make out from the few disconnected words that would now and then reach me. That Lady Chandos was dying—or something very near it—appeared to be a fact, and that medical aid was essential; but yet it seemed they did not dare to summon it. The surgeon came to Mr. Chandos every day; what would have been easier than for him to have gone up to see Lady Chandos? He never did, however; he never was asked to do so. Day after day he would say, "How is Lady Chandos?" and Mr. Chandos's reply would be "Much the same.""How is it they don't have a doctor to her?" Mrs. Penn said one day when she was In ray bedroom."What's the use of asking me? I can't tell why they don't.""That surly Hill won't answer a single question. All I can get out of her is, 'My lady's no better.' Mrs. Chandos goes into the west wing most days, but she is as close as Hill. I know what I think.""What do you think?" I asked, in my curiosity."That Lady Chandos is mad," she replied, dropping her voice, "and that they are keeping her in seclusion to conceal it from the world.""Mad!" I uttered."I mean what I say. Insane; gone out of her mind. Goodness knows she has had enough to drive her so."The theory was one I had never glanced at, and I doubted its probability."Did Lady Chandos show symptoms of it, in her interview with you?""No; I am bound to say she did not," was Mrs. Penn's answer. "She was calm and collected then.""Then that would seem to disprove your supposition, for she was taken ill previous to it. But—allowing that it is as you suggest—they would surely call in a doctor; any medical man, if requested, would keep the secret.""Ah, it's not altogether that, I expect," returned Mrs. Penn, in a significant tone. "You would keep it, and I would keep it, being inmates of the family; and yet you see how jealously we are excluded. I suspect the true motive is, that they dare not risk the revelations she might make."Revelations?" I repeated, in consternation."You don't know it, but there is an awful sword hanging over the Chandos family," she whispered. "It is suspended by a hair, and a chance word might cause it to fall; of that chance word the Chandoses live in dread. Lady Chandos, if she really be insane, might drop it.""Over which of them?" I exclaimed, aghast."Over all; every one of them. It is that, beyond question, which keeps Sir Thomas away; if the blow has to come, he can battle with it better in exile than he could at home.""What is its nature? Would it bring disgrace?""Disgrace? Ay! They lie under enough disgrace, as it is, but they would lie under greater then.""The Chandoses appear just those high, honorable people, whom disgrace cannot approach or touch. I speak of Lady and Mr. Chandos.""I tell you, child, that the Chandoses are disgraced for ever; banned in the eyes of the world. It killed old Sir Thomas; it must be killing Lady Chandos. Do you not observe how they shun others, and are shunned in turn? When do you ever see visitors at Chandos? On the one hand there's the disgrace; that has fallen; on the other there's this hanging sword; that has to fall. Had Lady Chandos lost her senses long ago, it would have been no wonder.""What is the disgrace?—the blow?""No, no," said Mrs. Penn, "it is not of a nature fitted for your years; and, were it, it would not be my place to reveal it. Wicked doings generally bring their own punishment. Harry Chandos—"She stopped suddenly. I rejoined, all too eagerly,"What of him? He cannot have been guilty of disgrace."A strange smile of derision flitted over the lips of Mrs. Penn."You do not know what he has been guilty of. And, if you did? Whether guilty or innocent, Harry Chandos can be nothing to you."She had turned her keen, gray eyes upon me, and was searching my countenance; that, and the remarks, telling home to my conscience, dyed my face a burning red. Her own cheeks flushed as she read the signs."Child," she impressively said, "if you are acquiring any liking for Harry Chandos, dis-acquire it. Put him far from you. That he may be a pleasant man in intercourse, I grant; but he must not become too pleasant to you, or to any other woman. Never waste your heart on a man who cannot marry."Cannot he marry?""No. But I am saving more than I ought," she softly added. "One gets led on unconsciously in talking, and each word brings out another.""Your caution to me against Mr. Chandos is superfluous; our positions in life are so different that the question of marriage cannot arise between us. Believe me, I never gave it a thought."I spoke the truth. The idea of marrying Mr. Chandos had never occurred to me in the remotest degree; had I ever suffered myself to glance at it I must have been what she called Lady Chandos—insane. The news that he could not marry, gave me pleasure, rather than the contrary, for my association with him could now be free, unrestrained by the fear of reproach that I bad designs upon his favor. Nevertheless, I speculated upon what could be the preventive cause."Why cannot he marry?" I inquired."You must not ask me," replied Mrs. Penn. "And the knowledge would not give you pleasure."She turned away as she spoke, and quitted the room, leaving me mystified in more ways than one. That day there was much conferring together with the heads of the house, Hill included, and a bed was made up for Mr. Chandos in a chamber of the west wing. I wondered why.He retired to it early, as soon as tea was over, shaking hands with me when he said good night."I may not see you to-morrow," he observed."Why not? Are you going out?""I do not feel well. It is possible that to-morrow I may keep my room.""Oh, Mr. Chandos! perhaps it is the fever!" For two or three cases of low fever had broken out in the neighborhood around."It is not fever," he sadly answered. "Nothing but what I have had before. Good-night, and take care of yourself."Consternation fell upon the house next morning. Mr. Harry Chandos was dangerously ill, and a physician was telegraphed for from London.It was so sudden, so unexpected, that no one seemed able to comprehend it. Was the physician really coming to Mr. Harry, or to Lady Chandos? To Mr. Harry, it was said: but no doubt be would see Lady Chandos also. As to Hill, she bustled about like anybody demented. Various articles that were wanted for the sick rooms she caused to be carried up to the west wing door, and then took them in herself. A large table was placed outside it, and on this the servants had to deposit their burthens, for not one, save herself, was allowed to penetrate within.He arrived in the afternoon, a Dr. Amos, the carriage having been sent to await him at the terminus, a slight-made man dressed in black, with a Roman nose, and spectacles resting on it. Hickens marshalled him to the door of the west wing, where Hill was in waiting.He stayed a long while—or so it seemed to me, but they said he was taking refreshments as well as seeing his patient. The servants all liked Mr. Chandos, and they stood peeping in doorways, anxious for the doctor to come out. I was restless as they were; more so; and passed from my chamber to the oak parlor, and from the oak parlor to my chamber. Halting for a moment at the door of the latter, I was just in time to encounter Hill, who emerged from the west wing with a jug in her hand."Hill, do wait a moment and tell me! Does he find Mr. Chandos dangerously ill?""There's a change for the better," she answered. "Mr. Chandos will be about again to-morrow. For goodness sake, don't keep me questioning now, Miss Hereford!"Not I. I did not care to keep her after that good news: and I ran down stairs again as light as a bird.The carriage was waiting before the portico, and soon Dr. Amos came down to it, attended by Hickens and Hill. I put my head out at the parlor door to steal a look after him, and saw, in the same moment, Mr. Dexter approach the house. He had heard the news of Mr. Chandos's alarming illness, and had come to inquire after him. Guessing who the gentleman was, about to step into the carriage, Mr. Dexter raised his hat, and accosted him."I hope, sir, you have not found Mr. Harry Chandos seriously ill?""Very ill, indeed; very ill," replied Dr. Amos, who appeared to be a pleasant man. "I fear there are but faint hopes of him.""Good heavens!" uttered the thunderstruck agent when he was able to speak. "But faint hopes! How awfully sudden it must have come on!""Sudden? Not at all. It has been coming on for some time. He may have grown worse rapidly, if you mean that."Dr. Amos entered the carriage with the last words, and it drove away, leaving his hearers to digest them; leaving me, I know, with a mist before my eyes and pulses that had ceased to beat. Hill's sharp tones broke the silence, bearing harshly upon Mr. Dexter."What on earth need you have interfered for? Can't a doctor come and go from a place but he must be smothered with questions? If you have got any thing to ask, you can ask me.""Why, Mrs. Hill, what do you mean?" he remonstrated. "I meant no harm, and I have done no harm. But what a pitiable thing about Mr. Chandos!""Doctors arn't oracles always," snapped Hill. "My opinion's as good as his, and I know Mr. Chandos will get better: there's every chance that he'll be about to-morrow.""I shall come up and see," said Dexter."Hill," I whispered, laying hold of her gown as she was flouncing past me, "you say he may be about to-morrow; but will he get well eventually?""That's another affair," answered Hill."Dr. Amos said it had been coming on a long while," I pursued, detaining her still. "What complaint is it?""It's just a complaint that you had better not ask about, for your curiosity can't be satisfied, Miss Hereford," was Hill's response, as she broke away.Hickens was leaning with an arm on the hall window apparently watching the retreating steps of Mr. Dexter. I went up to him."Hickens, do you know what is the matter with Mr. Chandos?""I don't know any more than you, miss. Mr. Chandos has had a vast deal of grief and trouble, and it may be telling upon him.""I wish I knew. I am sure, from the doctor's words, from the tone of his voice as he spoke them, that he is most seriously ill.""Well, I am afraid so. But we must be satisfied with what is told us, miss, and seek to know no further."Hill's opinion, in one part, proved to be a correct one, for the next day Mr. Chandos appeared to the household. He came down about twelve o'clock, looking pale and subdued—but so he often looked—and I must say I could detect little, if any, change in him. I started from my seat in the oak parlor, as he entered it, and flew up to him in the impulse of the moment. He took both my hands."Glad to see me again?""Yes, I am glad," I whispered, calming down my excitement, and swallowing certain tears that were going to rise. "Mr. Chandos, are you so very ill?""Who has been telling you that I am?" he inquired, walking to an armchair by help of my shoulder, but not releasing me when he had sat down in it."I heard Dr. Amos say so. He said—""What did he say? Why do you stop?"I could not tell him why I stopped. I could not say that it would not be right to disclose the opinion I had heard spoken—a genuine opinion, I am confident. Mr. Chandos helped me out."I suppose you were within hearing when the doctor said he had but faint hopes of me?""Yes, I was. But, Mr. Chandos, who could have told you that Dr. Amos said it?""I was told," he smiled. "All are not so cautious as you, my little maid.""But I hope it is not true. I hope you will get well.""Would it give you any concern if I did not?"My face flushed as I stood before him, and instead of answering, I bent it like a culprit—like a simpleton."The tidings were so sudden," I presently said. "You were well, to all appearance, the previous day; and then to hear you were taken ill, and might not recover, it came like a shock.""I may cheat the doctors yet," he rejoined, cheerfully."Have you been ill long?""I have not been quite well. Anxiety of mind will sometimes have its effect upon the body.""I suppose I must not inquire what is the matter with you? I asked Hill, and she was so angry with me.""You will never get any information out of Hill," he said, with a queer look. "And on this point I cannot give you more than she did. But the complaint is not catching, neither is it sleep-walking," he added, looking at me with a smile."Indeed I am not afraid. What was the doctor's opinion of Lady Chandos?""She did not consult him," he answered, evidently speaking in the impulse of the moment, but a vexed expression crossed his face immediately afterwards. Not consult him! I wondered much. "You need not say so, however, in the house," he resumed. "I consider you one of ourselves.""I will not repeat any thing you tell me, Mr. Chandos. But I wish you would not caution me; I wish you would fed convinced that I will not, and trust me entirely. Is there nothing I can do for you now?""Yes; you may bring me my desk here, and set it on the table."I reached his desk and placed it before him. He took his keys from his pocket, opened it, and searched its compartments, as if he were looking for something."This is extraordinary," he exclaimed at length."Have you lost any thing?""I cannot see my memorandum-book. You must have observed me making notes in it often; a small red book, with a gilt clasp.""To be sure I have.""On Wednesday last, the day before I was—was—taken ill," (he seemed to hesitate strangely at these words,) "I was writing in it after luncheon. I then—let me see—I then placed it in my desk, and locked the desk, and went up-stairs to ray mother's rooms. Now, did I leave my keys on the table, or did I not? Can you remember?"I could not. I did remember seeing him put the book in his desk and lock it; but what he did with the keys afterwards, I could not say. All this while he bad been taking things, chiefly papers, from the desk, and putting them in again, but there were no signs of the missing book."It is not here; that's an indisputable fact. Now, it is quite certain that it must have been abstracted; and there's no doubt I left my keys on the table. I do leave them about sometimes. How long did you sit in the room after I left it?""I was in and out all the afternoon. I had my embroidery here, and I went up-stairs once for a pattern, and once for some fresh cotton. There was scarcely time for any one to come in without my seeing them. Oh, and once, I recollect, I went outside to those rose trees.""Did any one at all enter the room?""Hickens did.""Oh, Hickens is nobody in an affair of this sort. He is as trustworthy as I am. Nevertheless, Mr. Chandos requested me to ring, and he ordered Hickens before him. The man seemed surprised; he evidently thought that Mr. Chandos had overlooked it in his desk."Inquire of the servants," said Mr. Chandos.Hickens departed, and came back again. Not one of the servants had been in the oak parlor that afternoon, he brought word."That is, they say they were not," observed Mr. Chandos. "But, Hickens, my desk could not have been opened and the book abstracted without hands.""I have no cause to think the servants are denying falsely, sir; their denial is hearty enough," returned the man. "I don't believe there's a servant in the house capable of such a thing.""Neither did I believe there was," said Mr. Chandos; "or, you may rest assured they would not have been allowed to remain in it."A regular commotion ensued. The house was hunted over (always excepting the two wings), and the servants were uncomfortable. As we were at tea that same evening, I and Mr. Chandos, we got into a discussion touching the wording of Madame de Mellissie's letter to me, and I ran into my room to get it. Just within the door I encountered Lizzy, darting out with such haste that she nearly knocked me down."What did you want in my room, Lizzy?"She murmured some incoherent answer about "taking the housemaid's place that evening;" but if she had entered to put the chamber to rights, she had not done it, or even touched it. Her manner, moreover, was confused, and her face a fiery red.I looked for the letter of Madame de Mellissie: I looked and looked, and could not find it. And yet I knew that I had placed and left it in a certain compartment of my smaller trunk. Had that letter also disappeared? But, as I searched, I became convinced that the box had been rummaged over, and I hastily of opened my larger trunk. That also had been ransacked. Nothing taken, though; nothing at least that I could find out then.A conviction stole over me that Lizzy had been at work. I don't know what I did not suspect of the girl—remembering her strange manner when she accused the gipsies to Mr. Chandos, seeing her concealed in my room, where she had no business whatever to be. Should I inform Mr. Chandos of my suspicions? As I quitted the room, deliberating the question, I saw a print gown, red and white, gathered close to the corridor window, and knew that it was Lizzy's."Come hither, Lizzy. I want you."She advanced slowly, as if she would fain have disobeyed. I retreated into the chamber with her, and closed the door."Lizzy, you must tell me what you were doing in my room. I insist upon it.""I was doing no harm, miss," she replied, in a pert tone."Some one has been doing harm," I continued. "I find my boxes have been opened and examined.""Boxes opened and examined!" retorted Lizzy, after a pause. "Why you don't suppose I'd do such a thing, miss, as touch people's boxes?""Lizzy, I tell you that some one has. And, finding you in the room, where you had no call to be, has made me wonder whether you are the curious party. The confused manner in which you rushed out was enough to create suspicion.""I have never laid a finger upon the boxes, or on any thing belonging to you, miss," passionately uttered Lizzy. "It's come to a pretty pass if I am to be suspected of that.""Will you tell me what you were doing in here?""Well, then I will tell; I can't be hung for it," she resolutely said. "I came in here to look out at your window, miss, wanting to see something in the grounds, which I thought might come there.""The ghost?" I said. And the instant the word had escaped, I could have cut my tongue out for saying it."So you know of it!" was Lizzy's answer. "Yes, miss, I was looking for it, for it has walked there several times lately. And I'll be upon my Bible oath, if necessary, that I never touched your boxes, or thought of such a thing as touching them."I should have believed the words from one in whom I had confidence; I did not believe them from Lizzy, but I let her go, and said no more.She pulled open the door with a jerk, admitting a current of air, and out went my wax taper. My eyes—I don't know why or wherefore—fell upon the grounds outside, perhaps in consequence of what the girl had avowed she was watching for. But oh! what did they rest upon? A wild cry escaped my lips, and out of the room and down-stairs, I flew, a victim to superstitious dread.In the old spot, underneath the pine trees, hovering about in the obscure walk, was the double of Mr. Chandos. Or was it the ghostly spirit of Sir Thomas.CHAPTER XXITHINGS MISSINGTHAT it was a real bona fide ghost (if so substantial a term as "real" can be applied to ghostly things) hovering in its favorite walk underneath the dark pine trees, I did not doubt in that moment of superstitious terror. In the broad sunlight of open day we are wonderfully disbelieving; ready to brave and laugh at all the ghosts that ever frightened us; but in the lonely, remote corridors of an old house, in the darkness of the evening, ghosts and their belongings appear far more tangible. All I know is, that figure seemed terribly tangible to me, and I flew across the lighted hall, and burst into the oak parlor where sat Mr. Chandos."Have you been waiting to rewrite the letter?" he immediately began, "forgetting that your tea stood, getting cold."I made no answer; I could not. I sank into my seat with a white face, panting and breathless."You look as if you had seen a ghost," he said, jestingly. "What has alarmed you?"Now, of all stupid tricks, what should I do but burst into tears. Whether it was the recent fright, whether it might be the effect of his mocking words, or whether it was simply my own nervous excitement, into a flood of tears went I. Never in all my life had I felt so awfully scared: it was as if something supernatural were creeping over me. Mr. Chandos rose and came to me."What is the matter?" he gravely said, his manner changing to one of tenderness."I cannot find Madame de Mellissie's letter," I replied, when I could swallow down my emotion, so as to speak coherently."But that is not the cause of your grief, your alarm: that you have been fearfully alarmed, I can see. How you tremble! What has done this? Nay, you must tell me.""But I do not like to tell you: it is so very foolish!" I answered, catching up a sob.I wish to know it; I wish it for your sake." he gently but firmly said: and there was that about Mr. Chandos, the quiet command of manner possessed by so few, which made it next to impossible to disobey him. Leaning my elbow on the arm of the chair, and sheltering my face with my hands, I told him that Lizzy's sudden opening of the door had put my light out, (not mentioning my suspicions of the girl,) and of the figure I had seen."And so you took it for a ghost!" he exclaimed. "Well, yon must be a goose. It was one of the men servants; nothing more alarming."The men servants never pass that way, Mr. Chandos. I have heard it so said since I came to Chandos, and I have never observed one go there."One word led to another, and I related to him the conversation I had overheard between the maid servants in the ironing-room. I thought he would have gone into a fit, he laughed so much, when I told him Lizzy's theory of its being his "double" that walked at night; I had never seen a man laugh so heartily."I don't know which is best or worst, a double or a ghost," he said. "I understood they believed it was my ghost walking, when—when—they have unhappily seen myself there at midnight; though, as I observed to you, I did not know how they reconciled the hypothesis with my being in the land of the living. But why should you have been alarmed? you cannot have adopted this ghostly theory. Being before you in real flesh and blood, you cannot fear that I have faded into the essence of spiritualism.""Oh, Mr Chandos, don't think me so absurd! It is not that.""What is it, then?""An idea has been given to me that a ghost does walk at Chandos. Not yours.""Whose," he returned; but the lines of his mouth fell, and he evidently dreaded my answer."May I tell you?""You must tell me.""Your late father's; Sir Thomas Chandos'He turned sharply round, strode towards the mantelpiece, leaned his elbow upon it, and stood there, his back to me."From whom did you hear this?" he asked."Mrs. Penn mentioned it.""Whence did she get it?""I do not know. She said that a ghost haunted Chandos; the spirit of the late Sir Thomas.""And you believed her?""I do not think I did believe her. But I did see it—or something else—walking there but now; perhaps Lizzy's having said she was watching for the ghost caused me to look; caused me to be more alarmed—""What did you say?" interrupted Mr. Chandos. "Lizzy told you she was watching for the ghost?—watching for it?""I was not pleased—the reason is of no consequence—at Lizzy's having been in my room, and I insisted upon knowing why she went into it. She would not tell me at first; but at length she confessed that she was looking for the ghost. It was walking often now, she said, and she had gone into my chamber to watch for it."If ever I saw a man's countenance turn to one of livid dread, Mr. Chandos's did, at that moment. He seemed scarcely to know what he was about; he went to the door, hesitated at it, came back, hesitated again, and finally turned to me."And you profess to have seen some figure there, underneath the pine trees, immediately after Lizzy spoke?" he exclaimed."I did see it, indeed, Mr. Chandos. It is no profession; it was no fancy.""Why did you look?" he uttered, almost in a wailing tone."It is true, then?""Child! these things are not for you to know.""But how can I help it. I did not seek the information. I did not look towards the pines deliberately. Do not be angry with me, Mr. Chandos.""Angry!" he exclaimed, laying his hand with a gesture of affection on my shoulder; "you mistake. I wish I could have shielded you from this alarm: I wish you had never heard these reports: I wish—unless you could have been happier—that you had not come to Chandos. Where is Lizzy now?""She went down stairs; she was gone before I grew frightened.""Then she did not see the—the—what you saw?""I think not."He rang the bell. When Hickens answered it, he desired that Hill should be sent to him."Can you not contrive to look more closely upon the women servants, and keep them to their occupations?" he said, when Hill appeared. "Here's Lizzy has been watching from the upper windows after what she calls a ghost."Hill's face presented a picture of consternation. Her eyes and mouth alike stood open."A ghost!" she repeated, at length."Watching after a ghost. If the servants cannot be contented to mind their own business, they had better leave Chandos.""Who on earth has been talking to her?" was Hill's muttered answer; but she looked more like one in a state of petrifaction than not, and the words seemed to indicate that the ghost was no stranger to Hill. Mr. Chandos recalled her to herself."Hill!" was all he said."I'll see about it, sir. I'll give that Lizzy a word of a sort.""I think you had better give her no ' word' at all, in the sense you indicate," returned Mr. Chandos. "Talking about these things, worse still, scolding, only whets the curiosity. Let the ghost die out, Hill; only keep the women closely to their occupations at night. Gather them all together in one room, and sit with them yourself, if need be.""You allude to the rumor of the ghost, the commotion this Lizzy seems to be stirring up; you mean let that die out, don't you, sir!" returned Hill, who had appeared somewhat puzzled by her master's words."Of course: what else should I mean?""It may be the best plan, after all, Mr. Harry," she replied, thoughtfully. "But I'll just step and look Lizzy up now."She was leaving the room when he called her back."Say nothing to my mother, Hill: it would do no good, you know; only make her worse than she is. You and I must see what we can do towards settling this rumor.""But, sir—""I understand what yon would say," he hastily interrupted: "leave that to me."Hill lifted her hands as she quited the room, her gesture one of tribulation."If that beast of a Lizzy gets talking of this, and spreads it amidst the out-door-men!" she uttered. "I always said that girl brought no good to Chandos!"Mr. Chandos followed her from the parlor, and I heard him go out at the hall door. More than an hour elapsed, and he did not come in again. What could he be doing, he with his lame foot? He could walk a little, and manage to get up-stairs, but it was with difficulty. He came in at length. I thought he looked so weary, as he threw himself into his chair."You have never been walking about, have you?" I asked."My foot would not have permitted that. I have been sitting most of the time. And you—have you been up-stairs again, spirit-gazing?"I shook my head. Was he going to throw mockery and disbelief upon it, as he had at first essayed to do?It appeared that he was inclined to throw nothing upon it just then; mockery or any thing else, for he sat a long while in silence, breaking it at last abruptly."Did Mrs. Penn see, or profess to see, that sight to-night?""Not that I heard, or know of. I have not seen her since dinner.""You and she will be conversing of this again, I expect.""The converse has hitherto been of her seeking, not mine. Why, Mr. Chandos? Should you wish me to oppose her assertion that it is the spirit of Sir Thomas that appears?" I asked, in a hushed tone."No," he sadly cried. "I cannot, unfortunately, ask you to do that."What did that speech mean? Did it really bear the intimation that he could not in truth deny it? It seemed to do so; and again a superstitious creeping came over me. Mr. Chandos sat with his eyes shaded, when the door opened, and Mrs. Penn came in. He rose and handed her a chair."Mrs. Chandos has gone into her ladyship's apartments for half an hour," she began, as she took it; "so I embraced the opportunity of coming down the while. What is this story, Mr. Chandos, of your losing a manuscript from your desk? Emma mentioned it when she came in about her housemaid's duties this evening."Emma, it may be remarked, en passant, was the housemaid to the east wing; Harriet to the chambers on the first floor generally, mine included; Lizzy to the west wing; but it would frequently be the pleasure of Lady Chandos that Lizzy did not enter her apartments for days together, only Hill."Not a manuscript," replied Mr. Chandos. "A memorandum book.""Oh, I understood her to say a manuscript," said Mrs. Penn. "How did you lose it?""I should like to know how. A day or two ago I locked it up safely in my desk, and it has disappeared from it.""You must have left your keys about.""There is little doubt of it. I am naturally careless with them.""Were the contents of consequence? I mean were they of a strictly private nature?""Fortunately, they were not of much consequence," answered Mr. Chandos. "They chiefly consisted of notes relative to the every day business of the estate, and a few private items concerning myself. Some things are entered in hieroglyphics of my own," he continued, with a half laugh, "and I'll defy the thief to make them out, however clever he may be.""It is a bad practice to leave keys where they may be picked up, and perhaps used," Mrs. Penn answered in a dreamy tone."So it is," assented Mr. Chandos, "where you are not sure of the people about you. But, until now, I thought I could have answered for the honesty of mine.""Do you suspect any one of the servants?""Not one in particular: as I say, I believed them all to be trustworthy. I do not know whom to suspect ""How long have the maids lived with you?""Various terms. Most of them some two or three years.""You will wonder why I put these questions, and I hope yon will not deem them impertinent," pursued Mrs. Penn in a confidential tone, as she drew her chair nearer Mr. Chandos. "But the truth is that I have lost something also from my work-box. Though I assure you I did not intend to speak of it, and should not have done so, but for being made acquainted with this loss of yours.""I am sorry to hear it," said Mr. Chandos. "Was it of value?—jewelry, or any thing of that kind?""Oh, no, not jewelry: only a piece of lace. It was underneath the tray of my work-box, which for the last day or two had been standing in the library. Three yards of what we call honiton lace, about two inches wide. That it was safe yesterday, I can answer for.""And you have missed it?""I missed it this morning. The first thing I saw, on lifting the tray, was the absence of the lace, for it lay there without paper. I inquired of Harriet, also of Emma and of Mrs. Chandos's maid, whether they had seen a piece of lace lying about—I did not like to say openly to them that it had been taken from my work-box; it would have seemed like casting a suspicion upon them. They said they had not; and really I cannot doubt them, for they all appear to be straightforward and honest.""Do you keep the work-box locked?" asked Mr. Chandos."Yes—I am coming to that. I keep it locked, and the bunch of keys I have put in the left-hand drawer of the chest-of-drawers in my bed-room: for my keys are heavy and weigh my dress-pocket down; and, as you observe, it never occurred to me that there were any but honest servants at Chandos. This morning I opened the drawer for my keys. None were there. Curious to say, they were in the other drawer, the one on the right hand: so, whoever had taken them, forgot which drawer they had lain in, and put them back into the wrong one.""I don't like this," said Mr. Chandos, after a pause."It is not pleasant. It is not the loss of one thing disappearing from a house, but we never feel safe; there's the fear that other things may go. Besides—""Mrs. Chandos is back in her rooms, ma'am," said Emma, entering."Thank you," said Mrs. Penn to the girl "Then I must be going also," she added to Mr. Chandos, rising and pushing away her chair. He rose also."Take better care of your keys," he observed, "so that the pilferer, whoever it may be, shall have no chance again. As to the lace, Mrs. Chandos will make good its loss to you.""Oh dear, no! Pray do not talk in that way," she interrupted. "I shall be sorry to have mentioned it if you do. The lace is nothing, but the hearing of your own loss determined me to tell you of this."She left the room. I could have informed Mr. Chandos, had I chosen, that my boxes had also been visited; but I did not. As to the letter of Madame de Mellissie, he appeared to think only that I had mislaid it."I cannot fathom this," he presently said, after an interval of silence, "unless, indeed, there should be two light-fingered ladies in the house. Can you?""I think one who would take lace would be unlikely to take a memorandum-book.""Precisely. Mrs. Penn's lace must have been cribbed by one of the girls; there's no doubt of that. But if the same person visited my desk, there were other articles lying there of more value than a worthless old memorandnm-book. There was a gold paper knife, there was a large gold seal with our,coat-of-arms; there was some loose silver open to view, and other things, nothing of which was touched."That his argument had sound reasoning in it, was indisputable. But which of the two thieves was Lizzy? That she was the one who had turned over my boxes, and possessed herself of the letter, her confusion betrayed. Had she taken the lace? or had she taken the memorandum-book? My doubts ran to the conviction that she had taken BOTHMrs. Penn stood at the door of the east wing when I went up-stairs that night."Won't you come in for a minute?" she said. "Mrs. Chandos has returned to my lady's apartments. Look here," she continued, as I followed her into a sitting-room, "this is the work-box: I will show you where the lace was."Unlocking the box and lifting out the tray, she pointed to a corner. It was a large handsome box; a beautiful box; tortoise shell, inlaid with silver, its fittings of silver and sky-blue velvet; its scissors (save the steel part), its thimble, bodkin, etc., of gold."Were these things in at the time?" I asked."Yes; and yet they were not taken. But I account for it in this way—though of course I cannot say whether my theory may be the true one. I think the thief may have been afraid to abstract articles of positive value, like gold, but probably hoped that a yard or two of lace would scarcely be missed: or, if missed, that little fuss would be made over it. The loss of it has vexed me, though. It was a bit of expensive lace, and I was going to appropriate it to a collar and sleeves. Besides, as I said, the fact is most disagreeable, we don't know what may go next.""It is disagreeable. Do none of the servants come in here but Emma and Mrs. Chandos's maid?""You forget that the box was in the library when the loss occurred; Miss Hereford. It had been standing there for two days. Mrs. Chandos went in there to sit, and I carried my work-box with me and left it behind. Is there any one of the women servants you might suspect more than another?" she added, lowering her voice."I have been so short a time at Chandos as to possess little knowledge of the servants," was my evasive answer, scarcely liking openly to accuse Lizzy. No sooner was it uttered than steps were heard passing outside the door, and Mrs. Penn laid her finger on her lips."It is Mrs. Chandos," she whispered. "You must steal away as soon as she is in her room: visitors to the east wing are against the law."I did as she bade me, and proceeded to my own chamber for the night, keeping my curtains close, you may be very sure, to shut out all sights, spiritual or natural, there might be in the grounds.I wish I could have shut out all such sights the next day. But one met me then, the worst I could picture of natu-ral; almost as dreaded as any thing spiritual: the form of Mr. Edwin Barley.At the extremity of the grounds near the outer hedge, not far from the front gates, but hidden from them, was an old pavilion, or summer house, enclosed on three sides, and the entrance to which could be gained only by a path leading directly from Chandos House. At its back, looking out on the prickly bushes and thorns that surrounded it, was a small casement window. I was standing underneath one of the neighboring trees, leaning against its trunk, and tired with a long walk, when a smothered voice smote upon my ear, and I became aware that a man, in the garb of a gentleman, had pushed a way through the prickly shrubs, and was standing at this same little window, holding a whispered conversation with some one within the pavilion, his accents sounding confidential.The other voice I could not catch, whether it was that of a man or woman; though a faint tone, once raised higher than the rest, seemed to indicate the latter. Who, from Chandos, could be holding confidential intercourse with Mr. Edwin Barley? Again there was but one whom my suspicions could rest upon, and that one was Lizzy.But how came she to know Mr. Edwin Barley? and what sort of communication could she be holding with him—what topic of interest could they possess in common? Was Lizzy betraying the secrets of Chandos House?—I mean the doings. And what was there to betray, that could matter to anybody beyond it? unless, indeed, the tale of the ghost might satisfy wondering curiosity. Mr. Edwin Barley's words came louder now."It must have been some serious attack—for a physician to be telegraphed for in that haste. Why did they not call in a doctor from the neighborhood? You say he seemed as well as usual when he emerged again from the west wing. That's another odd thing: why did he go into the west wing to sleep, away from his own chamber?"A pause. It was occupied by the answer, but of that I could not hear so much as a tone. Mr. Edwin Barley resumed."There's a mystery about it all that I can't dive into. But I will dive into it, mark you: so take heed that you do your work well. Why does the old woman keep herself shut up?"Another inaudible answer."Nonsense about not comprehending it!" resumed Mr. Edwin Barley, irascibly. "You must comprehend it—what else are you here for? Poke and peer and pry till you do comprehend it: for, know it I will. I have not laid my plans and taken this trouble to be outdone at last. Have you forgotten the past years of fever?"Another answer."That there's something to be discovered connected with him, I know; and I tell you that discovered it shall be," emphatically pronounced Mr. Edwin Barley. "They'd not live in this strange, retired manner for nothing. What do you say? Rubbish! they'd court some society as well as other folks, if they dared. The dark secret gone, does not prevent them: rely upon it there's darkness around them still: perhaps, ay, perhaps in the very house. It's strange you can worm nothing out of his wife. I know I could, had I your opportunities. Cautious and reserved to you, do you say? She has no cause to be, knowing what you do know. Then again, the postman! you are doing your work by halves."A further answer, and a somewhat long one. An oath broke from Mr. Edwin Barley."Lose your place if you dared to interfere with the postman! Can't the man be bribed? You know I don't care what money I spend over this. See what can be done."Another pause."Don't be a fool! I can't attempt to bribe the man; I have no plea; I am not living at Chandos. You might. You might say to him ' I am expecting a letter that I don't care for my lady or Mr. Chandos to know I receive, and if you'll let me have view of the letters first—I'll be waiting in the grounds for the purpose—I'll give you a five-pound note.' The fellow would fall in with it inevitably, and yon would thus see what letters they have and where they come from: might manage to get into your possession any one that should be suspicious. What's that? You can't always be out of doors when the postman's expected? I daresay you could, with a little contrivance: where there's a will, there's a way."Here occurred another interval of silence, which did not appear to be filled up with the speaking of either of them. Mr. Edwin Barley took up the discourse again."How do you get on with her? Cautious and reserved also? oh, she's that, is she? But little to do with her? few opportunities? You have got your cue with regard to her; though she is of slight consequence. Is that gray cloak safe? It would not do to get it recognised, you know. Well, if you are sure it's nothing more than other gray cloaks that are common, it would not matter I suppose if it were seen; but it's better to keep it out of view. Any thing been heard about the ghost?"The mocking derision with which Mr. Edwin Barley spoke the concluding sentence cannot well be described, and at the answer he burst into a smothered laugh."What an idiot you are, to believe in such folly! But you women are invariably superstitious. A troubled conscience will make folks 'walk' in life, but it won't bring them back after death. Hold your tongue,—what? Oh, I thought you were going to insist on the ghost. Upon thorns, lest you should be missed and called for? I'll depart, then; I have nothing particular to say further."Mr. Edwin Barley came crushing back through the shrubs, and I gathered myself up into the smallest possible compass, my petticoats around me, amidst the trees. He stole away in an opposite direction, upon which I made the best of my way round into the path which led from the house to the pavilion Whoever had been there, however, had had ample time to get away before I reached it, and I could see nobody.I ran on to the house, round to the servants' entrance. I was determined to see, if possible, whether Lizzy had been out, and I had an excuse for entering the kitchen."Oh, cook, would you give me a little warm water? a gnat has just stung my wrist." This was truth; it was stung as I was listening to Mr. Edwin Barley. "Perhaps f I bathe it with hot water at once, it will not inflame."The cook hastened to draw the water from the boiler, and set the basin on the table underneath the window. Harriet was in the kitchen, and offered to assist me, but I would not trouble her. Mrs. Hill also came in."Where's Lizzy?" asked she, "is she not here?""No, she's not here," was the immediate answer of the cook, spoken with irritation. "She's off again—as she always is. I sent her to get the eggs, for the boy never brought them in this morning, and she has been gone pretty near an hour! It's a shame.""It is not Lizzy's work, that you should send her," remarked Mrs. Hill; "but she has no business to stop. Have you hurt your hand, Miss Hereford!"I told her what it was, and she left the kitchen again, ordering the cook to dispatch Lizzy to her in the housekeeper's room when she came in."You needn't have told mother Hill," remonstrated Harriet, to the cook; speaking in an undertone, on account of my presence. "She finds fault enough, without our helping her on with it.""I'm not going to put up with Lizzy, then, if you are!" roared out the cook, caring nothing whether I was present or not. "Send her upon an errand, and there she stops. My custard ought to have been made, and set to cool by this time. She gets talking to the outdoor men, that's what she does.""That woman was here again last night," rejoined Harriet." I say, who is she? coming after Lizzy, as she does! Why shouldn't Lizzy be open about it?"

" I asked her who it was, the other day, but she'd give me no answer. You know that weeping ash, off yonder, to the right? Well, there they stood with their heads together, last night, Lizzy and the woman. Twenty minutes, I'm sure, they were there. I should like to know what's up between them. There was always something odd about Lizzy; she never will say any thing of herself, and none of us know what she was before she came to Chandos."" There'll be something odder about her yet, if she don't speedily bring them eggs," retorted the cook. "I won't put up with this."Harriet was called away. I dried my hand, and departed also, taking the out-of-door way to the front of the house. Truth was, I was watching still for Lizzy.And I saw her. She came darting from one of the obscure paths, her basket of eggs carried carefully in her hand, and her face red and flustered, as if she had been walking or talking herself into a heat."Lizzy," I said, confronting her, "they are waiting for the eggs. Where have you been?""Don't stop me, miss, please; cook's in a rage as it is, I know," was all the answer I received; and Lizzy darted on.Could I wish for better confirmation that she had been Mr. Edwin Barley's companion? I thought not. The path she had now come from was not one which would lead her to the pavilion; but it was evident that she had been somewhere else since she left it; perhaps getting the eggs.CHAPTER XXIITHE FOOTSTEPS IN THE WALK AT CHANDOSREALLY mine was, just now, a strange life. A young girl, as I was, living in that house without any protection of my own sex, and thrown constantly into the society of Mr. Chandos. More unrestrained companionship than there was between us, could scarcely exist, had we been brother and sister. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea; we two were alone at all. I presided at breakfast and tea, he at lunch and dinner. And very much were we together in the day, for the oak parlor was my only sitting-room, and he made it chiefly his. It was very pleasant; too pleasant; many might have said though, that it was less prudent.A conviction was gradually growing upon me that some strange mystery did attach to Mr. Chandos, and what I overheard from Mr. Edwin Barley strengthened it. "That there's something to be discovered connected with him, I know; and I tell you that discovered it shall be." Those words had haunted me ever since. Was the secret a disgraceful one? a "dark" one, as Mr. Edwin Barley intimated? I could not think it.No, I could not. As he sat there before me with his calm, pale face and its sweet expression, it was against the dictates of common sense to believe that ill or wicked antecedents attached to him. We were at breakfast. Several days had passed since the one spoken of in the last chapter, and Mr. Chandos could walk nearly as well as he had ever done. The surgeon begged him not to walk, assuring him that it was necessary for the injured foot to have rest still.It was a lovely autumn morning. The fire burnt briskly in the, grate, but the window, near which we sat, was open. Mr. Chandos was telling me that I ought to take advantage of the fine day and be out in it as much as possible, when Mrs. Penn entered, with a pale face and marks of agitation. But, before going on, I must mention a trifling occurrence which had taken place on the previous night.I was in my room, dressing for dinner, when a knock came to the door, and I admitted Mrs. Penn."Busy?" cried she, perceiving that my dress was off and my hair down."I shall have finished directly. Will you take a seat?""Oh, this dreary life at Chandos!" she uttered, sinking into a chair: "it is dreary, and I cannot conceal that I find it so. There's no sociability: everybody seems engrossed with his or her own pursuits: even you, Miss Hereford, are not half the companion you might be.""I may not intrude into the apartments of Mrs. Chandos.""But there are other ways and means. You might come out with me in the grounds sometimes, or invite me in here to sit and chat with you. I have been making a stupid mistake," she continued, slightly turning her left hand, in which was a sealed letter. "I went down to give this to the butler, that it might go 

with the other letters, and he says they are gone. I thought the man called for the letters at half-past five.""It is at five that he calls for them.""So I find. I shall know better in future. But I am vexed about it, for the letter is of some consequence, and now it can't go till to-morrow."She put the letter into a small morocco reticule with steel clasps, took her keys from her pocket and locked it."These little reticules are the most convenient things, Miss Hereford. Have yon one?""No: but I have a sort of carpet reticule, small, that locks. I bought it at the bazaar at Nulle. What a pretty little reticule that is!""It was the gift of a friend. Allow me to fasten your dress for you."I thanked her, but laughingly said that I was accustomed to dress myself. She laughed too; observed that school-girls generally could help themselves, having no choice upon the point, and turned to look from the window."How I wish you would grant me a request!" she suddenly exclaimed."What is it?""They do say, you know, that the spirit of Sir Thomas may be seen, on a moonlight night, somewhere over in the walks there to the right," she answered, lowering her voice. "If you would let me come and watch from your windows after you are in bed; I would give the world to see it," she emphatically uttered. "I know that I should be fearfully excited, were it to appear, but with you in the room I could restrain my terror. Will you let me?"I could not speak for some moments, so entire was my surprise. An impulse arose within, prompting me to deny the request utterly."Mrs. Penn, I dare not. If you were able to restrain your terror, I could not restrain mine; I should raise the house with my screams. Since I heard of this ghost, I have kept my curtains closely drawn at night, and no persuasion would induce me to open them. There is another consideration. I am a visitor of the family, and I should not deem it quite right or honorable to be prying into an affair that must indisputably give pain and annoyance to them.""You are a little coward," she good-humoredly exclaimed. "You will tell me, I suppose, to take my bravery to the library window, and look from thence; but that ugly clump of dark trees takes off the view of the pine paths from the library windows. The best windows for seeing them must be those of Mr. Chandos. I always had a love of the marvellous—and a great terror of it also. As a child I was allowed to read ghost stories and murders, and those sort of things, and of course it told upon mo. I think it perfectly wicked to allow children such tales. I don't believe the impression they make is ever completely overcome.""But you do not believe in ghosts?""I should be ashamed to say I do believe in them; and yet the subject does bear for me a terror and a charm. You are ready to go down, I see; so goodbye for the present."I had reached the foot of the stairs, when I happened to look up the well of the staircase. There was the face of Mrs. Penn regarding me with strange intensity. What did she see to look at?Well, all this had taken place the previous evening, and I sat at breakfast with Mr. Chandos, when she came in, pale and agitated."I beg your pardon," she said, slightly bowing to Mr. Chandos, as she passed him to approach me, evidently too much flustered to stand upon ceremony. "I left my reticule in your room last night, Miss Hereford."

"Did you? I did not know it.""Neither did I until this morning," she returned. "The fact is, I never thought about it at all. I went close up to your window—as you may remember—and was looking out. I suppose I must have laid the reticule in the window seat, or let it drop there unknowingly: at any rate, I went from the room without it as it appears.""If you left it in the window seat, there it will be," I interrupted; "I did not touch it or see it.""There it was," she said, holding out her hand, which contained the unclasped reticule. "But, Miss Hereford, it has been opened.""I do not understand you, Mrs. Penn," I returned, looking at her."I am sure you will make allowance for me if I appear a little excited," she rejoined, in a somewhat calmer tone. "I do not seek to cast suspicion upon any one: but I cannot deny that I am both annoyed and angry. You would be so yourself, Mr. Chandos, did such a thing happen to you," she added, suddenly turning to him."Take a seat, and explain to me what it is that has happened," replied Mr. Chandos, handing her a chair."Thank you, no," she said, rejecting the seat. "I cannot stay to sit down, I must return to Mrs. Chandos: it was she who recommended me to come and speak to Miss Hereford. Did you observe that I put the letter, which was too late for the post, into my reticule?" she resumed, to me."Yes, I saw you do so.""I locked it, and—""I saw that also," I interrupted. She continued."This morning, when I was getting up, I missed the reticule. I looked for it everywhere: and then it occurred to me that I might have left it in your room. I sent Emma to ask you, but you were gone down, and she found it lying in the window seat, and brought it to me. I unlocked it, suspecting nothing: I had left a pair of nail-scissors in it which I wanted—""I beg your pardon, Mrs. Penn: I thought you said it was open.""It had been opened—you shall hear. I unlocked the reticule, and the first thing I saw was my letter lying upon the envelope. The envelope had been unsealed, and the letter taken out—and no doubt read: proving that the reticule had been unlocked. I could have cried for vexation. It is a private letter, written to a close friend, and I would have given £5, rather than that it should have met any other eye.""This is most extraordinary?" exclaimed Mr. Chandos. "Is that the envelope?"pointing to one in her hand."This is it: and this is the letter," she replied, with some slight temper, which I am sure Mr. Chandos thought very excusable: I did. I recognised it for the evelope I had seen the previous evening: it had been torn just above the red seal. "First lace, and then letters: there must be somebody with false keys in the house," went on Mrs. Penn.Remembering my own boxes and Mr. Chandos's desk, I entertained no doubt of that. "Have you questioned the servants?—I allude to the girls who attend to the rooms," Mr. Chandos asked her."No, I have not had the opportunity. In the moment of the discovery I spoke out before Mrs. Chandos, and then came here.""Then allow me to speak first," said Mr. Chandos, and Mrs. Penn acquiesced and retired. He sat a few moments with his head upon his hand in a musing attitude, and then rang the bell." I should suppose this daring act must have taken place last evening when you were at dinner," he observed to me. "Should not you?""I can only say that no servant entered my room this morning before I came down-stairs. And, to judge by what Mrs. Penn says, and the short time I have been down, she must have sent Emma to look for it nearly at the same period.""Let me see," said Mr. Chandos, "who attends to the middle rooms?. Harriet. But the other maids can go in if they please: they are not inaccessible, like the rooms in the wings. Did you not observe the bag?""I saw it in Mrs. Penn's hands last night, when she put the letter in. We left the room together, and the next time I went into it the curtains were drawn, so that I could not see the window seat. I undrew them this morning, but, being late in getting up, I was too hurried to notice any thing.""Hickens,"said Mr. Chandos, when the servant appeared, "I wish to speak to Emma. Send her hither."The girl came in, wondering. Mr. Chandos accosted her in a careless tone, careless from intent."Did Mrs. Penn send you just now to Miss Hereford's room in search of a, bag?""Yes, sir.""Where did you find it?""It was lying in the window seat, sir. I took it to her.""Was it locked?""I' m sure, sir, I don't know. I did not try it. I was shut.""Was any person in the room?""Nobody at all, sir. I think. Miss Hereford had just gone down.""Go and send Harriet to me," continued Mr. Chandos. "There is nothing to be learnt from Emma," he added to me: "she evidently knows nothing of the matter.""No, nor Harriet either," was the response of my inmost heart. But I did not speak it."Harriet," began Mr. Chandos, when she appeared, "were you in Miss Hereford's room last evening?""I went in to turn down the bed, sir, and put the room to rights generally," was the answer."Did you observe a bag, or reticule, in the room?""Yes, I did, sir. There was one laid on the window seat. I took it up in my hand, and thought what a pretty thing it was: I had never seen it before. ""Did yon open it?""Open it! No, sir, that I did not. I think it was locked, for I saw there was a keyhole: at any rate, it was close shut. I did not keep it in my hands a moment, but put it down where I found it, and drew the curtains.""Who else went into Miss Hereford's room last evening?""Why, sir, how can I tell?" returned Harriet, after a pause of surprise. "What I have to do in the room does not take five minutes, and then I am not anigh it afterwards. Twenty folks might go in and out without my knowing of it.""Were any of the other maids in, to your knowledge?""Not to my knowledge, sir," answered Harriet, shaking her head. "None of them go up to the best rooms much, except Lizzy and Mrs. Hill: but if they did, I don't see what they could want in Miss Hereford's room.""You may go," said Mr. Chandos. And away she went, glad to be released. The next he sent for was Hill. To her he imparted what had occurred, and ordered her to find out, if possible, what maid servants had absented themselves from the rest. Hill departed, and came back with her report. Not one of the maids, for a wonder, had quitted the sewing-room the previous evening. Lizzy, Emma, and Harriet had gone down from the upper rooms nearly together, and had remained together for the evening: they were making their winter gowns."Then, Hill, where does the mystery lie!" sharply responded Mr. Chandos.Hill apparently did not like the tone, and her complexion heightened."It doesn't lie with me, sir, that's all I can say; and I should believe that the maids would be the last to pry into other folks's letters. What good could it do them?"He suffered her to depart, and Hickens came in to remove the things. Mr. Chandos paced the room, more perturbed, I thought, than the case warranted. By-and-by he sat down to his desk, drawing it before him."Halloa?" he broke forth when he had opened it."What is the matter?" I asked, feeling startled."What is the matter?" I asked, feeling startled."So they have walked into the trap, have they?" he muttered, without answering me, as he continued to look over his desk, as if searching it. Presently he turned to me."The theory I have adopted is, either that we have two black sheep in the house, or that one is doing duty for two, and is admirably cunning over it. Mrs. Penn lost some lace, which could only have been pilfered by some petty thief, from the petty motives of mere stealing. I, on the contrary, lost a memorandum-book, but the valuables in the desk were left untouched. That memorandum-book must have been abstracted with a view to pry into my private affairs, or those of the Chandos family. I pondered over these things for some days, and it struck me that the losses would not stop there. At any rate, I determined to mark some money and place it in my desk in a conspicuous place; and I did so yesterday, locking up my desk afterwards. Two sovereigns and two half crowns was the money I marked—""And has it disappeared?" I interrupted, in my eagerness."All of it. See, I put it here.""Mr. Chandos, it seems quite certain that some one in the house has false keys!""It appears certain that they must have some means of opening and closing locks without leaving any trace behind. Say nothing of this in the house: I shall act decisively now."He wrote a hasty note, directed it, and sealed it with the Chandos coat-of-arms; then ordered one of the grooms into his presence; James, the man's name was."Saddle one of the horses for yourself. When you are ready, come round with him, and I will give you directions."The man was soon equipped. He appeared leading the horse. Mr. Chandos went out, and I stood at the open window."Are you quite ready to go?""Quite, sir.""Mount then."The servant did as he was bid, and Mr. Chandos continued, putting the note he had written into his hands,"Go straight to Warsall, to the police station, and deliver this. Do not loiter."James touched his hat, then his horse, and cantered off.Ever since I had seen the police at Mr. Edwin Barley's, at the time of the murder of Philip King, I had felt an invincible dread of them; they were always associated in my mind with dark tales of mystery—arising, no doubt, from the fact that my personal acquaintance with them was caused by the dark fate of that young man. The gens-de-arms in France had not tended to reassure me; with their flashing uniform, their cocked hats, their terrifying swords, and their fiery horses; but the police, there, were quite another sort of people. All the harm I saw of them was, their blowing up of the maid servants, the threatening them with a five-franc fine, for not being earlier in washing before their doors in a morning.The police arrived in the afternoon; two; in plain clothes; and Mr. Chandos was closeted with them alone. Then we heard—at least, I did—that the servants' pockets, &c., were to be examined, and their boxes searched. I was standing in the hall, looking wistful enough, no doubt, when Mr. Chandos and his two visitors came forth from the drawing-room."You look scared," he stayed to whisper, smiling in my face. "Have the police terrors for yon? I fear the girls will experience more, when they find themselves called upon to turn out their pockets and boxes, without warning.""Is that going to be done?""Immediately."Scarcely had he passed on when Mrs. Penn came through the hall; she had been walking in the grounds."Those look just like police!" she exclaimed. What have they come for?""About these losses, I believe. Mr. Chandos has again found that his desk has been opened.""What—besides the first loss the other day?""It must have been done since the night before last, he says. He seems so much annoyed: and it is enough to make him feel so.""I'd forgive a little bit of pilfering—that is, I would not be too harsh upon the thief,'' she remarked. "Pretty lace and such like vanities do bear their attractions. But when it comes to violating letters and private papers, that is essentially another affair. What are the police going to do in it? Do you know?""Mr. Chandos has just told me that boxes and pockets are about to be examined.""I should think, then, my lace, at any rate, will come to light," she laughed, as she tripped up the stairs.The process seemed to be pretty long, for I am sure that the men were up-stairs for at least two hours. Mr. Chandos did not remain to assist in the search: he came down to the oak parlor. One, who seemed to be the superior officer, entered when they had finished."Well, sir," said he, as he took a seat, after bowing to me, "there's no trace of any stolen property about the maids or their boxes. One or two of them had got some love letters, and seemed precious more afraid of my reading them than of my finding lace or money," he added, with a broad smile. "I just glanced over the epistles, enough to convince myself that there was nothing wrong: but there was no game more formidable to be found.""Then who can have got the things? who can be the thief?" uttered Mr. Chandos. "That it is some one in the house is indisputable, from the fact of the articles not disappearing at once, but at different times.""There does seem a bit of mystery about it," was the comment of the officer. "You are sure of the housekeeper, sir, you say? We obeyed your directions, and did not examine her boxes.""As sure as I am of myself," replied Mr. Chandos."Would you like a watch placed in the house at night, sir, unknown to the servants?""No—oh, no!" very hastily replied Mr. Chandos.At this juncture Mrs. Penn knocked at the door and entered."I beg your pardon for interrupting," she said, "but it may be better for the officers to come up at once, now that Mrs. Chandos has gone to the west wing. She would not like to see them, I fancy.""Come up for what purpose?" returned Mr. Chandos.She paused, either not understanding him, or else wondering that he had not understood her."I was informed that our boxes were to be examined," she resumed. "Mine are in Mrs. Chandos's rooms.""Your boxes! certainly not!" returned Mr. Chandos. "The search has been applied to the servants only. Why, Mrs. Penn, you are one of the losers equally with myself.""So far as a bit of lace goes, yes," she said. But—I beg your pardon for observing, Mr. Chandos, that it would be more satisfactory to all who are here, and not of the Chandos blood, if their innocence were made apparent.""It is quite apparent enough," replied Mr. Chandos. "You cannot suppose I suspect you: and, as I observed, your being a sufferer puts it beyond all doubt. We are obliged by your courtesy all the same, Mrs. Penn."She still lingered, somewhat wistfully, I thought: but Mr. Chandos appeared to have settled the point. He quitted the room, the officer following him."Did they search your boxes?" she inquired of me."No. And I did not offer them.""I should have done so, in your place, and I'm sure I would have preferred their searching mine. I understood you to imply that we were, all to be treated indiscriminately. I look at it in this light. These servants are searched: nothing is found: and the only other strangers in the house are you and me. Who knows but we may be suspected next?"I felt the red color flash a little into my face."I do not think Mr. Chandos would suspect me," I said, aloud."Perhaps not. But I know this: that it is better to be put above suspicion. There they go!" she suddenly exclaimed, causing me to turn to the window. It was the departure of the officers from Chandos.Dinner was delayed an hour that evening: while the cook was detained up-stairs it had been necessarily neglected. I, ready for it, strolled abroad, thinking it pleasanter to wait out of doors than in. It was growing nearly dark—at least it looked dark in the gloomy walks, as I paced them, a shawl over my shoulders. I turned down one, not knowing where it would lead me to, and not very much caring. Did I not care, though, ay, and prepare to run, too, when I found it led me to the walk, so dreaded, underneath the pines! Hasty footsteps came up at that moment: those of Mr. Chandos."You here!" he exclaimed, astonishment (as it sounded to my ear) alarm in his tone. "I thought you believed this portion of the grounds to be consecrated to the ghosts.""I got into it without knowing. I was about to run away again.""Let me take you to a pleasanter part," he said, putting my arm within his. "How dark the evening has become."We were going on, but had only advanced a few steps, when—I can scarcely tell what occurred. I saw nothing; I heard nothing; but Mr. Chandos apparently did, for he stopped short, and his face became as one living terror. The walk was one from which there was no escape on the side; the trees and the low brush and shrubs at this lower end of it were too thickly planted. Mr. Chandos suddenly drew me against one of these side trees, placed himself before me, and bent my face down close upon his breast, so that I could see nothing."You will be safe under my shelter," he whispered, pressing his cheek upon my head so that I could not look up if I would, "but, be still for the love of heaven."So utterly was I taken by surprise, so complete was my alarm, that "still" I did stay, there, as he placed me, my heart beating against his. I heard measured footsteps advance, pass us, and continue on their way: but there was no mistaking that Mr. Chandos's own heart was beating more violently than is common to man, and that as the steps passed us he clasped me with almost a painful pressure. Presently he raised my face, holding it near to his own, then deadly white."Will you forgive me, Annie?" he whispered, and the name, the first time he had called me by it, thrilled through my veins."I am not displeased, Mr. Chandos: I have no doubt you had good cause for so acting. But you have frightened me very much.""Indeed I had cause!" he replied in a passionate sort of wail: "but you are safe now. Anne! do you know that I should like to shelter you, here, on my breast, forever?"I made no reply. I only turned sick with a sensation of ecstacy."But it may not be; it is denied to me," he continued: "so we must just go on as we have gone on. This way: I will take you out of these gloomy walks."But, all the while, his white lips trembled. It was certain that he had been under the influence of some dreadful terror. For many and many a night afterwards, the query haunted me—Did ghosts emit sounds, as of footsteps, when they walked along?CHAPTER XXIIITHE STOLEN LETTERALL this while what had become of Lady Chandos? She still kept herself secluded, and was seen by none, Hill and Mr. Chandos excepted. But now her illness was going to be attended by a new feature—a medical man was called in. He came, we understood, from a distance; was not the one who had attended Mr. Chandos for his foot, or any other doctor in the vicinity, but drove over every day from some place far away. He had apparently known the Chandos family previously, for he shook hands heartily with Mr. Chandos on his first arrival; a thin man with dark eyes, and a benevolent, truthful countenance. His name was Lake."Obliged to send for me at last!" he exclaimed. "I said, you may remember, that the time would come when you'd be glad of me at Chandos. No skill in these parts; a set of muffs, all; known to be."Mr. Chandos smiled."And pray, for whom am I wanted, Mr. Harry? Your blooming self?""My blooming self is ever blooming," laughed Mr. Chandos. "I don't trouble the doctors, I assure you.""Too wide awake for that," returned the surgeon, echoing the laugh. "It is for my lady, I suppose."Mr. Chandos nodded, and led the way, to the west wing. But why should he have denied to this old gentleman that he was ever ill?Two hours at least the doctor remained in the west wing, but Mr. Chandos came back soon after conducting him. I put the question to him which had been troubling me."Mr. Chandos, why did you say to the doctor that you are never ill? You know how ill you were recently; that the London physician even said there were but little hopes of you!"He had come down from the west wing with a grave face; but gravity, even to distress, overshadowed it now."That was a painful illness," he remarked, after a long pause; "painful in its attendant circumstances; I do not allude to physical pain; and it is best kept from the knowledge of strangers. I wish you also would dismiss it from your mind and not speak of it.""But are you really better?""I am very well," he returned, with a smile. "At least, I should be if—if—I mean that I am as well as I can expect to be.""Which is equivalent to saying that you are not well, and never will be," I said, the tone of my voice sad as the words."Anne—I must call you 'Anne:' I cannot go back to the formality of ' Miss Hereford'—whether ill or well, it must be of no moment to you. I wish it might be."I answered nothing; my cheeks did; and I do fear that Mr. Chandos read their signs. He took no further notice of me or them, but strolled out before the house, sunning himself in the warm autumn morning. This day, I wish you to take notice, was the next but one after the police officers had been at Chandos.Later, I was in the embrasure of the window when he met the doctor in the hall and brought him into the oak parlor. They were at the door when Mr. Chandos began asking the other how he found his patient; neither of them could see me till they should advance a little further."Dreadfully emaciated, and as obstinate as—""Hush—sh—sh!" interposed Mr. Chandos, peremptorily, as he caught sight of me. The surgeon turned his head, and saw me also."Well, it was not polite of me, I confess, to be abusing Lady Chandos in the presence of this young lady," he resumed; "and I do fear I was about to say 'obstinate as a mule. 'You are used to me, Mr. Harry, and know that I don't employ courtly phrases. Your mother is obstinate.""I know it," replied Mr. Chandos, lifting his eyes to the doctor's. "That is the worst of it; and I see no prospect of remedy.""None whatever in the present stage of the malady. And it won't be long going on to the worst," he added, in the ear of Mr. Chandos; but I caught the words. Mr. Chandos made no reply; he was leaning his forehead upon his hand."When did you come home?" he asked."Only last week. Two months I was away.""What did your patients say?""I have nearly given over with patients," the doctor replied, shaking his head. "I require rest in my advancing years, and I have sufficient to live upon; so I leave the field open to younger men."It struck me that they might wish to be alone, and I left the room. When I went down again, Mr. Lake was gone, and Mr. Chandos sat at his desk, writing a letter. He began complaining of his foot, saying that it gave him more pain to-day than usual."It is because you have walked so much upon it, Mr. Chandos. The gentleman who attends you prophesied how it would be, if you did persist in using it.""Ay, that is it, I believe. Well, I must give it a little more rest for a day or two. Will you walk for me, and save it?""You know that I shall be pleased to do so, Mr. Chandos.""Just carry this letter into the hall, then, and lay it on the customary table."He had sealed it with his usual seal, and I took it from his hand and carried it to the letter table in the hall. It was addressed to a Mr. Haines, whom I remembered as having acted as agent for Mr. Edwin Barley, when he took the house. Lizzie was passing through the hall when I laid it down; I observed that she looked at me—seemed to look at what I was doing; and Mrs. Penn and Hill were speaking together on the stairs, nearly beyond view; whether they saw me, I cannot say."I fear that Lady Chandos is dangerously ill," I said to Mr. Chandos, when I returned."Very ill," he replied, "but not dangerously so."I could not believe my ears; I had thought, by the words dropped by the doctor, that she was going on rapidly to death. Mr. Chandos saw my surprise."I am telling you truth," he said. "I do not consider my mother's life in danger.""Then," came the flashing thought upon me, " it must be insanity, and not bodily illness." Were they all insane? Was he? Was that the reason that he could not marry? A cold chill struck across my heart at the thought of the awful infliction for such a man as Mr. Chandos."I see what is in your mind," he continued. "You are anticipating your own position, should any thing occur to my mother. She is a protection to you, of course, although confined to her rooms.""No, indeed, Mr. Chandos, I am not so selfish. I was thinking of a very different affair.""Of what were you thinking?"The question a little took me aback."I cannot tell you; it is what I would not mention to any one.""Just look from the window, Anne; there's some one coming to the house. Who is it?""It is Mr. Dexter.""Dexter! The very fellow I wanted to see. Now you need not turn out; we are not about to talk treason. Come and sit down again; don't yon know, Anne, that I like to have you with me while I may?"I made no reply; only sat down and took up my embroidery: and Mr. Dexter came in.Their conversation appeared to me of little moment: it was chiefly about leases, and other matters connected with the estate. "I have written to Haines this afternoon," Mr. Chandos suddenly observed."Have you, sir? There was a letter from him this morning.""From Haines! What does he say?"Mr. Dexter took a letter from his pocket book, and put it into his master's hand, who ran his eyes over it."My letter will be useless, then, and I must write another," he exclaimed when he had finished. "I'll get it, and show you what I said.""Let me get it for you," I interposed, as he was rising. And, without waiting for permission, I left the room. But the letter was not where I had left it; the table was empty."The letter is gone," I said to Mr. Chandos, returning to the room."Gone!" he repeated, taking out his watch. "It cannot be gone: it is only four o'clock.""I meant to say that it was no longer on the table.""Dexter, ring the bell. Hickens has been disobeying orders. "What are my directions to you respecting he letters?" Mr. Chandos continued, when the butler appeared."In what way, sir?" asked Hickens."Have I not desired that the letters may always remain in the hall till the letterman comes for them, and that they shall be handed to him from the table, direct?""And so they always are, sir," replied Hickens."Where's the one, then, that was placed on the table half an hour ago?""I did not know that a letter had been placed there, sir. I have seen none.""On which table did you put it, Miss Hereford?""On the proper table; where the letters are always put.""You must have moved it, Hickens," again repeated Mr. Chandos."Indeed, sir, I have not. Had I seen a letter there, there it would have remained until the man arrived: but I have not been in the hall at all since Mr. Lake left."Mr. Chandos rose and went into the hall, possibly with a view to look for the letter: he may have thought it had slipped down. I followed, to show him where it was placed, and Mr. Dexter and Hickens followed me. There were no signs of the letter to be seen, on the table, or on the floor, or anywhere."I put it here," I said to Mr. Chandos, touching the table with my finger."Was any one in the hall at the time?" he rejoined."Lizzy was passing through it. And Mrs. Penn and Hill were standing on the stairs.""They would not touch it," hastily returned Mr. Chandos. " Hickens, call the servants here, every one."They came in, men and maids, all much astonished, as their countenances betrayed. I scanned Lizzy's keenly, but could read nothing: from my heart I believed that the woman had taken the letter."A letter was placed on this table half an hour ago. in readiness for the postman," began Mr. Chandos. "That letter has disappeared. Which of you has removed it?"A dead silence."It could not go without hands," continued Mr. Chandos, "therefore it must have been removed by one of you. I ask who has done it?"Their tongues were let loose now, all eagerly denying that they had seen the letter, and apparently with truth. Mr. Chandos questioned Robin, one of the footmen, whether he had seen it when he opened the door to Mr. Dexter."I didn't notice any letter there, sir," was the man's reply. "I think I should likely have observed it, had there been one.""Lizzy must have seen it, for she saw me place it there," I took courage to interrupt, vexed—yes, vexed—that no suspicion appeared to be directed to the right quarter. Mr. Chandos turned to her."I saw Miss Hereford come out of the oak parlor and put something on the table," she spoke up. "I think it did look like a letter.""Did you meddle with it?" asked Mr. Chandos."Of course I didn't, sir," was Lizzy's answer. "I never so much as went near it. I was at the other end of the hall, going into the kitchen: Miss Hereford can say that I was."At this juncture, Mrs. Chandos came down the stairs, dressed for going out, Mrs. Penn attending her. "Whatever is all this?" she exclaimed, as her eyes fell on the assemblage of servants. "What's the matter, Harry?""A letter has mysteriously disappeared from the hall, and I am trying to trace it," was his reply to her."A letter! how strange! Was it of moment?""These losses are always of moment from the uncertainty and unpleasantness which attend them. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Penn; did you speak?""You may rely upon it," whispered Mrs. Penn, for she had drawn close to him in her eagerness, "that whoever opened ray letter has taken this one! Mr. Chandos, for the peace and safety of the house, you ought not to leave a stone unturned to discover who it is that is acting with this shameful treachery."Mr. Chandos gravely nodded in assent. That the culprit in both cases was one and the same, admitted of no doubt. And he turned his eyes from one servant to another, as if seeking the guilty mark in their faces."Did you see me put the letter on the table?" I asked of Mrs. Penn."No," she answered, looking at me inquiringly. "Is it your letter, then, which is missing? How should I have seen you?""It is not my letter: I only placed it there for Mr. Chandos. I saw you and Hill on the stairs at the time, and thought you might have observed me.""I met Hill on the stairs some little time ago, I remember, and stayed to speak to her: but I did not see you.""I saw Miss Hereford," spoke up Hill, who was also of the conference. "I saw her come from the oak parlor into the hall, and go back again, but I did not observe what it was for.""Then, ma'am," interposed Lizzy, "you can just bear me out to master, perhaps, that I didn't go a nigh the letter-table, if you were looking on at the hall.""Yes, I can," said Mrs. Hill. "Had Lizzy approached the table, I must have seen her. Besides, I came down myself immediately, and she was in the kitchen before I was."But there's no proof that she did not afterwards come back, was the thought that flashed across me."And what should I do with a letter that was not mine?" cried Lizzy, in a resentful tone. "If master offered me a dozen of his letters to read, I'd rather be spared the trouble; they'd be of no good to me.""Well, Harry, I must leave you to your investigation," said Mrs. Chandos. "If I am to have any walk, I must go, for the dusk will be coming on."Mr. Chandos, question and inquire as he would, could come to no conclusion. The letter was gone, and, apparently nobody knew how or where. The servants were dismissed, Mr. Chandos walked out with the agent, and I went up to my room.It appeared that he accompanied Mr. Dexter as far as the gates, and, on returning, encountered Mrs. Penn, who was pacing the grounds, while Mrs. Chandos sat in an arbor. What passed, I of course did not know then; not for some time afterwards. Mrs. Penn saw aim in a distant walk, and made her way across to it."Have you gained tidings of the letter?" she inquired."Not any. It is most singular. Until the last week or two, I believed that we had the most trustworthy set of servants at Chandos that it is possible for any family to have. What can there be in my letters that should interest them?""Nay," said Mrs. Penn, "I think it is a greater wonder what there should be in mine. I can understand dependents' wishing to pry into their master's private affairs, but I cannot understand their caring to look into those of a stranger, as I am. Were I you, Mr. Chandos, I would leave other letters on the hall table, and set a private watch.""It is my habit to leave letters on the table every day; for not a day passes but I have some for the post. They have never been tampered with, so far as I know, until this afternoon.""You cannot be sure of that. But what shall you do in the matter now?""I don't know what to do; it is the sort of thing that causes me to feel at a nonplus. Were I to have an officer in the house to watch, as you suggest, it might prove useless.""It would prove useless, were it known who he was, and his errand. Have you a suspicion of any one in particular?" she abruptly asked."Not the slightest. Neither can you have, I suppose."Mrs. Penn was silent."Have you?" repeated he, thinking her manner peculiar."I would rather not answer the question, Mr. Chandos, because it would inevitably be followed by another, which I could not answer.""Which is equivalent to confessing that your suspicions are directed to some quarter," he returned with awakened interest. "Why should you object to avow it?""Well, it is so," she replied. "I do think that all the circumstances—taking one loss, one disagreeable event with another—do tend to point suspicion to a certain quarter. But I may be wrong.""To whom?" he asked."That is just the question that I knew would follow," returned Mrs. Penn; "the one which I hinted that I should decline to answer. No, Mr. Chandos, yon possess the same facilities for observing and judging that I do; in fact, greater ones, and if you cannot draw your own deductions, I will not help you to them; it would be pre sumptuous of me to do so.""You must allude to an inmate of Chandos.""I should deem it impossible that any but an inmate of Chandos could play these tricks. Where would be the opportunity?""Mrs. Penn, if you do possess this suspicion, you ought to impart it to me," he gravely said."Were I sure that my suspicions were correct, I would do so; but, as I say, they may be mistaken. Forgive me if I hint that perhaps your own eyes are closed more than they need be. Were you to open them, you might see as clearly as I do.""Then, you absolutely decline to help me?""Indeed I must. It would be out of place. Look out for yourself, Mr. Chandos: throwing aside your predilections and prejudices, weigh well all the circumstances, the minute points, and possibly you will need no help."She hastened away, for Mrs. Chandos had risen and was looking out for her. Mr. Chandos walked on, musing.Now, I had been debating a question with myself. Should I, or should I not, impart to Mr. Chandos my suspicions of Lizzy. Would it be just to do so? If it were indeed Lizzy who had held that conversation with Mr. Edwin Barley, then, beyond all doubt, it was she who had stolen Mr. Chandos's letter, who had taken the memorandum-book, who had forced Mrs. Penn's bag, who had helped herself to the letter of Madame de Mellissie. But I could not be certain that it was Lizzy who had been with Mr. Edwin Barley. I had no proof of it; some of what the world would call circumstantial evidence, but no positive proof. No, I would not mention her in connection with Mr. Edwin Barley; it would be unjust.We dined alone, as usual, I and Mr. Chandos. He went up-stairs afterwards, I suppose to the west wing. Mrs. Penn came peeping at the door later. The tea was on the table then."May I come in?" she said in a joking tone, as she advanced and took a seat by the fire. "It's well to be you, Miss Hereford, to have the run of tin's nice, comfortable parlor, all day; different from those rooms up-stairs, I can tell you.""Are they not comfortable?""I don't know about that; but they are wretchedly dull. I'd as soon be cooped up in a prison. Not a soul to speak to from morning to night, but Mrs. Chandos, her maid, and Emma. Here you have Mr. Chandos, full state and ceremony, besides the chance of seeing all the visitors."I laughed at her catalogue of desirable things."All the visitors consist of a doctor now and then, and Mr. Dexter once in a way.""Well, that's something. It is an improvement upon my life.""If you are not satisfied, why do you remain?""Who said I was not satisfied? I did not: though I do grumble at the dullness. People who have their living to get, must put up with many things that others would not. "I suppose," she added, after a pause, "they are all assembled in party conclave in the west wing; Mr. Chandos, Mrs. Chandos, and my lady.""I wish Lady Chandos was better," I remarked.Mrs. Penn turned round eagerly, her eye lighting with excitement."Anne Hereford—forgive my calling you so!—I'd give five guineas out of my pocket to know what it is that is the matter with her! Do yon never gather a hint of it from Mr. Chandos?""Never. But why should you be so desirous to learn? What is it to you?""I have my reasons," she replied, nodding her head. "I won't tell them to you this evening, but I don't say that I never will. If she is insane, as I suspect, why then—but I'll say no more now. What a strange thing it is about that letter! Don't you think so?""Very.""Did Mr. Chandos write one to send in its place?""I do not know.""Were I Mr. Chandos, I should institute—" Mrs. Penn stopped abruptly, for Mr. Chandos himself appeared."Ah, Mrs. Penn, you here?" he exclaimed, "have you come to honor us with your company to tea?""No indeed, I am not so fortunate. I only ran down for a minute's change, while Mrs. Chandos was absent. I must return to make tea for her now."She said good evening and left us alone. After tea we gathered round the fire, he resting his leg still; I near the lights, at my embroidery."Anne," began Mr. Chandos, "what is your opinion of that letter affair today?""I am very sorry that it has happened; because it must make every one feel uncomfortable.""The worst is, that it seems so utterly impossible to fix upon any particular one as likely to have done it. I have no suspicion whatever."I looked into his face? I suppose it was a peculiar look, for it arrested his attention."Why! you have no suspicion, have you?""Only a faint one. It may be called a doubt, more than a suspicion.""You and Mrs. Penn must be in league, I think," he resumed, after a pause. "She confessed to entertaining a suspicion, though she would not say of whom. It is singular that you should both see what I cannot.""I did not know that Mrs. Penn suspected any one. She has said nothing to me."" Will you tell me whom you doubt?""But it is scarcely fair. I have no proof.""Never mind that. I shall not hastily act upon any information, I assure you; I shall judge for myself.""Then I think it is Lizzy.""Lizzy!" uttered Mr. Chandos, after a pause of irrepressible astonishment. "Lizzy!""It is but a suspicion. I say that I can prove nothing—that I am not sure.""Rely upon it you are wrong, Anne. Lizzy would be one of the very last to act treacherously. She has lived with us for years, and is attached to us. What grounds can you have conjured up for suspecting her?"Before I could answer, Hickens entered, with a message from one of the tenants, who had come up. Mr. Chandos went out to speak to the man, but did not remain long."It is a beautiful night!" he remarked, some little time after he came in.I don't know why I should have done it; unthinkingly I believe; but I walked to the window and drew aside the muslin curtain to look: and found my face in contact (save for the glass that was between us) with that of another face, which was peering in! Whose, I could not tell, I was too much startled to distinguish, save that it was like a man's. I drew back with a scream, and Mr. Chandos started up."A man's face! close to the window! There it is," I cried, nearly choking in my fear.Mr. Chandos laid forcible hold of me, put me in a chair, and peremptorily ordered me to remain there, not to stir. Then he sprang to the window; and, in his too hasty efforts to throw it open, broke a pane of glass. He leaped out.I sat there, trembling and shaking; the window open, the curtain waving gently in the night breeze—and that terrible face without. Mr. Chandos looked stern and white when he returned, and blood was dripping from his hand."I can see no one: but I could not stay long, my hand bled so," he said, snatching up his white handkerchief which lay on the table, and winding it round the palm. "Anne, do you think these are not fancies of yours—this seeing people at the window?""I wish I could think so. How have you hurt your hand?""With the glass: did you not notice that I broke a pane? If you can give me a bit of linen rag, I'll do it properly up. I have some plaster; I don't ring for help; not caring that this should be known in the household."I rose and went to my room, in search of some linen rag, shivering and ducking my head as I passed each window in succession. To my imagination it seemed that a man's face must be at each, peering in upon me.CHAPTER XXIVTHE NIGHT ALARM. THE GHOST.I knew that I had some pieces of old linen in my trunk, and proceeded to search for them. In doing this, a small parcel, very small, got into my hands, and I looked at it with some curiosity, not remembering what it contained: so I undid the paper.Two sovereigns. Two sovereigns! What should bring two sovereigns in my trunk? I did not possess any—never had possessed any that I could remember. My money—what little I owned—was in French Napoleons, all, save a little English silver, which had been changed for me by Madame de Mellissie.A strange thought came over me, quick as a flash of lightning: Were these the two marked sovereigns lost by Mr. Chandos? If so, why then they had been placed in my box, with a purpose; and I must have some baneful enemy lodged in that house? I examined them by the light of the candle; I could see no marks: but perhaps Mr. Chandos might, as he had marked them. Finding the linen, I went down, carrying it and the sovereigns. Hickens was going into the room at the same moment, bearing a salver, on which lay a letter. He presented it to Mr. Chandos."Who is this from?""I don't know, sir; it has been brought by hand."Mr. Chandos took it from the waiter with the left hand. Hickens then observed the stained handkerchief wound round the other."What is the matter, sir?" he hastily exclaimed. "You have met with an accident!""Ah," said Mr. Chandos, in a tone of raillery, as if making light of the affair, "this comes, Hickens, of doing things in a hurry. You must bring me in a basin of water. I attempted to throw open the window, not observing that it was fastened; it resisted, and my hand slipped through the glass. Close the heavy curtains."Hickens withdrew to the window to obey the order. I stood by Mr. Chandos with the linen rag. "Presently," he nodded. "Open this for me, will you, Anne?"I took the letter from him, unsealed and opened it. As I handed it back to him, my eyes accidentally fell upon my own name."It concerns me!" I uttered. "Who can be writing to you about me?"Mr. Chandos ran his eyes over the lines—there were but few—and a scowl contracted his brow. He read them over again, and then folded the letter."Hickens," he called out, "who brought this? When did it come?""It came but now, sir. I don't know who brought it: a young man, he looked—wearing a cloak. He came to the kitchen-door. I happened to be standing there and took it from him. 'For Mr. Chandos,' he said, and turned away. I thought how quickly he made off.""Should you know him again?""No, sir, I think not. I'm not sure, though."Hickens waited, but Mr. Chandos said no more, but quitted the room."Is the letter from Madame de Mellissie?" I asked."I don't know who it is from," said Mr. Chandos. "It is anonymous.""Anonymous! And about me!"I stood looking at him, I connected this letter with the two sovereigns I had just found: some one was at work to ruin me in the estimation of Chandos House."Mr. Chandos, that is not a pleasant letter, is it?" I asked."Anonymous letters never are pleasant ones," he rejoined. "If I had my way, the writers of such should all be shaken in a bag together and sunk in the bottom of the sea. Do not let it trouble you; it defeats its own ends."" Will you allow me to read it?""It would give you no pleasure.""But it might give me some light, Mr. Chandos; and light is what I want just now. I request it as a favor.""Very well. My showing it to you will prove the sort of estimation I set upon it. You and I must unite together in striving to unearth the snake," was his reply, as he laid it before me:—"Mr. Chandos: You have got some trouble in your house at present, and are suspecting your servants; but there are two others whom you have more cause to suspect—the companion to Mrs. Chandos, and the young lady, Miss Anne Hereford. Please to remember that none of these misfortunes happened till these strangers were at Chandos; and your servants have been with you for years. It is one of those two who is the guilty one, and so you will find if you take the proper means of investigation. You don't appear to have cast a thought to them, but you had better do so now. I write as A FRIEND.""It would implicate Mrs. Penn as well as myself!" I exclaimed, when I had read the letter."Yes; forgetting that Mrs. Penn is a sufferer with myself—or perhaps not knowing it."The tears came into my eyes: I could not help it. "Do you doubt me, Mr. Chandos?"He laid hold of my hand, bending those grave eyes, laughing then, upon mine."Doubt you! So greatly that I am deliberating whether I shall not send for the police and give you in charge. Oh, Anne, Anne! you little simpleton!"" Will you not see to your hand?""Ay, it wants seeing to."It was the palm that was cut, badly, I thought. Mr. Chandos seemed to understand what to do to it, and the dressing was soon over. Hickens was called to take away the basin and other things, and we were alone again. I took the two sovereigns from my pocket, in the same paper in which I had found them, and gave them to Mr. Chandos."Will you please to look at these, and tell me if you know them.""Sovereigns!" he exclaimed, as he took them. "What do you mean by 'know them?' How should I know these from any others?""Are there any marks by which you would know them?"He looked at me for a moment inquiringly. Then, as if a thought occurred to him, took a hasty step forward and held them close to the light."Anne! where did you find these?""But you have not answered my question. Do you recognise them?""Yes. They are the sovereigns I lost out of my desk. See, here are the marks."I stood close by him and looked where he pointed. The marks, imperceptible to my unaccustomed sight before, were plain enough now. I sat down again."In looking in my trunk for the linen, I found them, Mr. Chandos, wrapped up as you saw. I knew they were not mine, for I have no English gold, and it immediately struck me that they must have been put there with a purpose; that they were, very probably, the sovereigns you marked and lost. So I brought them down to show you."He remained silent a considerable time. "Who is your enemy in the house, Anne?" he asked at length."I did not know I had one. So far as I am aware, I have given offence to none, since I have been within it.""Were your boxes locked?""Yes, and must have been opened with false keys. Mr. Chandos, I ought to leave your house now. I am not safe.""You are perfectly safe, Anne, for you possess a powerful protector: one who will not suffer harm to touch you; who will shield you even from annoyance, so far as it is practicable."I knew that he alluded to himself, and thanked him in my heart. But it was not in his power to ward off annoyance from me, in the face of a hidden enemy, such as I appeared to have."When we were interrupted this evening I was about to ask your grounds for suspecting Lizzy," resumed Mr. Chandos. "Will you tell them to me?""You remember the evening I went to look for Madame de Mellissie's letter. I told you I found Lizzy in my room; she was darting out in confusion, having, no doubt, heard my approach. I inquired what she did there, and she told me she had come in to do Harriet's work: which I found was an untruth, for Harriet went in afterwards as usual. Well, I said no more to Lizzy, but proceeded to look for Emily's letter. It was not there; it had disappeared; and I found, moreover, that both my boxes had been opened and their contents examined. How could I do otherwise than suspect Lizzy? That she had been at some mischief in my room I felt very sure: and, I cannot but think that whoever opened my boxes and stole that letter, was the author of the rest of the mischief.""Do you recollect the excuse Lizzy subsequently made to you for being in the room? That she was watching the grounds. I think it likely to have been the true cause.""I believe that the first reason for my suspecting Lizzy—for suspecting, I mean, that she was not acting a clear, straightforward part—was her strange manner with regard to that attack upon you. Why should she have been so eager to put it upon the gipsies?""True: her manner then was singular," he rejoined. "Notwithstanding, I would stake my credit upon Lizzy's innocence. She has been in the family for some years and served us faithfully."It was at my tongue's end to proclaim the interview I had been a witness to, in which Mr. Edwin Barley had borne a part, and to avow my belief that his companion was Lizzy. But I stopped myself in time. Mr. Chandos would naturally have said, "Where are your proofs that it was Lizzy?" and of proof I had none. He began telling off on his fingers the inmates of Chandos."There's my mother, Mrs. Chandos, myself, Hill, Hickens: for all these I can answer. Then come the servants. For some of them I believe I can equally answer, Lizzy being one: but I regard them all as honest and trustworthy.""Therefore the uncertain ones are only Mrs. Penn and myself.""And Mrs. Penn is certainly exempted," he rejoined. "For she has been meddled with in an equal degree with any of us.""Then it leaves but me!""Just so; only you. But, Anne," bending his grave, kind eyes upon me, "I would answer for you with my life.""If it is not Lizzy that is my enemy, who else can it be?" I exclaimed."Why should yon think it to be Lizzy more than any one else? She can have no cause of enmity against you."Again flashed across me that interview with Mr. Edwin Barley. If it was Lizzy who was in league with him, no need to search for a motive"But, that I have an enemy, is indisputable. That letter which you have just received, and these sovereigns, prove it.""Anne, Lizzy could not have written such a letter as this."That he was prejudiced in favor of Lizzy, determined to admit nothing against her, I saw: so I relapsed into silence. Mr. Chandos did not break it."How is Lady Chandos to-night?" I asked, by way of turning the conversation."Quite well, thank you," was the abstracted answer."Quite well!" I repeated in amazement: and the tone aroused him."I beg your pardon: I was thinking of something else. My mother? she is about the same: neither better nor worse."But now the strangest incident was to occur, an alarming incident; nay, I would rather call it a scene. Mrs. Penn came gliding into the room, her manner flurried and hasty."Mr. Chandos!" she uttered in a rapid tone, "do you know that there are mounted police outside the house?"He rose from his seat, looking at her as if he thought she must be dreaming."Mounted police!" he echoed."They are riding quietly up, three of them; I saw their sabres flash in the starlight. I had gone to the library to get a book for Mrs. Chandos, and caught sight of them from the window. Oh, Mr. Chandos, what is the matter? what have they come for? Mounted police—as I have heard—only attend in dreadful cases, such as murder."I had seen Mr. Chandos turn pale before; you have heard me say so; but I never saw a tinge so livid in man or woman as that which overspread his countenance now. He retained nevertheless his self-possession; ay, and that quiet tone of command which might not be gainsayed."You will be so kind as return immediately to Mrs. Chandos," he calmly said to Mrs. Penn. "Close the door of the east wing as soon as you have entered, and keep her attention amused. She is excitable—as you by this time probably know—and this visit of the police must be kept from her cognizance."Allowing no time for answer or dissent, he attended Mrs. Penn to the parlor door and watched her up-stairs. Then he stole to the hall door and put up its bar without noise."Oh, Anne! Anne!" he uttered, returning in the deepest agitation, "this is an awful blow! I joked about the police coming to take you, but—""They have not come for me? They cannot have come for me!" I foolishly reiterated, in my confused alarm."Would to heaven they had come for you! I mean, would they had come for one who could as readily be exonerated as you! Mercy! mercy! so the blow has fallen at last!"It flashed to my memory what Mrs. Penn had said, about a sword hanging by a single hair over Mr. Chandos and his family. I don't think he knew what he was about. He took steps to and fro in the parlor, walked across the hall towards the stairs, and came back, listening evidently for the knocking of the police, all in the deepest agitation and alarm."It may be well for me not to go!" he muttered. "Better that I be here to face them when they enter! Anne, run you and find Hill: bring her hither quickly: but make no alarm."I knew it was the hour of supper in the housekeeper's room, an apartment near the kitchen, and I ran to it. Hill was seated at the head of the table, and the upper servants round her."Mrs. Hill," I said, appearing among them without ceremony, "Mr. Chandos wants you for a moment. Instantly, if you please.""I'll lay a guinea it's his hand burst out bleeding again!" surmised Hickens, who occupied the chair opposite Hill. Mrs. Hill said nothing, but rose and followed me. As we passed through the hall, there came a loud ring at the front door, and a knocking at it as if with sabres."Hill," Mr. Chandos whispered, drawing her into the oak parlor, and there was a world of dread and horror in his tone, "the police are outside the house, mounted."She shrieked out aloud, making the room ring. The woman actually trembled all over in her terror."Hush!" interrupted Mr. Chandos; "are you mad? We must betray no alarm: you are aware of that.""Oh, Mr. Harry! the police at last! It's what I have dreamt of ever since that awful night!""And you are wasting time here! You know the plan decided upon; if it ever came to the worst. I may not go; I must stay and face it. Make you haste! And—Hill! lock the outer door of the east wing on the outside: Mrs. Chandos must not see these men."Hill did not stay to listen. She appeared to take in all, and was flying up the stairs, breathless and panting. There came another ring, another noise as with the sabres; and Robin, who was coming across the hall, increased his speed. Mr. Chandos arrested him."Robin, desire Hickens to attend, himself. I wish it."The man turned back, and Mr. Chandos laid hold of me and held me to him, his head bent down upon my forehead, like one who knows not what he is about, or who seeks some sort of consolation from aggravated misery."Whether to admit them or keep them out?" he again muttered to himself. "But what a fool I am! if entrance be denied, they will force it.""Dear Mr. Chandos!" I said, bursting into tears, "why are you afraid? what dreadful thing is it? Confide in me! tell me!""That you may run from me, as the rest will do! You have said the word, Anne—dreadful. That is it."We heard Hickens coming along the hall. Mr. Chandos advanced to him and I looked out after him: the man had his mouth full of supper."Hickens," said Mr. Chandos, speaking with apparent carelessness, "these may be the police at the door. If so, they may enter.""Them police again, sir!" repeated Sickens, in consternation. "Whatever can they want at this hour?""That's my business," replied Mr. Chandos. And Hickens unbarred the door.What a cowardly donkey that Robin is, a barring up of the house afore bed-time!" I heard him mutter to himself.Two of the officers entered: the other remained with the horses. Mr. Chandos advanced with suavity, and they took off their hats to him. He held his handkerchief to his face, as if fearing the draught: I knew that it was to shade his livid countenance."A late visit, gentlemen! To what am I indebted for it?"He had been gradually withdrawing to the oak parlor as he spoke, and they with him. I withdrew also in confused indecision, and stood humbly in the remotest and darkest corner. I had not courage to quit the room, for I must have brushed by them: I hoped that Mr. Chandos would see and dismiss me. But no: he closed the door, in the face of the dismayed Hickens."We could not get here sooner, sir," observed one, "but we hope the delay has not been inconvenient to you. The inspector, to whom your note was addressed, was out when it arrived, so there was some hindrance in opening it."Had the sentence been spoken in an unknown tongue, it could not more completely have puzzled Mr. Chandos."What note do you speak of?" he asked."The note you wrote to-day, requesting us to be here to-night, mounted, to take somebody into custody. The thief who has been playing up these pranks in your house, sir, we allude to: and it seemed to intimate that it was a young lady. Our inspector wondered, if so, why you wished us to come, mounted."Oh, the change that fell over the face of Mr. Chandos! the eager light of hope, the vivid rush of renewed color! It was as one awakening from death to life."Gentlemen," he said, with a smile, as he pointed to seats, "I fear a trick has been played upon you. I have not written to your inspector, and most certainly possess as yet, no clue to the party who has been so disagreeably busy at Chandos. But you must not go back without refreshment, although you have had a useless ride. It shall be brought in at once," he added, ringing for Hickens. "And this young lady," looking at me, "will obligingly see the housekeeper and bid her hasten it."Hickens entered immediately; he had not moved from the hall."Supper, Hickens," said his master. "These gentlemen will take some before their departure. Bring the best of what you have, and be quick over it."Hickens seemed somewhat relieved; the word "departure" had reassured him. The man was not afraid for himself; but he disliked the scandal—as he afterwards called it—of police officers coming to Chandos. He moved away with alacrity, and Mr. Chandos stepped outside the door with me."Anne," he said, in the softest whisper, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "go up to the west wing; knock at the outer door, but do not attempt to enter. Hill will answer you. Tell her to inform Lady Chandos that it is a false alarm; that the officers have only come respecting what I have recently lost from my desk, and that I have ordered supper for them. Say that I will be with my mother as soon as possible, but I remain at present to entertain them."He returned into the parlor, closing the door, and I proceeded on my errand. Hill answered my knock, her face and her cap of an equal whiteness, and I delivered the message, speaking in a whisper. Strangely relieved seemed she, at least in an equal degree with Mr. Chandos, and she made me repeat what I had heard said by the officers, as if scarcely daring to believe the good tidings, without confirmation."Heaven be praised!" she exclaimed, as she closed the door in my face." It would just have killed my lady."So the officers had supper, all three of them. They did not linger long over it, perhaps were unable to do so, and in little more than half an hour they rode away again. Mr. Chandos went up to the west wing, and I returned to the oak parlor. It was late when he came back to it."This has been an evening of excitement, take it for all in all, has it not, Anne?" he said. "My wounded hand, your finding the money in your box, and the visit of the police officers. All private families cannot boast of so much amusement in one night."I looked at him wistfully. After the intense agitation, the dread he had betrayed, to hear him speak in a light strain jarred unpleasantly on my mind."I fear you live in some great cause of dread, Mr. Chandos," I ventured to rejoin. "I suppose I may not be told it; but I wish I could case you; I wish I could avert it from you, whatever it may be!""No living person can do that," he replied, the dark shade returning to his countenance. "I wish I could forget it, if only for a moment.""And you cannot?""Never; by night or by day. I appear as the rest of the world does; I laugh, I talk; but within lies ever that one terrible care, weighing me down like an incubus."How terrible it was, I could see, as he bent to lean his forehead upon his hand; the action spoke of utter misery, of despair. He raised it again after a long silence."Anne, you have been, in a manner, forced into what may be called a species of confidence as to our unhappy secrets; you must be true to us, never repeating to any human being what you have heard and seen.""I will be true as Heaven," I answered, in my excitement. Dear Mr. Chandos, I wish I knew how to serve you; you could not have a truer friend."But the conversation passed into a lighter strain; the nerves cannot always remain highly strung."Which of the three would you have preferred to ride before, had I given you into custody for finding that money of mine in your possession?" laughed Mr. Chandos.I answered, not in the same joking spirit; I could not so readily forget my alarm, or my concern for their hidden trouble. And we went on talking till Mr. Chandos, looking at his watch, started up."Anne! if we don't wish to have tales talked of us, we must depart. It is close upon midnight."The words sent me off, flying; I had no idea of the hour. In five minutes, while I was readings—a duty I had never omitted since I was a child at my mother's knee—I heard Mr. Chandos come up and go into his room.Presently I began to prepare for bed, and had proceeded so far as to take off my dress, when I found that I had left my keys in the oak parlor. I thought I would steal down for them without a light; and, throwing a shawl over me, I went.My little basket was on the centre-table, and the keys were in it, so I had no difficulty in procuring them. I was creeping up-stairs again, to disturb none, and had reached the corridor, when something caused me to look to the other end. Whether it was a stealthy movement, or a stealthy sound, or both, I cannot tell; all I know is, my attention was attracted to that spot.Oh, horror, horror! oh, mercy, mercy! Gliding towards me, with its shadowy form, and its one hand upraised as if in warning, sufficiently distinct in the dim light of the corridor, was that awful vision I had seen before in the pine walk—the apparition of Sir Thomas Chandos.CHAPTER XXVWASTED LOVE.IT has never been your fate, reader, I will answer for it, to be at one end of a corridor in a haunted house at midnight, and see a ghost gliding towards you from the other. What my sensations were, I cannot describe, or you imagine; had I beheld death itself advancing, it would have caused me less terror. My presence of mind forsook me; all that I had ever imagined of superstitious fear overwhelmed me; I sank down where I was, with a smothered shriek, and clasped hold of a statue near, as if there was protection even in that senseless bit of marble.The shriek, though not loud, must have been one of wailing despair, one crying for succor, and it brought forth Mr. Chandos. He appeared at the door of his room, candle in hand, not having begun to undress. The corridor was empty then; "it" had vanished. Mr. Chandos hastened towards me, not, however, recognising me till he was close up."Anne! is it you? Whatever is the matter? Are you ill? Why are you here?"Putting down his wax light, he stooped to raise me, and I clung to him, as one clings to the living, in an agony of terror."It was there, it was coming towards me!" I whispered in answer to his inquiries, when I could find tongue. "Oh, pray, hold me! I feel as though I should die.""What was coming?" he inquired."The same that I saw in the grounds the other night: the ghost.""How can you be so foolish? how can you take up these absurd fancies?" he remonstrated, in a sharp tone."I did, Mr. Chandos; I did. It came along with its arm raised, as if to warn me off: a tall skeleton of a form, with shadowy features the hue of the dead. Features that bear, in their formation, a great resemblance to yours."Was it fancy? or was it fact?—that his own features, as I spoke, assumed an ashy tint, like they had done when the officers came?"What were you doing out here?" he asked, in same sharp accent."I had forgotten my keys, and went down without a light to get them. I saw it instantly that I got back to the corridor.""You saw nothing," he persisted with some warmth. "I am astonished at you: the fancy was the creation of your own brain, and nothing more. Pray, if the ghost was here then, where has it disappeared to now?""I don't know. I think it seemed to go back. It was certainly there.""You are certainly silly," was his response. "A vast deal more so than I had given you credit for.""Ah, Mr. Chandos, you cannot reason me out of my eyesight and my senses. Thank you for letting me rest upon you: I do believe I should have died, or lost my reason, had you not come out: I think I can go to my room now.""And mind that you stay in it and don't emerge without a light into dark corridors at midnight, or you may stand a chance of being taken for a ghost yourself," he said, tenderly supporting me to the door of the chamber. "Good night," he added, holding both my hands in his. "Go to rest in peace and safety; and be assured that no ill, ghostly or human, shall work you harm while I am here at hand to protect you."I closed the door and bolted it, a vague idea in my mind that a bolted door is a better safeguard against a ghost than an unbolted one. But, how I rushed my clothes off pell mell, how I scrambled into bed and drew the cover over my head and eyes, I never care to recall.I heard nothing in the night, and experienced no further alarm. I mean no real alarm; plenty of imaginary. I slept and woke, tossed and turned, shivered and shook under the bedclothes, and thought that morning would never come. It did come when I was not looking for it, for I had dropped into a heavy sleep then, and when I awoke the sun was shining brilliantly. Ghosts and the sunlight don't accord, the one with the other; you cannot make them amalgamate: ghosts at midnight are ghosts: in the warm and cheerful morning sun they are of doubtful identity, or, at any rate, have vanished very far off, into unknown regions. I dressed myself as usual, feeling in better spirits than I could have supposed, and went down. Mr. Chandos was earlier than I, and stood at the window in the oak parlor. He took my hand and retained it for some moments in silence, I standing side by side with him, and looking from the window as he did."And how is the ghost this morning, Anne?""I wish you would regard me as a rational being, Mr. Chandos! Do any thing but treat me as a child.""Nay, I think you proved yourself both irrational and a child, last night," he laughingly said."Indeed I did not. I wish you had seen what I did.""I wish I had," was the mocking answer. "Anne, trust me: there is no ghost inside Chandos, whatever they may say as to there being one out of it.''"I don't know however I shall venture up-stairs at night again," I went 'on. "I Shall be terrified out of my life.""Neither do I know—if you persist in retaining this impression. You will require Hickens with half a dozen servants and torches to escort you. I remarked last evening that it was an eventful one, take it for all in all, but I never supposed it was to wind up with any thing so grand as a ghost."Hickens entered at the moment with the urn, and I sat down to make the tea, vexed at the manner of Mr. Chandos, vexed at myself for the inability to shake off my own belief. I certainly had seen it; I could not be, I was not, deceived; and it annoyed me that he should throw ridicule upon it; it seemed like throwing it upon me. My thoughts turned to the visit of the police: it appeared a strange one. Who could have written that false note to the inspector? The same party who wrote to Mr. Chandos, accusing me and Mrs. Penn? What web had been entwined around us? Surely Lizzy could not be the author of this: it was beyond her.The breakfast passed nearly in silence. Mr. Chandos paid a visit to his mother's rooms when it was over, and then went out. He appeared again at luncheon, and, in the course of it, remarked that he had been engaged all the morning, but should ride over presently to the police station."To endeavor to get a sight at that note;" he continued; "and to pick up, in a quiet way, any facts that may be obtainable.""Shall you not institute an inquiry, Mr. Chandos?""No. I shall pick up, as I say, what there may be to pick up, but I shall make no stir: I have my reasons."Mrs. Penn came into the room soon after he quitted it, and threw herself into a chair. "Oh, dear!" she uttered, "I have my doubts whether I shall be able to stop at Chandos. Did you ever see such a house, Miss Hereford? That visit of the police—to see them riding up with their naked sabres! I can tell you it gave me a turn. And, after all, after terrifying us to death, Mr. Chandos entertained them amicably with supper, I hear.""Their coming at all was a mistake. A trick had been played upon them.""A trick? I don't understand.""A note was written in Mr. Chandos's name to the inspector, asking him to send officers over to take into custody the person who has been playing these pranks at Chandos."Mrs. Penn stared at me as I spoke. "Who wrote it?" she asked."Mr. Chandos does not know. He had a note himself also, an anonymous one: it strove to insinuate into his mind that you or I, being the only strangers at Chandos, must be the guilty party.""What next?" uttered Mrs. Penn, after a pause, given, as it appeared, to astonishment. "Does Mr. Chandos suppose I stole my own lace, and rifled my own letter?""Mr. Chandos knows better. I say a note came, an anonymous one, suggesting the idea to him. But I thought it seemed to point more to me than to you.""Mr. Chandos would not admit the idea—would he?""Oh, no. I am quite easy on that score. Mr. Chandos knows he may trust me."She raised her finger and shook it at me. "Anne Hereford, I warned you once before, and I now warn you again: do not allow yourself to grow attached to Mr. Chandos. There are reasons—I may not speak them—why it would lead to nothing but misery. Misery? it is but a faint word for it; disgrace, shame, more than you, in your youth and inexperience, can imagine of evil. It is scarcely likely that he will make such advances; but, should he do so, you must repel him firmly: better that you fell in love with the lowest man servant attached to the house, than with Mr. Chandos."The tell-tale crimson arose to my cheek, and I leaned from the open window, out of Mrs. Penn's view. Mr. Chandos rode forth at the same moment, unattended."Where's he going?" inquired Mrs. Penn."To the police station, I believe. He said he would ride thither this afternoon. That some one is playing strange tricks upon him is certain, and he would like to discover the party.""You seem to be quite in his confidence," remarked Mrs. Penn."He told me so much—that he intended to ride thither. No very great stretch of confidence.""There are many things I don't like in this house," she resumed, after an interval of silence. "What do you suppose they did last night? Actually locked us up in the east wing! Turned the key upon us! I was coming forth to see if I could find out what those horrid police were doing, and, I found myself a prisoner! Madam Hill's act and deed, that was.""Indeed!" was my response, not choosing to tell her that I had heard the order given by Mr. Chandos."She takes a vast deal too much upon herself, does Hill. I guessed it was nobody else, and taxed her with it, asking how she could presume to lock up me. She coolly replied that she bad never thought of me at all in the affair, but of Mrs. Chandos, who was of a timid nature, and did not like the sight of police. Poor thing! she has cause," added Mrs. Penn, in a sort of self-soliloquy."Mrs. Chandos has?""No unhappy wretch escaped from Botany Bay, and stolen over here, hoping to elude detection, has more cause to dread the detective officers of justice than she. So has your friend, Harry Chandos. I would not lead the life of apprehension that he does, for untold gold.""How came you to be so deep in their secrets?""Had I not been deep in their secrets, and shown them that I was, I should not have been admitted an inmate of that east wing," she answered, with a knowing glance. "Do you know, when the police came last night—but I shall say too much if I don't hold my tongue," she broke off; and, rising abruptly from her seat, went as abruptly away.The adventures of the day were not over for me; I wish they had been. It was getting towards dinner time, at least it was late in the afternoon when I, tired of sitting in-doors by myself, strolled out. The morning had been very lovely, but the evening was less so; a sighing wind whistled amidst the trees, clouds passed rapidly over the face of the sky, and the autumn leaves fell and whirled about the paths. Did it ever strike you that there is something melancholy in these dying leaves? Some people say they like autumn best of the four seasons; but I think there is a great deal in its characteristics to bring our own autumn of life involuntarily to the mind; the leaves of the trees decay, and fall, and die; so must we when our time shall come.I was listening to the rustle of the leaves and thinking—if I may confess it—of Mr. Chandos, thinking of the warning against him repeated to me again that day by Mrs. Penn, when I saw Mrs. Penn herself in a distant walk, pacing side by side and evidently in conversation with one whose very sight made me shudder—Mr. Edwin Barley. She saw me at the same moment, and quickened her pace to approach; Mr. Edwin Barley raising his hat to her as he turned away."Could you see a gentleman walking with me from this distance?" she asked as she came up. "Were you able to distinguish him, I mean?""Yes, I could distinguish him.""Then do pray tell me who it is. I have met him several times. Some friend of the Chandoses, I suppose.""Not much of that, I fancy. It is a Mr. Edwin Barley. He has recently come to live here; in that square house, outside the gates.""In that house, does he! I think I have seen him enter it. Mr.—what do you call him?""Edwin Barley.""Mr. Edwin Barley. I am a bad one to remember names. Why do you judge him not to be a friend of the Chandoses? I think he is a friend.""I do not fancy him to be so," was my cautious answer. "He does not appear to visit them.""But he is always asking after them. Very kind indeed his inquiries are, especially after Lady Chandos. He stopped me now, hoping I could give him news that she was better. The first time he spoke to me, I thought it a piece of presumption, being a stranger, but when I found it was only to inquire of the welfare of the family I excused it.""I should not feel inclined to encourage him or to answer his questions, were I you, Mrs. Penn.""Why not?""You don't know any thing of him, or of his motives. I once heard Mr. Chandos warn him off the grounds, and I think, after that, his entering them looks very suspicious.""I'm sure you must be suspicious," laughed Mrs. Penn. "You were certainly born for an old maid, Anne Hereford! When a gentleman—and a neighbor, as you say he is—makes inquiries after the health of the family you are staying with, as if there could be any harm in your civilly answering them!""I only give you my opinion. I do not think Mr. Chandos would approve of your doing so.""Talking about Mr. Chandos, has he returned?""I have not seen him.""I must hasten back," she continued. "Mrs. Chandos only allows me about half-an-hour; but, as I tell her, I must walk a little once or twice a day, to keep myself in health. Are you coming in?""Not just yet."She continued her course, and I continued mine. What a strangely persevering man that Edwin Barley seemed to be! If Mrs. Penn knew—as she evidently did know—the dark secrets of the Chandos family, what might he not get out of her? I nearly made up my mind to inform Mr. Chandos.Alas for me! for my poor courage! Turning a sharp corner of the walk, I came upon him standing there; upon him, Edwin Barley. Was he waiting for me, or for Mrs. Penn? Without a moment's reflection, I wheeled round and would have gone back again, but he was too quick for me and placed himself in my way."Not so fast, young lady. I have been waiting for you to come up: I saw you in the distance; I should like to exchange a word with you. Why! you won't be so discourteous as to deny me!""I cannot stay now, thank you.""Oh, yes you can—when I wish it. I want to inquire after the health of the family. There's no getting any thing out of that companion: she 'can't tell me how my lady is, save from hearsay;' she 'never sees her, and she sees nearly as little of Mr. Chandos.' You and I can be more confidential.""No, we cannot, sir. I never see Lady Chandos, any more than she does.""Which you cannot say of Mr. Harry; you see rather much of him," retorted Mr. Edwin Barley, with a parting of the lips that brought his white teeth conspicuously to view. "You and he are united and confidential as two turtle doves—so the news is brought to me.""Did Mrs. Penn tell you that?" I asked, my color and my anger rising together."Mrs. Penn! Who's she?""The companion, as you call her: the lady you have just parted with.""No Mrs. Penn was my informant. If I got no more out of other people, than I do out of any Mrs. Penn, I should not hear much. You had a visit from the police last evening; an unexpected one, rumor runs. Did their sudden appearance confound Mr. Harry Chandos?"I would not answer. Was Lizzy the snake, trailing to him with these things?" What said Mr. Harry Chandos when they appeared, I ask? Did they bring terror to him? Did he exhibit the fear of one who believes the officers that administer the criminal law have come for him—for him?""I cannot tell you, sir.""You were with him, I know that much," he fiercely uttered, in the same tone of voice I had once heard him use to my aunt Selina."What if I was? I cannot say how Mr. Chandos felt or thought.""You can—if you choose. Are you aware that I know you?"My heart beat violently. I felt too sick to speak, even if I had found any thing to reply."Did you hope I had forgotten you? Do you know that you are my niece? that—""No, no; not your niece," I interrupted, some feeling giving me the strength to say it. "I was the niece of my aunt Selina, but when she died all ties were surely severed between you and me.""So you do know me!" he exclaimed."I have known you, sir, ever since the day I first saw you here.""It is more than I did by you, young one, I can tell you that, or perhaps you would not have been allowed to remain so quietly at Chandos. But we are wandering from the point. I ask you how the visit of the officers affected Harry Chandos?""I have said that I cannot inform you.""You shall inform me.""How can I speak to what I do not know?" I retorted, in my caution that no word or manner of mine should betray him. Sick and faint I felt, weak as a coward; but I prayed for strength to resist unto right."There are reasons why I should be acquainted with events that pass at Chandos," he resumed, his manner terrible in its sternness. "As you are there, you can meet me of a day and give me the information. But, again I ask you—""I will not," I interrupted. "You have no legal power over me, Mr. Edwin Barley; none whatever. I have nothing to betray to you; and, if I had, be assured I would not act so dishonorably as to betray it. I beg you will not stop me again; for I will not answer a question that touches on the Chandos family; no, not the most simple one; never, from this hour. I heard Mr. Chandos desire you not to come upon his grounds; I think you ought to obey him, sir."An awful expression of satanic rage—the word is not misplaced; his look was satanic—overspread his features. He raised his finger and thumb and held them before me."Hist!" he burst forth, putting his dark face close to mine, "know that I have them all under my finger and thumb, under these; do you see them?" shaking his hand in my sight. "If I choose to shake them all from Chandos, and send them trooping with drooping heads out of the kingdom, I can do it; ay, your chosen friend, Harry, the first, with all his high and mighty pride. You provoke me, and I'll do it. I ask you once more whether he cowered like a criminal at the officers of justice?"One single moment of hesitation, and then my resolve returned, fixed and firm."I have said that I will not answer your questions, now or ever."He seized hold of me by the arm; I thought his fingers would have met in it, and I shrieked out in my fright. All the old remembrances came across me: the murder which had taken place, the death of my aunt, and my doubts and dread of him. His dreadful face was close to mine: was he going to kill me? I shrieked out again.Quick—it passed like a flash of lightning—all in a moment, I was drawn from him, and he lay on the ground. Mr. Chandos had quietly approached, walking his horse, and we had been too much occupied to observe him. He sprang from his steed at my cries, caught me, and struck Mr. Edwin Barley. The latter was on his feet again instantly. Mr. Chandos stood, one hand round me, the other holding the bridle of his horse."How dare you presume to molest this young lady?" he panted, his white face stern and haughty, and his nostrils working. "What do you mean by it? Answer me!""I possess the right to molest her, if I please; you don't," retorted Mr. Edwin Barley, who appeared to have no intention of returning the blow; and indeed he could have made no fit antagonist for Mr. Chandos, in the latter's height and power. "Neither possess you the right to protect her: I do. She is my niece. What relative may she be of yours?"Mr. Chandos, with a gesture of astonishment, looked in my face for confirmation or refutation. He got neither. I only clung to him for protection, the tears running down my cheeks."Whatever she may be, she is residing under my roof, and as such, is in my charge. If you ever dare to touch her against her will again, sir, I will horsewhip you."Mr. Chandos held his riding-whip in his hand as he spoke, and it trembled ominously. The white teeth of Mr. Edwin Barley glistened."You know that you will one day pay for this insult, Harry Chandos.""I know nothing of the sort; neither do you. The Chandoses are not given to calculation. I can tell you what you shall be made to pay for, Mr. Edwin Barley—the trespassing upon my domains. I warned you off them once; I will not warn you again—the law shall for me.""Your grounds!" spoke Mr. Edwin Barley, with a sneer."Yes, sir, mine," was the proud answer. "They are mine so long as I am the representative of Sir Thomas Chandos. Have the goodness to quit them now, and with speed, or I will call my servants to escort you."Ah! only wait a little while, Harry Chandos, you and yours, and my turn will come."He departed without another word. Mr. Chandos watched him out of sight, then drew my hand within his arm, leading also his horse, and proceeded towards the house. I saw Mrs. Penn look down at us from the corridor window. One of the men appeared, took the horse, and we went into the oak parlor. The cloth was laid for dinner, but the room was quite dusk, save for the smouldering fire."Anne," he whispered, speaking for the first time since we left Mr. Edwin Barley, but not releasing me, "what is this strange assertion that he has been making? You cannot be his niece?""Oh, no, no," I answered, bursting into hysterical sobs in my excitement, "indeed I am no blood relation of his. I will tell you all, after dinner. Do not let him gain any power over me, should he try! Keep me from him.""I wish I could give myself the right to keep you from him, and from every other ill," he breathed. "Do you know, Anne, that I love you above all else in the world? that you are my days' sunshine, my nights' dream? Have you not discovered this for yourself?"He was standing in the dark shade beyond the window curtains as he said this, and had gathered me in his arms. I—I made no answer; but I should have liked to remain where I was forever."But, my darling, it can only end; here; as it has begun; for I cannot marry. My brother, Sir Thomas, cannot marry."I looked up at him. I believe my lips formed the word "Why?""It would not be right. There are dark clouds hanging over Chandos: should they open, it would be to hurl down desolation and disgrace. How can either of us, he or I, think of exposing a wife to encounter this? Could I, in honor, do it?""It might be happier for you, if this sorrow should arrive, to have one with you to soothe your cares and share them.""And there is one who would not shrink from it," he said, laying his face upon mine. "Had I not seen that, Anne, I should have been as much knave as fool to speak of my own feelings. My dearest, before we knew that we loved each other, the love had come; and it was too late to guard against it."He took some passionate kisses from my face. I let him do it. I don't care whether it was right or wrong: I only know that I felt as one in a blissful dream."We have been betrayed into this, Anne; I have. But I know you will forgive me. The fleeting moment over, it is over for good. I would give half my remaining existence to be able to make you my wife. My darling, believe me, it cannot be: but I shall love you forever.""Oh, look! look at your hand! What has happened to it?"The straps had no doubt separated in the encounter with Mr. Edwin Barley, and it had burst out bleeding again.CHAPTER XXVITHE HUSBAND OF MRS. CHANDOS.THE dinner came and passed, and Mr. Chandos was himself once more, calm, courteous, and gentlemanly; the servants in waiting could never have suspected that I had just been sheltered in his arms, or that he had made a confession of love.The cloth was barely drawn when Hill came in, to summon him to the west wring. Lady Chandos wanted him particularly."I shall be back directly," he said to me.However, he did not come back; not until the tea was on the table. Hickens was in and out with the urn and things, and nothing was said. Mr. Chandos's countenance wore a sad, gloomy look: but, as I have previously remarked, it often did when he came from the west wing"What led to the scene with that man to-day?" he abruptly asked.I briefly explained. Telling him I had seen Mrs. Penn with Mr. Edwin Barley, and relating her words to me; telling him also of my own encounter with him, and his anxiety to learn the particulars of the officers' visit to Chandos."If Mrs. Penn is to make a friend or an acquaintance of Mr. Edwin Barley, she cannot remain at Chandos," he coldly remarked. "Have you finished tea? Then it shall go away."He rose to ring the bell, did not resume his seat again, but stood with his back to the fire, and watched the servants take the tea away. When they had disappeared and the door was closed, he took a seat by me on the sofa."Now, then, Anne, I claim your promise. What are you to Edwin Barley?" and what is he to you?""Did you know that there was once a Mrs. Edwin Barley?" I began."Unfortunately I had too good cause to know it."I thought the answer a strange one, but went on."She was a Miss Carew. Selina Carew—""I know she was," he interrupted."And my aunt.""Your aunt!" he uttered, turning round to look full at me."She was sister to my mother, Mrs. Hereford. But there was a good bit of difference in their ages.""Whose daughter are you? Who was your father?""Colonel Thomas Hereford. But my aunt Selina died, and it is not to be supposed, it is not in accordance with reason and common sense, that Mr. Edwin Barley can claim any right of control over me.""Of course it is not. Be at ease, Anne, so far as that is concerned. Did your aunt Selina—but perhaps I ought not to put the question to you.""I will answer it," I simply said."I was going to ask whether your aunt died a natural death," he said, lowering his voice. "Possibly you know nothing about it, though.""I was there at the time she died.""There! At Edwin Barley's?" he quickly rejoined.And I proceeded to give him the outline of what had taken me there, and of what occurred."I had wished my aunt good-night the previous evening, thinking she was better. When I went into her room the following morning, she was dead. I know the thought did come over me, whether she had died a fair death, though I was only a little girl. But I think there is no doubt about it. She was very ill, her throat was stopped up, and she said, herself, she could not recover.""I have never heard suspicion cast upon it," remarked Mr. Chandos. "But—Barley is a queer man, and he was terribly displeased with his wife just then. Forget that I spoke it, Anne."I made no answer: but I remembered all about George Heneage only too well, and the cause of contention with Mr. Edwin Barley. Mr. Chandos resumed."Did you ever hear of a tragedy that took place there about the same period? A ward of Edwin Barley's was killed.""Philip King. Yes. I saw it done, Mr. Chandos.""Saw what done?""Saw Philip King murdered. I was in the wood. I saw the shot strike him, and watched him fall.""Why, what a strange girl you are!" Mr. Chandos exclaimed, my words evidently striking him with astonishment. "What else have you seen?""Nothing like that. Nothing half so dreadful. I trust I never shall.""I trust not, either," he muttered. "Anne," he continued, dropping his voice to a tone that sounded fearfully solemn and awe-struck, "who fired that shot?""It was said to be—but I ought not to mention names, Mr. Chandos, in a case like this, even to you," I broke off."Yes you may. It was said to be a gentleman who was visiting there, George Heneage. You see I know so much: like the public in general knew.""I think it was George Heneage. I had taken a dreadful dislike to Mr. Edwin Barley, and I remember wondering whether he had done it, for I saw him close by at the time, with his gun in his hand, and I knew he hated George Heneage. But I think there is no doubt that it was George Heneage.""Did you hear or know the reason of Edwin Barley's hatred of George Heneage?""I gathered it," I answered, looking down with a crimsoned face."Mrs. Edwin Barley was beautiful, was she not?" he asked, after a pause."Very beautiful.""Do you remember George Heneage?""I cannot recall his face. I remember thinking him good-looking. He was very tall. Charlotte Delves called him a scarecrow; but I thought she disliked him because Mr. Edwin Barley did?""Who was Charlotte Delves?""She lived there. I think she was distantly related to Mr. Edwin Barley. Jemima—she was one of the maids—once said that Charlotte Delves liked Mr. Edwin Barley too well.""Anne, you must relate to me all the particulars of that by-gone tragedy, every detail you can recollect. It is not curiosity that prompts me to ask it, but a far more urgent reason.""I would tell you willingly," I said with hesitation. "But—I should have to cast some blame upon my aunt Selina.""You cannot cast more blame to her than has already been cast upon her to me. Perhaps your account may help partially to remove the odium that was thrown upon her."I began at the beginning, and told him all, so far as I could recollect. The cause of my going to Mr. Edwin Barley's house, what I had witnessed there, the scenes that followed Philip King's death, and those that followed my aunt's. When I came to the details of the murder, Mr. Chandos sat with his elbow on the arm of the sofa, his face turned from me and buried in his hand."So you saw George Heneage after the murder,'' he remarked."Immediately after it. He was hiding in the wood, trembling all over, and his face white.""Had he the look of a guilty man?""Yes, that he had. Had he not been guilty, why should he not have come openly forward to succor Philip King?""True. Did Mrs. Edwin Barley deem him guilty?""I don't think she did; I am not sure. It was the looking after him that killed her.""What do you mean?" asked Mr. Chandos."When she heard what had happened, that Philip King was shot, I think she must have suspected that it was the work of George Heneage; or perhaps she was told so; I forget. She had just dressed for dinner in a low dress with short sleeves, and she ran out without putting any thing on over it. It was a thick, heavy fog that evening, penetrating every thing, and she stayed out an hour or two, and came home wet through. She had been searching for George Heneage.""Did she meet with him?""I believe not. The cold and damp struck to her and brought on the disease in her throat and chest. She only lived a few days. Has George Heneage ever been heard of, do you happen to know?"'"It, is said not.""Then he has not been taken up and accused of the murder? Mr. Edwin Barley said at the time that he would bring him to justice, were it years to come.""Mr. Edwin Barley was excessively bitter against him. He, Barley, succeeded to Philip King's fine property.""I remember thinking—or perhaps I may have heard the remark made by some one—that were any suspicion to fall upon Mr. Edwin Barley, touching the affair, the fact of his being the next heir to the property would tell against him.""Ay," replied Mr. Chandos. "Were I on the jury when George Heneage was brought to trial, I should require strong proof, ere I convicted him.""But do you not think that George Heneage's own conduct proves his guilt? The very fact of his running away into concealment, and remaining in it, would seem to assume that he was guilty.""Good reasoning, Anne. But it might not apply in all cases; though it would in most. Should George Heneage reappear in England, Mr. Edwin Barley would instantly accuse and arrest him, there's no doubt of that; innocent or guilty, he must stand his trial; and, to some natures, that ordeal would be worse than the conviction. In saying this, I am not defending George Heneage; I fear it is most probable that he was guilty.""Did you ever see George Heneage, Mr. Chandos?""Yes.""Perhaps you knew him?"He made no reply; but, rising from; his seat, began to pace the room."Anne, rely upon it, Edwin Barley destroyed that will of your aunt Selina's.""It was singular that it should disappear.""He could not bear for the little bit of money to go beside him; he has the character of being a hard, grasping man, a miser. A trifle like that, added to his large property, is as a drop of water to the ocean. You wanted it; he does not. You have but little.""I have nothing; I have not a farthing but what I earn. Mamma sunk for my education the trifle of money she had saved.""But—the daughter of Colonel Hereford ought to enjoy a pension," he debated, stopping short in his walk."Papa sold out previous to his death.""Oh, I see," and he resumed his walk."Mr. Chandos, may I ask you a question?""You know you may. I will answer it if I can.""What has Mr. Edwin Barley to do with you? Why should he be your enemy?""That is what I cannot answer," he quickly rejoined. "He is an implacable enemy to me and to my family; and likely to remain so. I cannot divest myself of the idea that he was the author of that visit we were favored with last, night by the police. I could not see the note; the inspector, looking upon it as of no moment, destroyed it when read.""But Mr. Edwin Barley cannot be the author of these losses that occur here!""To be so, he must possess an agent in the house. That he would like to get my private memoranda into his fingers, and peep at my letters, I know; but he could have no possible motive for thieving lace and money.""But, Mr. Chandos, suppose—suppose—""Speak out. Why do you hesitate?""Suppose, for argument's sake, that he has an agent in the house, suppose that it is a woman—that agent may be transacting a little business on her own account, while she does his."Mr. Chandos came up, stood close before me and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "Anne, you have some peculiar meaning in saying this.""I think he has an agent in the house. I am nearly sure of it. If it be the one I suspect, the temptation of gold and silver, and of a bit of rich lace, falling under her notice when she was hunting out secrets for him, may have proved too strong for her.""Who is it that you suspect?"I hastily pushed his hand from me, and rose with a vivid blush. There, behind him, stood Mrs. Penn. How silently she had come in! Mr. Chandos turned and saw her, and a haughty frown settled on his brow. He smoothed it down."I beg your pardon," she said; "I am interrupting, I fear. Miss Hereford, I lent you my sharp-pointed embroidery scissors; can you let me have them?"I took them from my basket and gave them to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Penn, for the loan of them. I shall purchase a pair the first opportunity.""It is a chilly evening," she said, moving to depart. "I shall see you again," she added, nodding at me, "before bed-time."Mr. Chandos walked to the door when she had finally left, and slipped the bolt. Ere he was half way across the room on his return, however, he went back and undid it, some reflection appearing to strike him. His brow was stern and displeased."Anne, those scissors were an excuse; she no more wanted them than I did. She came to see what was going on.""I am sure she is given to curiosity.""To the indulging of it. She is quite the opposite of what poor Mrs. Freeman was; she never put herself in any body's way. I don't like these interruptions. Go on with what you were saying."I proceeded with my account of the interview in the summer-house, and I told him I suspected Lizzy. He was terribly displeased, and spoke sternly of Mr. Barley's conduct, making me repeat what I had heard, over and over again. But he could not be brought to believe but it was Lizzy.You acknowledge that yon did not see her, or hear her voice, or discover any token that it was she," he reiterated. "Why, then, should it be Lizzy, more than another?""I know Lizzy was out of the way at the time, leaving her work waiting. I went round to the kitchen and ascertained that.""That tells nothing. She may have been off on the gossip, without any reference to Mr. Edwin Barley. She is a great gossip, is Lizzy.""But, Mr. Chandos, suffer me to ask you in my turn, why you should put this continued good faith in Lizzy, seeing that circumstances do, in a degree, tell against her?""I will answer you, Anne. Lizzy has been in our family for some time, and we have always found her a faithful servant. Now, when I gain a good opinion of people from experience, that opinion is difficult to shake.""It must have been some one in the house who was talking to Mr. Edwin Barley. If not Lizzy, which of the others could it have been?""There's the point," rejoined Mr. Chandos. "It is a puzzle to me. The last few weeks have been a puzzle altogether, and when I reflect—"A knock at the door at that moment, and Lizzy herself entered. She had come after something or other from the sideboard for Mrs. Hill. Mr. Chandos, standing with his back to the fire, suddenly accosted her; she had got her head nearly inside one of the sideboard cupboards at the time."How long have you known Mr. Edwin Barley, Lizzy?""Known who, sir, did you ask?" she returned, standing up and looking round at him."Mr. Edwin Barley.""I don't know him at all, sir," she replied, after a minute's pause, given apparently to surprise and consideration. "Not but what I seem to have heard that name—lately, too.""He is the new tenant at the house outside the gates.""Law, yes, to be sure! Two of the men were talking of him one day; that was the name, for I remember I said it put me in mind of the fields. I saw him once I think, sir; a short, dark man, isn't he?""Mr. Chandos nodded an affirmative."Where did you see him?""It was coming home from church one Sunday, sir. We were crossing the road to the gates, me and Robin and Harriet, when I noticed a swarthy gentleman, standing stock still and staring at us. 'I hope he'll know us again,' said I, 'he's ugly enough.' 'Hush!' says Robin, 'that's master's new tenant at the house there?""But you have spoken to him?" cried Mr. Chandos."No, sir, I have not. I never saw him but that once."Well, she did seem to speak truthfully, and Mr. Chandos looked at me when she quitted the room, which he allowed her to do without further questioning."The traitor is not Lizzy, Anne."And, ponder and talk over it as we would, we could not divine who the traitor was. Bed-time came, and I held out my hand to Mr. Chandos, and wished him good-night."Good-night," he said, shaking it. "Anne! I wish I dare offer you a different good-night from this formal one! I wish I could feel justified in it?"I don't know what I stammered; something very foolish; about his being, possibly, more fastidious than he need be."No, no," he decisively answered. "If a wavering may have crossed my mind before, when I thought you but a poor governess, as to whether I should lay the good and the ill before you, and let you decide, it has passed now. The daughter of Colonel Hereford must not be trifled with. Good-night, child."The tears were streaming down my cheeks as I entered my bed-room: had Mr. Chandos cast me off forever? His frequent allusion to the disgrace attending him and his family had insensibly seemed to diminish the distance between us, and floating visions of becoming his wife had visited me in all their lovely rose color. Besides, I was the daughter of Colonel Hereford, a lady born, and with a lady's breeding and education: surely the barrier was not so very great.Dwelling upon this, it startled me to behold somebody occupying the chair near the hearth: I could not tell who for the moment, for my sight was dim. It proved to be Mrs. Penn, and she pointed to the door."Shut it and bolt it," she said. "I have come to talk to you."I closed it. but did not slip the bolt. Where was the necessity? Nobody ever came into my room at night."Come and sit down: I have drawn you a chair close to mine," she proceeded. "And tell me why you are crying.""I am not crying. I have no cause to cry," I resentfully answered, vexed beyond every thing. "I thought of something as I came up stairs, which brought the tears into my eyes: we often laugh till we cry, you know.""Ay," said Mrs. Penn, "perhaps yours are tears of joy. But—""I should be so very much obliged if you put off what you wish to say till morning," cried I, interrupting her. "You don't know how sleepy I am.""I know that you can tell a parcel of fibs, you wicked child. Anne—I shall call you so to-night—I have come to talk to you, and talk I shall. I want to save you.""Save me from what?""From the machinations of Harry Chandos.""Mr. Chandos is working no machinations against me.""I know that he is. He has been making you a declaration of love."The tell-tale crimson lighted up my face. Mrs Penn continued,"That he has either done it or renewed it, to-night, I am sure: I read it in his face when I entered the oak parlor. I suspected he was playing with you, and made the scissors my excuse for appearing. Don't you remember what I told you I that you had better be made love to by the lowest servant on the estate, than by Mr. Chandos? That servant could marry you: Harry Chandos cannot."My nerves were completely unstrung and I burst into tears; I could play a false part no longer. It was bitter enough to hear her confirm his own words. Mrs. Penn rose, and, standing over me, fondly stroked my hair."Child, do you know why I have thus interfered between you and Mr. Chandos? I will tell you. Once, years ago, I became attached to a young girl, a distant relative of mine, whom had not seen until then, since she was' an infant. She was under my charge and under my eye—""What was her name?" I interrupted."We used to call her Lottie. You put me in mind of her. One came, fascinating as Mr. Chandos; and I, believing him to be upright and honorable, exercised little caution. He gained her love, like Mr. Chandos has gained yours—""Mrs. Penn!"" Hush! do you think I am blind? He gained the love of Lottie; and, when marriage came to be spoken of as a natural sequence, we found out that we had been entertaining a Jesuit in disguise. He could not marry."" A real Jesuit? Do you mean it?""I am speaking metaphorically. The man called himself a Protestant and a Christian, if he called himself any thing. Very Christian work, it was of him, to gain Lottie's heart, and then confess that he had gained it for no end. She died.""Lottie?""Lottie died; the blow was too sharp for her. She was a timid, gentle flower, and could not stand the rough blast.""Why could he not marry?""Ah! why indeed!" she answered, curling her lips with mockery: "why cannot Harry Chandos? The cases are parallel. It is the remembrance of Lottie which causes me to feel this interest in you. Anne, I must save you.""There is nothing to save me from," I answered, touched with her kindness. "I am not likely to marry Mr. Chandos."" I say that you cannot marry him," she impatiently rejoined."Not unless I would share an unhappy fate. And he has too much regard for me to invite me to it.""Oh, he says that, does he? Anne, I have a great mind to tell you truth. Can yon undertake that it shall not repass your lips?""I will undertake it," I answered, feeling sick with doubt and dread; as if I were on the point of some great discovery."You need not turn pale. I am not going to disclose to you the mighty secret which darkens the days of the Chandoses, I speak only of Mr. Chandos's conduct to you. He has hinted that if you would share an untoward fate, he could offer you one; but he will not, out of consideration to you?"" Something of that," I whispered."Something of that! Anne, can a man have two wives?"I looked up at her, startled." Who is the husband of Mrs. Chandos?" she impressively breathed. "Has the question never occurred to you? Has your mind never asked itself, 'Is it not possible that it may be Mr. Harry Chandos?' Speak."I put up my hand in fear and trembling, as if to beat off her words. Speak! I could not have spoken had nay life depended on it."Mark you, it must go no further, it is not known to all. They are Mr. and Mrs. Chandos, but there are reasons why they live an estranged life. My poor child, you look ready to fall."I did fall. I fell at her knee, and clasped it in my overwhelming misery. The husband of Mrs. Chandos! Much, that was obscure before, shone out clearly now; much, to which I had wanted a clue, was now plain: the scales fell from my eyes, and I marvelled at my utter blindness. Her husband! her husband! My head drooped down to the ground, and there escaped from me one low, anguished cry of despair.CHAPTER XXVIITHE NIGHT WALK FROM THE POST-OFFICEI ROSE in the morning. The sun was shining brightly into my room, but there would be no more day's sun for me. What a night I had passed! If you have ever been deceived in the manner I bad, you will understand it; if not, all the writing in the world would fail to convey to you a tithe of the misery that was mine—and that would be mine for years to come. Her husband! whilst he pretended to love me!I avoided Mr. Chandos that day, yon may be very sure of that; save at meals; I could not help meeting him then. He rode out after breakfast; to attend some county meeting, it was said; and returned about four o'clock. I saw him come home, from the window of my room, where I remained until dinner.He appeared inclined to be thoroughly sociable, when we sat down to it; talked and laughed; told me of a ludicrous scene which had occurred at the meeting; but I was cold and reserved, scarcely answering him. He regarded me keenly, as if debating with himself what it could be that had so changed ray manner. When the servants had withdrawn, I quitted my place at table, and sat down in a low chair near the fire."Why do you go there?" said Mr. Chandos. "You will take some dessert?""Not this evening.""But why?""My head aches."He quitted the table, came up, and stood before me. "Anne, what is the matter with you?"My breath was coming quickly, my swelling heart seemed as if it must burst. All the past rose up forcibly before me; he, a married man, had mocked me with his love; had—oh, worse than all!—gained mine. It was a crying insult, and it was wringing bitterly every feeling I possessed. Any thing else I could have borne. Mrs. Penn had hinted at some great crime; words of his own had confirmed it. Had he committed every crime known to man, I could better have forgiven it; but for this deliberate deceit upon me, there could be no forgiveness; and there could be no cure, no comfort for my lacerated heart."Are you angry with me for any cause? or offended?"The question unnerved me worse than I was already unnerved. It did more; it raised all the ire of my spirit. A choice between two evils only seemed to be left to me: either to burst into hysterical tears, or to openly reproach Mr. Chandos. The latter course came forth first."Why did you deceive me?" I uttered."Deceive you, Anne?""Yes, wretchedly deceive me," I answered in my desperation; not caring, and scarcely knowing, what I said. "Why did you speak to me of love? knowing that you could not marry?""What do you say, Anne?" he exclaimed."Knowing your circumstances; the reason that you cannot marry!" I passionately continued; determined, however, not to allude to particulars, or to mention Mrs. Chandos."The reason why I cannot marry is not known to you," he rejoined."It is," I answered."It is impossible," he returned, in much agitation; "it cannot be.""I do know the reason, the bare reason; none of the details. Mr. Chandos, it was wicked of you so to deceive me.""Whence do you know it? Who imparted it to you?""I will not tell you. It, is enough that I have gathered it," I answered, bursting at last into the hysterical tears which had been threatening me ominously."Anne, forgive me," he sadly cried. "Before I remembered that I could not act freely, as other men can, the love for you had come and was filling every crevice of my being.""You ought to have remembered it," I sobbed. But—in spite of the cruel wrong, in spite of my bitter misery, in spite of his wife, to hear the avowal of this deep love was as very bliss to my rebellious heart. It was but human; no more exempt from failings and frailties than are those of others; perhaps less so. Heaven knows I need not boast of my own goodness!"I am aware that I ought to have remembered it," he acquiesced, his tone almost one of wailing. "That I did not, will be upon my conscience forever: for I see that we must both equally suffer. I can but ask your forgiveness."I did not speak. I sat there with my face buried in my handkerchief; and nothing more was said, for Hill came in."Mr. Harry, my lady will be glad if you will go up and sit with her.""Very well. Is Mrs. Chandos there?""Yes, sir."Need he have asked that question, have mentioned her name in my presence? It struck me that it was a gratuitous insult. Mr. Chandos followed Hill from the room, and as soon as I though he was safe within the west wing, I few up to my own chamber.Flew up with a breaking heart: a heart that felt its need of solitude, of being where it could indulge its own grief unseen, unmolested. I was not, however, to gain my chamber; for, at the entrance to the west wing stood Mrs. Penn, and she arrested me."Come into my sitting-room," she said. "Mrs. Chandos will not be back for an hour. She is paying a visit to the west wing.""Mr. Chandos also," I replied, as indifferently as I could well speak."Mr. Chandos also," she assented, repeating my words. "They meet there more frequently than the house suspects."" But why may they not meet? Why is it that they live estranged—or appear to do so?""Sit you down," she said, pushing me into a chair by her fire, for we had been gradually approaching her room. "There is estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Chandos, but how far it precisely extends, I cannot tell you.""I did not ask you how far the estrangement extended; I asked you its cause.""Be content with knowing what you do know, Anne Hereford, without inquiring into causes. I can tell you one thing; that never was more impassioned love given to woman, than he at one time felt for Mrs. Chandos."I am ashamed to confess that the avowal caused my heart to chill and my face to burn. I turned the latter where it could not be seen. Mrs. Penn continued."He has professed to love you; he may think he does—men, such as he, are taken with fresh faces; nay, I will not say but he does love you: but, compared with the passion he once bore for Mrs. Chandos, his love for you is as nothing. Contrast the pale cold beams of the moon, with the burning rays of the tropical sun; and you have a type of that passion, and of this one.""Why do you say this to me? Is it well?""I deem it well. I say it because I think it right that you should know it. Would it be well that Mr. Chandos should cast his toils around you, and hem you within them?''"Mrs. Penn! Is it likely?" I indignantly asked. "Is it possible, after last night's disclosure.""It is both possible and likely, exposed as you are to his companionship. He is a subtle man, is Harry Chandos, with his fair outside and his honied plausibility."I would not answer her, I felt too angry, and sat, beating my foot upon the hearth. How dared she judge me so?"When do you leave?" she resumed."Leave?""Of course you will leave, after this. Were I you, I should not delay my departure a day.""Leave for where?""Shall you not leave Chandos?" she continued, in an accent of astonishment."I shall not leave a day the sooner for this having taken place.""Then you ought to do so," she impulsively uttered, the red flush of impatience mounting to her brow. "You owe it to yourself to put the barrier of distance and separation between you and Mr. Chandos."What was it to her, that she should thus urge me? I felt haughtily displeased. The truth being that I was in an ill humor with all the world; and I answered haughtily."I will not make the affair of so much consequence as to leave. I will treat it with the contempt it deserves. Mr. Chandos shall find that he has not broken my heart.""You cannot stay on here with him, his companion," she obstinately continued. "You cannot, Anne Hereford.""I will. Whether with him as a companion or without him, is now of no moment; but I do not quit Chandos until my legitimate plans call me away."I spoke sharply, in a determined tone, and Mrs. Penn could see that it was a decisive one. She gazed on my face with the air of one deliberating a point with herself, for some minutes before she answered."Shall I tell you what sort of companionship it is that yon covet; that appears to be too delightful for you to drag yourself away from? Shall I disclose to you the nature of the crime that hangs over the head of Mr. Chandos?""If you please," I replied.She drew closer to me, glanced fearfully round the room, as if in dread of being heard, and her whispered voice bore a peculiarly awe-struck tone."Anne Hereford, it is that of MURDER."I felt sick, utterly sick. I looked round the room also, and my flesh began to creep and my teeth to chatter. Murder? Harry Chandos?"Wicked, deliberate murder," she breathed in my ear. "Not the blow that is struck in passion, partaking almost as much of accident as design; but murder planned and executed in cold blood. Now what think you of the pleasant fitness of Mr. Chandos to be made a dear friend of, from morning till night?""Is it true?" I gasped."True? Ay, too true: as the Chandoses know to their cost. Was not this sufficient cause, think you, for poor young Mrs. Chandos to estrange herself from her husband?""Does she know it?" I asked in a low tone."She does know it. And it has turned her brain: so far as that at times she is not herself. At the full and change of the moon she becomes flighty, and requires surveillance. At other periods she is rational enough. There have been some occasional night scenes, I am informed, very painful. She has broken loose, made her escape into the corridor, and alarmed the house. To prevent these occurrences I sleep in her room.""Always?""Only when she betrays symptoms of aberration of mind. It is for that reason chiefly that a companion is required for her: but she has become much better since she lived in what may he called seclusion. It was an awful blight to fall upon her life."A hundred remembrances darted across me with regard to Mrs. Chandos; they had previously puzzled me, but this revelation fully explained them. Ihad witnessed one night scene in the corridor: and her strange words the evening I met her in the garden in her white silk dress, when we both were startled by the man who looked like Edwin Barley, were now accounted for. I had thought at the time they sounded like the words of one whose brain was confused, or partially gone."How did you become acquainted with the secret?" was my next question."That is my affair. I learnt it in a perfectly legitimate manner: but, whether or not, that has nothing to do with the present. Suffer me to counsel you to quit the house: there is no other way by which you can escape association with Mr. Chandos."Her pertinacity vexed me. I have said that I felt angry with every thing and every body: it was the sort of anger that inclines its sufferer to obstinacy, and I gave her a sharp answer. It might have gone on to a quarrel, but that I left the room.It was time for tea then, and I went down to it. How could I absent myself? Were the circumstances such as I, a lady born, could make a commotion over? No: and I felt as if I should like to cut my tongue out for having said what I did to Mr. Chandos that evening. Henceforth I would hold on my course, maintaining my own self-respect, and meet him coldly but calmly, as though nothing out of the common had ever passed between us.He did not appear at tea; and, after waiting till I was tired, I took mine with what relish I might. Ah! this all-engrossing passion! what other is there like unto love? Fifty times that evening I caught myself yearning for his presence. Restless and uneasy I paced the room, now drawing aside the curtains and looking from the window into the night; forgetful of faces at the panes, forgetful of ghosts: all I thought of was Mr. Chandos.And I saw him. I saw him pacing the broad walk, not the pine walk, where something else had been seen to pace. His arms were folded, and his head was bent as if in thought. I stood peeping at him. I know it was wrong. I know it would be called derogatory to every maidenly and moral feeling a young lady should possess, but so I did, and I can only write the truth. How long I watched, I know not! till bedtime, or near it: and then he came in.A word or two passed between us, mere commonplace sentences, and I prepared to retire. He said good-night, and held out his hand as usual. Should I take it? A short debate with myself, and then I shook hands coldly with him. Had I not decided to make no fuss?—and all the fuss in the world could not convert bad into good.Ten days went on, ten whole days of this unsatisfactory life. I seemed estranged from every body: from Mrs. Penn, from Mr. Chandos: and I had never been intimate with any one else in the house.I had said to Mrs. Penn, in my bitterness, that I would not leave; but, to leave, I now determined. The life was intolerable. He sitting with me, in contact with me every hour of the day, feeding the love that held sure possession of me; and she, his wife, up-stairs, haunting my memory as a spectre. No, stay on I could not.I wrote to Madame de Mellissie, telling her that I felt obliged to cancel my engagement with her, and to quit Chandos; and I wrote to the Miss Barlieus, asking them to receive me while I looked out for another situation. In that house of abstracted letters and rifled envelopes, a fancy came to me that these two letters might not be safe if I placed them on the hall table, that they might never reach their destination: so I resolved to take them myself to the post.But the post-office was two miles off. Well, what of that? It was a fine afternoon; and, by putting my best foot foremost, I should be back before dusk. Putting my things on, I departed; but, on going out of the portico, I encountered Mrs. Peon, and she arrested me."Do you know that you are looking ill—that this struggle is telling upon you?" she abruptly exclaimed, but in a tone full of kindness. "Why don't you make an effort, and quit it?""The effort is made," I wailed out, half in anger, half in despair, as I held to her view the letters in my hand. "Here is the announcement to those who will receive me. As soon as their answer arrives I bid adieu to Chandos.""Anne, you have done well," she answered, as she passed into the house, and I out of the portico.Leaning against the pillar was Mr. Chandos, who must have heard what had been said. That she was unconscious of his vicinity, I was certain, and, for myself, I started when I saw him. He spoke to me, but I pretended not to hear, and walked quickly away.I did not put my best foot foremost, for I was musing on my situation, and it caused me to walk lingeringly; the consequence was that it was nearly dusk when I reached the post-office. Dropping my letters in, I set off home again.Faster, this time. There was a lane near to Chandos, which cut off a portion of the road, and led to a small entrance gate at an obscure part of the grounds: the laurel gate, it was called, because many laurels grew near it. Down this lane I turned—as I thought; and had got some considerable distance when I came to a cottage. A cottage I had never seen before; and was very sorry to see it now, for it showed me that I had turned down the wrong lane.It was a waste of time that vexed me; but all I could do was to retrace my steps and take the right one. It was nearly dark night when I at length got to the laurel gate: some of the stars were shining then.The gate was unlatched, as if the last person who passed through had omitted to close it. A narrow path led to several other narrow paths, which branched off through the trees; I hesitated which to take, not being certain which would lead me soonest to the house; and as I stood thinking, a dark form advanced towards me from one of them. A form whose outlines, as he drew nearer, grew upon my recognition: it was that of Edwin Barley. With a faint cry, which he must have heard, I darted down the path furthest from him.The dark night, the story of the ghost, the proximity of the man I so dreaded, and my own lonely situation, all pressed upon my mind with the force of terror. Panting, breathless, agitated, on I tore, not knowing but he was after me, and was only arrested by seeing another dark form in my path. Was it Mr. Edwin Barley come round to encounter me by some short way that I knew nothing of? No, it was too tall for him. Another moment, and I saw that it was Mr. Chandos.With a sense of protection that was as a very balm to my spirit, I flew to him and seized his arm. All considerations were merged in the moment's bewilderment: I forgot his recent conduct; I forgot that he, a married man, had insulted me with his profession of love; I forgot my own self-esteem; standing there, he appeared to me only as a guardian angel, and I clung to him for shelter."Oh, Mr. Chandos! In mercy, protect me!"Quick as a flash of lightning, his arm was thrown round me, and I was clasped to his side; he must have felt the throbs of my beating heart."What has alarmed you?" he tenderly whispered."I came through the laurel gate, and I—I thought I saw a man walking there. I thought he might be following me, and that I should not outrun him.""What man?""I cannot tell," I answered; for still I had an invincible repugnance to mention Mr. Edwin Barley to Mr. Chandos. Was it that I feared he, Mr. Chandos, might turn back in his anger, and an encounter of violence be the result? We stood still and listened. Every nerve, every sense possessed by me, was strained to catch the sound of footsteps; stealthy ones, or in bold pursuit: but none approached."What was it I overheard Mrs. Penn say to you—or rather what did I hear you say to her?" resumed Mr. Chandos. "About quitting us. What did it moan?"The question recalled me to the present; to all I had forgotten; and, as I answered, I strove to draw away from those arms which, of all in the world, ought not to have encircled me. I might as well have tried to uproot any of the large trees we were passing; not more firmly did the ground hold them than he held me.""If you overheard my words, Mr. Chandos, you need not be at a loss for their meaning. I am going to quit Chandos.""Anne, it must not be. I cannot part with you."The avowal angered me; and I strove more strenuously to extricate myself. But what was my strength against his firm grasp?"Anne, my darling, I say that I cannot part with you: it would be like parting with life. It may be—visions of it have for some days past come over me—that time will so work things round, that there will be no necessity for us to part at all. Stay here; stay to gladden me; stay, at least, until events call yon away; but do not depart of your own free will."He leaned suddenly down to press his kisses upon my face. That I was utterly unprepared for such a procedure, I Deed not say. Was he insane? or only a villain?"I could not help it," he whispered in a tone of apology, while I was recovering breath and equanimity. "I know it is both wrong and foolish; but a man has not always his actions under cold control. You must forgive me, Anne."A variety of emotions, of thoughts. arose and nearly choked me. His words told upon me worse than his kisses. How could things work round so that he might be free, save by one event, the death of his wife?—and she was young and healthy! How dared he during this, her life, urge me to remain there to gladden him? I burst into hysterical tears, born of indignation and of excitement; and little recked I what I said in my passion, as I wrenched myself from him."Things work round, Mr. Chandos! Are your thoughts glancing to a second murder?""Anne! You might have spared me that," he exclaimed, in a tone of wailing pain."How have you spared me?""It may end brightly yet; it may indeed. Do not reproach me.""Good-evening, sir."I sped away from him as quickly as the darkness and the intersecting trees permitted, He did not attempt to follow me; or, if he did, I knew nothing of it: for, in my hurry, I turned into a path that led from the house, not to it. Nothing but encounters; the next thing was, I ran against a man and woman, who were standing, whispering together. The woman was Lizzy; and she gave a smothered, frightened shriek as I touched her; the man I did not know, so far as I could tell, peering at him through the evening gloom."Good heavens above! how you startled me, miss!""Why so, Lizzy?""Because—because—I was not expecting anybody to come up, if truth must be told. And in this ghostly place, folks flying upon one sudden, is enough to turn one's heart inside out.""I suppose I am going right for the house, Lizzy?""You are going right away from it, miss. If you want to get to the house, you must go that way, not this. Keep straight on till you come to that white statue with the basket of flowers in its hand, and then turn to the left; you'll soon see the house then."I obeyed her directions. But, before I had reached the statue—the goddess Flora—fleet steps were approaching from behind, in pursuit of me. To use Lizzy's expression, my heart felt as if turned inside out, for I feared Mr. Edwin Barley. Only Lizzy. What a relief!"Miss," she began in the softest whisper, "I have run up to ask you not to betray that you saw me talking to that young man. I don't want the servants to be making their comments upon him.""How should I betray it, Lizzy? I do not know him. If I met him tomorrow in broad daylight, I should not recognise him again.""But please, miss, don't say you saw me speaking with any one. It's not a sweetheart, I do assure you. Those servants are such dreadful curiosity-mongers.""You need not fear. It is no affair of mine. And I am not in the habit of talking to the servants."I continued my way. Lizzy, I think, followed me, but slowly. The statue arrived at, I struck into a broader walk, and the windows and lights of the house became visible. In this walk there was a garden chair; and, to my excessive surprise, somebody was seated in it. It proved to be Mrs. Penn, but I don't know that I should have recognised her, had she not spoken."Is it you, Anne Hereford? What a long while you have been out!""I missed my way, and that made me longer. You are sitting out late in the cold.""I have not sat down many minutes. I have been watching.""Watching?""Yes; watching. Who do you think I have seen in the grounds?" she added, in a voice of importance that called forth my wonder. "But you will never guess. Of all the dwellers at Chandos, I mean the family, which of them should you judge to be the least likely to be in the grounds, promenading as if to take the air?""The least likely would be Lady Chandos.""Yet it was Lady Chandos I saw.""Impossible, Mrs. Penn?""Impossible or possible, Lady Chandos it was," she answered in a resolute tone. "I tell you I rubbed my eyes when I caught sight of her, believing they must see things that were not. She was walking in that obscure walk beyond, the pines.""Then I say, with miss, here, that it's just impossible," cried Lizzy, from behind me, causing Mrs. Penn to start—for it appeared the girl had halted as I did. "My lady's no more capable of walking out, than a baby just born.""What on earth brings you there?" exclaimed Mrs. Penn. "It's Lizzy, is it not?""It's me, safe enough, ma'am," said Lizzy. "I happened to be following Miss Hereford. Why, my lady haven't been out of her bed for weeks! It's not likely she could be walking in the grounds.""Did you not hear me say I saw her?" sharply repeated Mrs. Penn to Lizzy. "It was Lady Chandos, and nobody else.""When was it?" I asked. Long ago?""It was at dusk. She was dressed all in black, and seemed to have a black silk cloak on, with the hood of it, quite covering her head. But she pushed it somewhat back, as I was looking through the trees, which gave me a distinct view of her face.""Where did you say this was, ma'am?'' questioned Lizzy."In that dark walk beyond the pines, where nobody goes.""How came you to go there, Mrs. Penn?" I interposed."I hardly know. I strolled on unthinkingly, buried in my reflections. I am positive it was Lady Chandos. But it is a strange and mysterious thing that she should he walking there, when she is said to be disabled in her bed.""Said to be," took up Lizzy, "she is. It was no more my lady walking there, than it was me. The very fact of its being that walk, would prove that it couldn't be her; it's close upon the ghost's walk, and my lady wouldn't go a nigh it, no, not if you bribed her with gold.""I don't know where the mystery lies, or what it is, but it was certainly Lady Chandos," persisted Mrs. Penn. "I got tired, and came and sat here, watching whether she would pass back: but I suppose there are several walks she could return by. Lizzy, how obstinate you look over it?""And enough to make me, ma'am, when I know that my lady it could not be. When there's a doubt whether a person will ever get out of their bed again, it don't stand to reason as that person could be walking in the garden of a dark, cold, damp evening.""It's not damp," said Mrs. Penn. "Do you see much of her ladyship, Lizzy?""Me! She's a deal to ill for me to see much of her, Mrs. Penn. Sometimes I just straighten her room and bed-clothes quite early of a morning, as early as seven o'clock. She never speaks to me, but lies with her face down upon the pillow. Mrs. Hill won't let me go in all the day after: she says my lady's too ill to have more than one about her, worrying; and she waits upon her herself. No, no; it never was my lady. Unless—unless—oh!"Lizzy finished off with a shrill scream. It caused us all to draw nearer together. We asked her what she meant."It's just this," whispered Lizzy, in an awe-struck tone, as she glanced over her shoulder with a shiver. "To-day at mid-day, Hill was in distress, and when we servants asked her what was the matter, she said my lady was worse, was as ill as she could be. Now it's well known that when folks die, they often appear to others at a distance: perhaps my lady's gone, and it was her spirit that appeared to Mrs. Penn. Oh, yes," she uttered with another wailing shriek, "it's sure to be! it's sure to be!"We shrieked in concert. The gloomy darkness, the gloomy, superstitions words, the near neighborhood of the ghostly spot, all tended to unstring our nerves: and I and Mrs. Penn involuntarily seized hold of each other, and came near shrieking out as loud as Lizzy.CHAPTER XXVIIIINSIDE THE WEST WING.WE went creeping into the house, I, Mrs. Penn and Lizzy, our hearts trembling, and fearing lest we might see the spirit of Lady Chandos under every tree. "Ridiculously superstitious," scoffs the reader. So it was: and we should have scoffed at it ourselves in broad, open daylight: but superstitious feelings come and go very much according to the attendant circumstances of time and place.We glanced up at the windows of the west wing, but could gather no information, for the heavy, dark curtains were already drawn. At the hall door stood Hickens."How is Lady Chandos?" I impulsively inquired."I haven't thought to ask this afternoon, miss. I suppose she's much as usual.""Isn't she dead, Mr. Hickens?" put in Lizzy."Dead!" he echoed, staring at the girl. "Any way, there's a basin of arrow-root just gone up for her, and I never heard that dead people could eat. What crotchet have you taken hold of, Lizzy, woman?"I think we all looked a little foolish. No more was said, and we went in. I saw Mr. Chandos in the oak parlor, as I passed it to ascend the stairs. Hickens came after me."The dinner is ready to be served, miss. It has been waiting for you.""Very well," I said, running on. But an impulse came over me that I would not dine down-stairs that evening, and I rang for Harriet, and sent her to say so, making a headache the plea of excuse. Harriet believed it to be a genuine one, and brought some tea to ray room and lighted a fire. There I remained, pondering over my situation. Submit to those impromptu tokens of affection from Mr. Chandos, I would not; and it seemed that the only sure way to avoid them, would be to quit Chandos at once, without waiting for the reply of the Miss Barlieus. I might make sure of finding them in the old spot, and equally sure of a welcome. But, when I came to consider details, the plan did not appear so feasible as at first sight—unless I could obtain an interview with Lady Chandos. I was living under her roof; her guest; and, to depart from it in that hasty manner, would look not only like an ungrateful procedure, but very much as though I had quitted it clandestinely.Harriet came in and interrupted my thoughts. "Hickens bade me come and say that the tea was ready in the oak parlor, miss. Would you please to go down?""You might have told Hickens that I had taken tea, Harriet. I shall not go down again to-night.""Very well," replied the girl. "You'd have it all to yourself, miss, if you did go, for Mr. Chandos said he should not be in the parlor to tea this evening."What possessed her to say that? Did she suspect that the cause of my reluctance to go down was Mr. Chandos? My cheeks burnt at the thought: but I took no notice of the words."Do you happen to know, Harriet, how Lady Chandos is this evening?""Her ladyship's a trifle better, miss. I have just heard Hill say so."Harriet left the room; and I sat on thinking as before. I was making my mind up to see Lady Chandos. That it could only be accomplished by stratagem I knew, for Hill was as a very dragon, guarding that west wing. If it was really Lady Chandos who had been pacing the grounds—and Mrs. Penn was positive in her assertion and belief—she must undoubtedly be well enough to speak to me. It was but a word I had to say to her; a minute's time that I should detain her. "Circumstances have called me away, but I could not leave without personally acquainting your ladyship, and thanking you for your hospitality and kindness." Something to that effect: the words, the interview, would be over almost as soon as began. Resolving finally upon this course, I looked at my watch—and found that it was past eleven.Had I indeed sat up so long? But the time, when we are absorbed, passes quickly. I heard Mr. Chandos come up and enter his room: I was partially undressed then.Did you ever notice, when the mind is—if we may use the expression—alive with thought, how impossible it is to get. to sleep? Strive as I would, I could not drive this project away: plans for eluding Hill's vigilance and entering into the west wing kept haunting me with all the tenacity of a nightmare. I tossed and turned from side to side; I strove to think of other things: I began to repeat verses; all in vain. Sleep was as far away as ever; and, in the silence of the night, I heard the large clock strike two.I heard something else. Just as its last stroke died upon the ear, it seemed that some one burst out of the door of the west wing, and entered the room of Mr. Chandos. I heard covert voices conversing hurriedly in a whisper, and then the footsteps raced back again to the west wing.What could be the matter? Almost before I had well asked the question, I heard Mr. Chandos leave his room, go down-stairs, and out at the hall door. Curiosity led me to rise and look from the window. He was running round to the left, where lay the stables, and it would also conduct him to the kitchen entrance.I waited? What could have taken him out at that hour of the night? What could be amiss in the west wing? The stars were shining brilliantly; I suppose it was a frost; and the tops of the dark pine trees showed clearly out. Nothing was to be seen in the ghostly walk underneath, though it was some minutes before I dared cast my eyes to look: the apparation was not abroad.Sounds now; sounds from the direction of the stables. They were those of a horse's footsteps. Mr. Chandos came riding forth at a canter, which increased to a gallop as he turned his horse into the broad entrance walk. As he passed my window, he looked up at it—and I am ashamed to confess how it caused my heart to thrill.Another moment, however, and something else caused it to thrill deeper—to thrill with fear. A stealthy knock at my chamber door, and, while I stood in indecision, another knock somewhat sharper. Then it opened, and Mrs. Penn glided in, slippers on her feet, and a shawl thrown over her white nightgown."So, you are up!" she whispered. "I thought you would be! What has happened, to take out Mr. Chandos? Do you know?""Mrs. Penn! How should I be likely to know?""I happened to be up, looking from my window—""At this time of night?" I interrupted."Yes, at this time of night," she repeated. "I was watching for the ghost, and I don't care if I confess it. A dozen nights have I sat up watching, and never have seen it, and to-night I was up again. All on a sudden, I saw a figure making round towards the stables, and my whole heart's blood seemed to turn to ice, for I took it to be the ghost at last. I did, Anne Hereford, and you need not peer at me with your searching eyes, as if you would condemn me for my credulity. But soon I recognised Mr. Chandos, and saw him come back mounted. Where has he gone? For what purpose?""You put the question as though you thought I could answer it," I said to her; and so she did, speaking in a demanding sort of way. "I cannot tell where Mr. Chandos has gone.""Yet I would give the whole world to know!""But why? What business is it either of yours or mine? Mr. Chandos's movements are nothing to us.""They are so much to us—to me—that I would forfeit this to be able to follow him and see," she excitedly uttered, holding up her right hand."I stood looking at her and wondering."It is for your sake I speak," she resumed, recovering her calmness. "This may portend some fresh machination against you."The idea was so absurd that I burst out laughing in her face: and it struck me that she was asserting what she neither believed nor feared."I am not afraid, Mrs. Penn. I am far more afraid of taking cold: and you will not deem me discourteous if I request you to leave further discussion until morning, for I must get into bed."She moved to the door without any remonstrance, and had nearly reached it when she turned round to speak again."Is it not most singular, most mysterious, that a gentleman should rise from his bed, saddle his horse by stealth, and ride off upon a midnight journey?""It is singular. But he may not have saddled his horse by stealth.""How now?" she tartly answered. "He did saddle it; saddled it himself.""Yes: but that may have been only from a wish not to disturb the grooms from their rest. To do a thing oneself with a view of sparing others, and to do it stealthily are two things.""So your spirit must rise up to defend him still! Take care of yourself, Anne Hereford!"She quitted my room without another word, and I locked the door after her. I did not care to be so intruded on a second time.But still there was no sleep for me, and in an hour or two's time I heard Mr. Chandos ride home again. I heard him ride round to the stables, and come back on foot. He let himself in at the hall door, came softly up-stairs, and went into the west wing. It was in that wing that something must be amiss.We knew what it was with early morning. Soon after the servants were astir, Mr. Lake arrived, the old family friend and doctor: Mr. Chandos's errand in the night had been to the telegraph office to send for him. Hill was silent as the grave, and would not answer a question that anybody asked her; but it oozed out in spite of her that Lady Chandos was worse. Mr. Lake had generally paid a visit every other day, since first called in; but he had never come at this hour of the morning.I went down to breakfast: I could not well avoid it: it would not do for me to plead illness, or the sulks, and have my meals brought to me up-stairs. But we had a third at table I found, and that was Mr. Lake. I am not quite sure how I and Mr. Chandos should have got on without him: with him, all went smoothly.But not merrily. For both he and Mr. Chandos spoke and looked as if under the influence of some great care: I supposed it to arise from the situation of Lady Chandos. They began talking about Mr. Lake's movements: his stopping or his going."If I get away by the two o'clock train, I shall be able to return for night," the surgeon observed. "At ten o'clock the last train comes in, does it not.""At eleven," said Mr. Chandos."Eleven, is it. Well, I shall be able to do that.""I wish you could remain entirely.""I wish I could. But I have told you why I am obliged to go back home, if I stay but half an hour there. And there's this much to be said, Mr. Harry, that my staying could be of no benefit. I shall return for the family's satisfaction, but I can't hope to do good.""Could you speak for a moment, sir, with Mr. Dexter?" demanded Hickens, entering the room at this juncture, and addressing his master. "He says he has no need to detain you long, but he would like to see you at once, because he must be off to that sale of stock."Mr. Chandos rose from table. "Where is he?" he asked of Hickens."I have shown him into your private room, sir."And now came my turn. I was alone with Mr. Lake, and determined to inquire of him the state of Lady Chandos; for, see her I would, if she was at all fit."Is Lady Chandos alarmingly ill?" I began.He was eating an egg at the time, and he did not speak immediately: his attention seemed divided between regarding me and finishing the egg."What you young ladies might call alarmingly ill, we old doctors might not," were his words, when he at length spoke."Can she speak?""Oh, yes.""And is sufficiently well to understand, if any one speaks to her?""Quite so. Don't trouble yourself, my dear, about fears for Lady Chandos. I hope she will be all right in time."So far, well. To Lady Chandos I determined to penetrate ere the day should close. And I am sure, had any body seen me in the corridor that morning, dodging in and out of it, watching for my opportunity, and peeping from my bed-room, they would have deemed me haunted by a restless spirit.The opportunity came at last. Not until late in the afternoon. In the morning Mr. Lake and Mr. Chandos had been nearly all the time in the west wing, and Hill seemed to be on the perpetual run, in and out of it. It was getting dusk when I, on the watch as before, saw Hill come from it. She left the door ajar, as if she intended to return instantly, and whisked into a large linen closet close by. Now was my time. I glided past the closet, quiet as a mouse, and inside the green bake door of the west wing.But which was the room of Lady Chandos? No time was to be lost, for if Hill returned, she was sure to eject me summarily, as she had done once before. I softly opened several doors, taking no notice of what the rooms might contain, looking only whether Lady Chandos was there. Next I came to one, and—what—who was it, sitting there? Not Lady Chandos.In a large arm chair, propped up with pillows, sat an emaciated object, white, thin, cadaverous. A tall man, bearing a strange likeness to Mr. Chandos, a strange likeness to that ghostly vision of Sir Thomas. Was he the ghost?—sitting there and staring at me with his large eyes, but never speaking?My pulses stood still; my heart leaped into my mouth. The figure raised its arm, and pointed peremptorily to the door with its long, lanky, white fingers. A sign that I must quit its presence.I was glad to do so. Startled, terrified, bewildered, I thought no more of Lady Chandos, but stole back through the passage, and out at the green baize door. There, face to face, I encountered Mr. Chandos.I shall never forget his face when he looked at me: never had greater hau-teur, rarely greater anger, appeared in the countenance of a Chandos."Have you been in there?" he uttered."Yes.""More I could not add, for the words stuck in my throat."Listen, Miss Hereford," he said, his lips working with emotion, "I am grieved to be compelled to say any thing discourteous to a lady, more especially to you, but I must forbid you to approach these rooms, however powerfully your curiosity may urge you to visit them. I act as the master of Chandos, and demand it as a right."I stole away with my crimsoned face, with my crimsoned neck, wishing the corridor door would open and admit me, so ashamed did I look and feel: and Hill came from the closet to stare at me and question Mr. Chandos. My 'curiosity!'But who could he be, whom I had just seen, thus closeted in the apartments of Lady Chandos? Could it be Sir Thomas, arrived from abroad? But when did he arrive? and why this concealment in his mother's rooms?—for concealment it appeared to be. Whoever it was, he was fearfully ill and wasted: of that there could be no doubt; ill, as it seemed to me, almost unto death; and a conviction came over me that Mr. Lake's visit had been to him, not to Lady Chandos. How long—"My dear child, how flushed and strange you look!"The speaker was Mrs. Penn, interrupting ray chain of thought. She was standing at the door of the cast wing, partially hidden from view, and the tone of her voice was all compassion and kindness. Traversing the corridor, she came into my bed-room."Anne, was Mr. Chandos speaking in that way to you?""I deserved it," I sighed, "for I really had no right to enter the west wing clandestinely. I went there in search of Lady Chandos. I want to leave, but I do not like to go without first seeking her, and I thought I would try to do so, in spite of Hill.""And did you see her?" eagerly questioned Mrs. Penn."No; I could not see her anywhere; I suppose I did not go into all the rooms. But I saw some one else.""Whom did you see?""The strangest being," I answered, too absorbed in the subject, too surprised, to observe my usual custom of telling nothing to Mrs. Penn. "He was sitting in an easy chair, supported by pillows; a tall, emaciated man, having, evidently, one foot in the grave. His face was ghastly, but still there was a likeness to Mr. Chandos."Mrs. Penn clutched hold of me."What do you say? What do you say?" she uttered with emotion."He startled me terribly, for I declare, at first sight, I thought it was a ghost. Why should he be hidden there? Who can he be? unless it is Sir Thomas Chandos come home from abroad? Don't you think Mr. Lake must—"The expression of her countenance stopped me. Her face had turned white, her lips livid; what strange excitement was she under? what was the news to her?"For the love of heaven wait!" she uttered. "A tall man, bearing a family likeness to Mr. Chandos—was that what you said?""A striking likeness: allowing for the fact that Mr. Chandos is in health, and that the other looks like one dying. Not much difference in the age either. It must be Sir Thomas Chandos.'"It is not Sir Thomas; he is a short, plain man, resembling his mother. No, no; I know too well who it is; and it explains the mystery of that west wing, all that has been so unaccountable to me since I have dwelt at Chandos. Down with the Chandoses now! Good heavens! to think that my thick brains never should have penetrated to this conclusion! And now it may be too late!"She stamped her foot in impotent rage at herself, and darted from my room towards the east wing. So astonished was I, that I stood looking after her, and saw her hastily come forth again after a minute or two, attired to go out. She was gliding down the stairs, when Mrs. Chandos likewise came from the east wing and called to her."Mrs. Penn, where are you going? I want you"Mrs. Penn, thus arrested, turned round, a balked expression on her face."I wish to do a very slight errand for myself, ma'am. I shall not be long.""I cannot spare you now; I cannot, indeed. You must defer it until tomorrow. I have been by myself this hour, and am as nervous as I can be. You don't sit with me half as much as Mrs. Freeman did: you are always away, or wanting to be."Mrs. Penn came slowly up the stairs again, but I believe she had a great mind to rebel, and depart on her errand in defiance of her mistress."You will allow me one minute in my room, just to write a word in pencil, then?" she said to Mrs. Chandos.What could it be that she was so anxious for? what was she going to do? The words "Down, now, with the Chandoses!" had smote ominously upon my ear. Was it she who was in league with Mr. Edwin Barley? If so, what mischief might I not have done by mentioning what I saw in the west wing!Restless and uncomfortable, I went down stairs into the oak parlor. We were to dine earlier that day, and the cloth was laid. Mrs. Penn was not long behind me. I heard her footsteps in the hall, just as Lizzy, very smart, in a bonnet and new plaid shawl, and a reticule basket on her arm, passed the window, bent on some errand abroad. Mrs. Penn must also have seen her, for she called her inside, speaking in a whisper."You are going out, I see, Lizzy. Will you do a hasty errand for me?""If 'twon't take long," was the girl's answer. But I have got leave to go out to tea, and am an hour later than I thought to be.""It will not take you two minutes out of your way. You know where Mr. Edwin Barley lives—the new tenant. Go to his house, ask to see him, and give him this note: should he not be at home, say that it must be handed to him the instant he comes in. If you do this promptly, and keep it to yourself, mind!—I will give you a crown piece!""I'll do it," laughed Lizzy, in glee, "and say 'thank ye,' too, ma'am."She opened the lid of her basket, popped in the note, and turned to depart. Mrs Penn disappeared up-stairs, and Lizzy waited at the hall door. I could see her from where I stood peeping. She was looking up at the skies."Now, is it a-going to rain, or is it only the dark of the evening?" cogitated she. "Better get a umbrella: I shouldn't like my new shawl to be spoilt, and they didn't warrant the blue in it, if it got a soaking."She put down the basket, and ran round to the kitchen. Now was my opportunity. I stole to the basket, lifted the lid, and took out the letter, trusting to good luck, and to Lizzy's not looking into the basket on her return.She did not. She came back with the umbrella, snatched up the basket by its two handles, and went down the broad walk, at a run.CHAPTER XXIXAN EXPLANATION.WITH the letter grasped in my hand, I was hastening to my own room to read it in peace—" Read it!" interposes the reader, aghast. "Read it?"Yes; read it. I believed that that letter was full of treachery to Chandos, and that I had unwittingly contributed to raise it, through my incautious revelation. Surely it was my duty now to do what I could to avert it, even though it involved the opening of Mrs. Penn's letter. But in leaving the oak parlor for my room, I met Hickens carrying in the soup; and crossing the hall came Mr. Chandos.No chance of reading it then; so I thrust it into a safe receptacle inside my dress, and sat down to table.It was a silent dinner, save for the ordinary courtesies; Mr. Chandos was grave, preoccupied, and sorrowful; I was as grave and preoccupied as he. When the servants left, he drew a dish of walnuts towards him, peeled some and passed them to me; then he began to peel for himself. It was upon my tongue to say No; not to accept them from him; but somehow words failed me."Anne, I have not understood you those last few days."The address took me by surprise, for there had been a long silence. He did not raise his eyes to mine as he spoke, but kept them on the walnuts." Have you not, sir?""'Sir,' again! I thought that had been discarded long ago.""I am sorry that it was ever discarded. But let that pass, I beg of you.""What could have induced you to intrude into the west wing, to-day? Pardon the word, if it grates upon your ear; that part of Chandos House is sacred, known to be so to all within it; and, for any one to enter unsolicited, is an intrusion.""I am sorry that I went in; very sorry; but I had an urgent motive for wishing to see Lady Chandos. I wish to see her still, if possible; I do not like to quit Chandos without.""You are not going to quit Chandos.""I leave to-morrow, if it be practicable. If not, the next day.""Anne, it must not be. As I said yesterday, I cannot spare you."I would not answer. I rose and stood near the fire, not turning to him."And pray, where did you think of winging your flight to?" he resumed."I shall find friends to receive me, sir.""What has changed you?" he abruptly asked."Changed me?""I say that for the last few days you have been unlike yourself. Why visit upon me, in your manner, the faults of another? I suffer sufficiently, as it is; I suffer always."I could not understand the speech any more than if it had been Greek, and glanced to him for explanation."I look back on my past conduct, and cannot see that I am to blame. That we were thrown together was no doing of mine; and if love stole on, before either of us was aware, it was neither my fault nor yours. I was wrong, you will say, to avow this love; I believe I was; it may have been better that I had not done it; but, Anne, the impulse that urged me to avow it, was, the seeing that the love was on your side, as well as on my own. Now don't fly off at a tangent; I intend to have an explanation with you this night, so we may as well bear the truth from one another; an explanation that shall put things straight between us; or sever us forever. Child, you know you love me," he added, laying his hand upon my shoulder. "Were your love but a tenth part as tender as mine is for you, you could not treat me as you are doing now."What was I to answer him? Was I to submit tamely to these insults. He went on. "I say, that to suffer for the crime of another is sufficient punishment. I am aware of the ban that is upon my family, the disgrace that is reflected upon me: and I repeat that your manner need not be cold and scornful, although you may deem that I, a Chandos, ought not to have cast a I thought to the daughter of Colonel Hereford. How you became aware of the disgrace attaching to my family, I cannot tell; but that you possess only a vague and most imperfect acquaintance with it, I am very sure."I possess no acquaintance with it," I passionately interrupted. "What is it to me, the disgrace attaching to your family? If there is any disgrace, it is unknown to me.""Unknown to you?" he repeated, in accents of surprise."Entirely unknown. What I have heard applies to you, to your conduct; not to that of your family.""Oh," said he, with a half laugh. "Well, what have I done? I am unaware of having wrought disgrace in my own person. Peccadillos in plenty, without doubt; but disgrace? No, that I cannot charge myself with. Neither can you charge me with it, Anne."I remembered what Mrs. Penn had asserted, touching the crime she said he had committed; but I knew nothing of it of my own knowledge, so it was best to be silent. In truth, I had never given credence to it; and believed there must be some mistake: it was impossible to connect murder with Harry Chandos. Very grand and noble did he look, as he stood there before me; ay, he did; and I could not help but notice it, in spite of what his conduet had been to me."Do you call deceit, dishonor, no disgrace, Mr. Chandos?""Great disgrace. But I have been guilty of neither.""You have been guilty of both," I retorted."When? and how?""To me. You know it. And you ought to take shame to yourself for asserting to my face that you have not." It was a fierce answer, but my blood was up. He had said he meant to have the truth out between us; so much the better; I was in a mood for it."Will you tell me what you mean?" he quietly asked."Mean? You know better than I do.""What has happened to put you in this passion with me?""Oh, that I had some friend to defend me, to take my part against these cruel insults!" I wailed out, wringing my hands in bitterness. "Mr. Chandos, is it well done of you, you who pride yourself on being a gentleman?"He looked at me very searchingly, a puzzled air upon his countenance, speaking at length."When your excitement shall have cooled down, Anne, you can tell me calmly the nature of my offence, for I declare I am unable even to guess at it. You cannot surely be alluding to that little episode of the past, that break out of mine, when I told you of my love? and I know of no other grievance.""I do allude to it; to that, and to nothing else. Is it not enough? Had I a brother, he would not have borne it unresented, as I am obliged to do.""I cannot understand you in the least," he exclaimed. "If you deemed the fault so very grievous, why did you not resent it at the time? There appeared to be any thing but resentment in your heart then.""Because I did not know the facts, or your position. You spoke only of some disgrace attaching to your family, putting it forth as the bar. What was that to me—what should I have cared for it? But you never spoke of the real bar. It was cruel, it was wicked of you so to deceive me, Mr. Chandos.""There is no other bar. But for this unhappy disgrace, I would make you my wife to-morrow. What have you got in your head?"I knew what I had got in my temper: never had it been so excited. I believe I did not know what I retorted, and I am sure I did not care."If you dare to offer me another syllable of insult," were ray intemperate words, "I will go straight with my tale to Mrs. Chandos.""To Mrs. Chandos! What good would that do?" he coolly asked."I pray you do not provoke me further; I pray you not?" I passionately uttered. "How dare you so treat me—and wrong her?""Wrong her. What has she to do with it? Mrs. Chandos is nothing to you or to me."Nothing to him! I flashed on him a look of anger and contempt."Is that the way you speak of your wife?"His elbow had displaced some ornament on the mantelpiece, knocked it over in fact, and he had turned hastily to save it from falling. But he turned more hastily to me again."My what? My wife, did you say?""I did.""I don't possess one, Anne. Mrs. Chandos is no wife of mine. Did you go to sleep and dream it?"My heart stood still. No wife of his? Was it possible that Mrs. Penn had deceived me—that my wretchedness had been without foundation? No condemned criminal, called forth from his cell to hear the reprieve read, that will restore to him the life he has forfeited, could experience a more intense revulsion of joy than I did then.I put my hands up in front of him."Tell me the truth," I gasped, "the truth, as before heaven? Is, or is not, Mrs. Chandos your wife?"He bent his head towards me, speaking clearly and distinctly, with an emphasis on every word."Mrs. Chandos is my sister-in-law. She is my brother's wife. It is the truth, in the presence of heaven."I covered my face with my hands. Mr. Chandos took them away from it"What strange dream have you been losing: yourself in?""I believed that Mrs. Chandos was your wife.""And that I, being a married man, had insulted you with my profession of love! Had you no better confidence in me than that? You once told me that you could trust me, that you should trust me always.""Pray forgive me," I whispered."Yes, I will forgive you, Anne, for you must have suffered from your nightmare. But what on earth could have led you to take up the notion?""It was told to me, told me as a positive fact. And circumstances seemed to bear it out.""What circumstances?""I knew that Mrs. Chandos was not a widow; I once heard her say so. I knew that she was the daughter-in-law of Lady Chandos: and I believed that you had no brother but Sir Thomas—whose wife of course she cannot be, or she would bear his title.""Yes, I have another brother," he answered in a whisper. "You saw him to-day, Anne.""That poor sick gentleman, who looks so near the grave?""Even so. It is he who is the husband of Mrs. Chandos. The fact of his being at Chandos is unknown, not to be spoken of," he said, sinking his voice still lower, and glancing round the walls of the room, as though he feared they might contain eaves-droppers. "Take care that it does not escape your lips."Alas, it had escaped them. I bent my head and my flushed cheek, wondering whether, I must confess it to him. He suddenly wound his arms around me, and gathered me to his breast."Once more, Anne: I must have you here whilst you listen to me, though we part for good the minute after. Whilst you have been amusing yourself with the fable that Mrs. Chandos was my wife, I have amused myself with another. I have been making up my mind to lay the case before you—the cause of disgrace which clings to us; and then leave it to you to take me as I am; or to reject me. Anne, my darling, it is you that I covet for a wife: not Mrs. Chandos, nor any other."Never more, never more would I doubt him. True, kind, honorable, there he was, bending upon me. My whole heart, my trust went out to him, then and forever. I lifted my eyes with all their love, and stole my hand into his. Down came his kisses upon my face by way of answer."And so you are willing to trust me without the explanation?""Yes; for I am certain you have been guilty of no crime, no disgrace!""Never; so help me heaven!" he fervently ejaculated. "The disgrace, though reflected upon me, is none of my working. Anne, you will not leave Chandos now.""Not to-morrow.""Nor for a good many more to-morrows," he smiled. I did not know about that, but would not pursue the point then. Oh, no; I was far too happy."And now tell me who was your informant?" he resumed. "It could scarcely have been any one at Chandos, for it is perfectly well known here that I am not a married man.""It was Mrs. Penn.""Mrs. Peon I" he repeated, in astonishment. "Why, she, of all people, would be least likely to mistake me for Mrs. Chandos's husband! She is acquainted with the whole facts and circumstances of the case, the only one in the house, save Hill, who is. You must have mistaken her, Anne.""Oh, no, I did not mistake her. She said moreover that the crime, attaching to the family, was that of murder, and it was you who had committed it."Mr. Chandos looked petrified, but soon his features cleared."Is it possible that she can be mistaking me for my brother?" he uttered. "And yet—no; I do not think that is possible; for she believes him to be a fugitive. What you tell me is very strange, Anne.""Perhaps she is false," I whispered. "She has certainly done all in her power to separate me from you; to prejudice me against you; to induce me to quit Chandos.""And her motive?" he returned, his lip curling haughtily. "Hark! What's that?"It was a sound as of a carriage being driven swiftly to the door. Mr. Chandos released me and stood in an atti-tude of listening. It struck me that a sort of dread rose to his countenance."What troubles you?" I whispered, gently. "You look as if there were cause for fear.""My dearest, there is ever cause for fear in this unhappy house. Do you remember the night that the police rode up, Anne? I thought surely the blow was come. I know not what this carriage may have brought: I am expecting nobody."In hustled Hickens, faster than was usual with that solemn personage."It's Miss Emily, sir," said he, addressing Mr. Chandos. "That is, Madame de Mellissie: only her new name never comes pat to me."Miss Emily was in the room ere Hickens had done speaking, and he withdrew."There's lots of luggage, Hickens," she called out to him: "you must see after Pauline. And how are you, Harry?" she continued, putting up her mouth to be kissed."This is an unexpected visit, Emily," he said, as he took the kiss. "You should have written us word, and I would have met you at the station with the carriage. How did you come from thence?""Oh, I got a conveyance of some sort; a fly, or a chaise; I hardly know what it was, except that I believe that it had no springs, for it shook enough. How's mamma?""Won't you speak to me, Madame de Mellissie?" I asked, holding out my hand. I had stood there waiting for her to notice me, which she did not appear to have the least intention of doing."I hope you are well, Anne Hereford," was her reply, but she pointedly and rudely neglected my offered hand. A frown contracted the brow of Mr. Chandos."Did you leave your husband well?" he hastily asked, as a sort of covering to her ill manners."Well, neither in health nor in temper, but as cranky as can be. I ran away.""Ran away!""Of course I did. There came to me a letter, some days past—""Yes, I wrote to you," I interrupted."You!" she rudely said. "I am not alluding to your letter. When this letter came, I told Alfred I must go at once to Chandos. 'Very well,' said he, ' I shall be able to take you in a day or so.' But the days went on, and still he was too ill; or said he was. 'I must go,' I said to him yesterday morning. 'I must and I will,' and that put him up. ' Listen, ma chere,' cried he, in his cool way, ' I am too ill to travel, and there's nobody else to take you, so you can't go; therefore let us hear no more about it.' Merci, monsieur! I thought to myself; and I forthwith told Pauline to pack up and get the boxes out of the house, all en cachette, which she did; and I followed them, Alfred and Madame la Mere believing I had gone for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. A pretty long drive they must think it by this time.""Emily, how can you act so?" exclaimed her brother, in a tone of stern reproval."Now, Harry, I don't want any of your morality. Look at home, before you preach to me. What have you been at the last few weeks? I have heard.""Shall I pay for the chaise, ma'am?" inquired Hickens, putting in his head."Pay for any thing and every thing, Hickens," was her answer. "I have brought no money with me, to speak of. I ran away.""Emily, how can you?" exclaimed Mr. Chandos, as the man withdrew."Rubbish! who's Hickens? Pauline's sure to tell him all about it. I repeat to you. Harry, that you need not preach to me: you have more need to reform your own doings. The letter I received was about you and your goings on; and, from what it said, I began to think it high time that I should be at Chandos.""Indeed!" he quietly answered. "Pray who may have taken the trouble to write it.""That is what I can't tell you. It was anonymous."Mr. Chandos curled his lip."There is only one thing to do with an anonymous lettter, Emily—put it in the fire, cast a thought of scorn to its writer, and then forget it forever. We have been dealing in anonymous letters here; I received one, and the—""You!" she interrupted. "What was it about?""I threw it in the fire and forgot it," was his marked answer. "The inspector of police at Warsall also received one, falsely purporting to be from me, and the result was that we had a descent of mounted police upon us one night with drawn sabres, frightening sober Chandos out of its propriety.""I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed Madame de Mellissie, her interest fully awakened. "What did they want?""The inspector was led, by this note, to believe I required them to take somebody into custody for theft. I assure you, anonymous letters have been the fashion here lately. But they are not the less despicable.""Shall I tell you what was in mine?""I do not wish to hear it.""Ah, you are afraid!" she answered, with a ringing laugh, while Mr. Chandos raised his head proudly. "Conscience makes cowards of all of us."She began taking off her things, throwing a bonnet on one chair, a vail on another, a shawl on a third, strewing half the chairs in the room. I went forward to assist her."Don't touch any thing of mine," she said. "You have displeased me.""In what manner? What have I done?""I may tell you later. How long has mamma kept her room!""Ever since you left," replied Mr. Chandos."Oh. And you two have had the sole benefit of each other's company!""And a very pleasant benefit, too," boldly retorted Mr. Chandos. But my cheeks were in a flame, and they both saw it."You wrote me word that you wished to leave," she said, turning to me. "You are no longer in my service, and are at liberty to do so. When can you be ready?""My preparations will not take me long," was my reply.Little cause was there to ask what had been the purport of her anonymous letter. Who could have written it? Who could be concerning themselves about me and Mr. Chandos? Was it Mrs. Penn?"What will you take, Emily?" he asked."Oh, I don't know. I am not hungry. Have you had tea? You may pour me out a glass of wine, if you like?""We have not had tea yet.''"I am going up to mamma now. Won't she pull a long face when she hears that I decamped without the cognizance of le mari et la vielle mere?""Emily," said Mr. Chandos, gravely, "you cannot go into your mamma's rooms to-night.""But I will go," returned she, half gaily, half obstinately."My dear, you must not. There are urgent reasons why you must not.""What are the reasons?""It will not give you pleasure to hear them. Be advised. Do not think of going into the west wing to-night. Shall I ring for Hill to show you a chamber?""I will be shown to a chamber when I have been in to mamma," she defiantly responded. "Take yourself out of the way, Harry."For Mr. Chandos, with some marks of agitation, had interposed between her and the door."Emily, did I ever advise you but for your good, your comfort? Pray attend to me.""For my good, no doubt," she merrily laughed. "I don't know about my comfort. Harry, we shall come to a battle royal, if you don't move from that door. I am quite determined to go into the west wing, and I will not be stopped. Goodness me! you are trying to control me as if I were a child.""Then let me whisper to you; to prepare you for what you will encounter there," was his answer, more of sorrow than of resentment in the tone, as he approached her and bent his lips against her ear.A shrill scream. It came from Madame de Mellissie, and she seized hold of him like one terribly startled."Oh, Harry!" she uttered, "why did you tell me? Why did you frighten me?""You forced me to it, Emily."She sat down on a chair, her hand pressed upon her heart, and appeared to be considering."I will still go," she presently said, "It can do no harm; it cannot make matters worse.""Of course, you can go now," was his reply. "It was the knowledge of it that I wished to spare you."She rose and slowly quitted the room. Mr. Chandos followed, to accompany her; but he lingered behind for a moment to whisper to me."Anne, bear for a few hours with what she may say. That anonymous letter has poisoned her mind: and my tongue is tied until you have heard my tale, for, it may be, you will even then reject me. I cannot stand up, your champion, until I know what I am to be to you."I sat down with all my great weight of happiness. Oh, the change which had passed over me! He was not married; he was true and honorable, and he loved me! Hickens came in to remove the wine, and I chattered to him like a merry school-girl. Every thing else went out of my head, even the letter I held in my bosom, and when I should have thought of it I cannot say, but that, some half hour after, I heard the voice of Mrs. Penn in the hall, speaking in covert tones.It came to my memory then, fast enough. Was she going to steal out, as she had previously essayed to do? I sprang to the door and opened it about an inch. Lizzy stood there."How early you are home!" Mrs. Penn was saying."Thanks to Madam Hill!" grumbled Lizzy. "She wouldn't give me leave to go, unless I'd be in by seven: there were illness in the house, she said, and no knowing what might be wanted.""Did you deliver the letter?" resumed Mr. Penn, in the faintest possible whisper."Yes, ma'am," was the ready answer. "A young man came to the door, and I asked if Mr. Barley was at home, and he said, 'Yes, all alone,' so I gave him the note and he took it in.""Thank you, Lizzy," answered Mrs. Penn, complacently, "and there's the five shillings I promised you.""Many thanks, ma'am, all the same to you, but I'd rather not take it," was Lizzy's answer, to my excessive astonishment, and no doubt to Mrs. Penn's. "I'm well paid here, and I don't care to be rewarded for any little trifling service that's all in the way of the day's work."They parted, Mrs. Penn gliding up the stairs again. But a startling doubt had come over me at Lizzy's words: could I have taken the wrong letter from the basket? I hastened back to the light and drew it from within my dress. No, it was all right: it was directed to Mr. Edwin Barley. What could Lizzy mean by saying she had delivered it.CHAPTER XXXMRS PENN'S LETTERTHE note ran as follows:"I am overwhelmed with astonishment. I was coming round to give you notice of what I have discovered, but was prevented by Mrs. Chandos. Heis here! I am as certain of it as that I am writing these words to you: and it sets clear the mystery of that closely-guarded west wing, which has been truly a source of mystery to me. Anne Hereford went surreptitiously in there just now, and saw what she describes as a tall, emaciated object, reclining in an invalid chair, whose face bore a striking resemblance to that of Harry Chandos. There is no doubt that it is he, not the slightest in the world; you can therefore take immediate steps to have him arrested. I should like to know how long he has been concealed there: possibly for weeks. If we had but discovered it earlier! but who was to suspect so improbable a thing? C. D."The contents of the letter frightened me. What mischief had I not caused by that incautious revelation to Mrs. Penn! Mrs. Penn the treacherous—as she undoubtedly was. "Take immediate steps to have him arrested." Who was he? what had he done? and how did it concern Mr. Edwin Barley? Surely I ought to acquaint Mr. Chandos, and show him the note without loss of time.While I deliberated, Hickens came in with the tea, and bearing a message brought down by Hill—that Mr. Chandos and Madame de Mellissie were taking it in the west wing. I swallowed my own and sent the things away again, debating whether I might venture on the unheard-of proceeding of sending to the west wing for Mr. Chandos.Yes. It was a matter of necessity, and I ought to do it. I sought for Hill. Hill was in the west wing, waiting on the tea party. Should I send Hickens to knock at the west wing door, or go myself? Better go myself, instinct told me.I ran lightly up the stairs. Peering out at the east wing door, listening and prying, was the head of Mrs. Penn."They have quite a soiree in the west wing to-night," she said to me, as I passed, "a family gathering: all of them at it, save Sir Thomas. Whither are you off to, so fast?""I have a message for the west wing," I answered as I brushed on, and knocked at the door.Hill came, unfastened, and opened it; and looked desperately savage when she saw me."I am not come to intrude, Hill. Mr. Chandos is here, is he not?""What's that to anybody?" retorted Hill."He is wanted, that is all. Be so good as to ask him to step down to the oak parlor."Mrs. Penn had followed me and heard the colloquy. She seized hold of me as I was departing."Anne, who wants him?" she whispered. "Have any police come?""I want him," I boldly answered, the remembrance of her treachery giving the spur to my courage and indignation. "I have a message which I must deliver to him alone. Why should the police come? What do you mean?""Oh, nothing," she laughed. "But, as they made a night invasion of the house once before, I did not know but they might have done it again. How tart you are this evening!"She would have kept me longer, but I broke from her and ran down. Mr. Chandos entered the oak parlor immediately after me."Hill said I was wanted. Who is it, Anne? Do you know?""You must forgive me for having ventured to call you, Mr. Chandos. I have been the cause of some unhappy mischief, and how I shall make the confession to you I hardly know. But, made it must be, and there's no time to be lost.""Sit down and don't excite yourself," he exclaimed. "I daresay it is nothing very grand or great.""When we were speaking, just now, of the gentleman I saw in the west wing, you warned me that his being there was a secret which I must take care not to betray.""Well?" he said, staring at me."I ought to have told you then—but I had not the courage—that I had already betrayed it. In the surprise of the moment, as I left the west wing after seeing him. I mentioned it to Mrs. Penn. It was done thoughtlessly; not intentionally; and I am very sorry for it.""I am sorry also," he said, after a pause. "Mrs. Penn?" he slowly continued, as if deliberating whether she were a safe person or not. "Well, it might possibly have been imparted to a worse.""Oh, but you have not heard all," I feverishly returned. "I do not think it could have been imparted to a worse than Mrs. Penn; but I did not know it then. I believe, I believe, Mr. Chandos, that she is in league with Edwin Barley, working in treacherous concert with him, acting the spy for him here. That some one was, I felt sure, and I thought it was Lizzy, but I now know it is Mrs. Penn.""How do you know it?" he interrupted."Stay a moment. As soon as I had mentioned what I had seen in the west wing, she grew red and white by turns, betrayed, in fact, great emotion, muttering to herself 'that explained the mystery.' I said it must be Sir Thomas Chandos, but she replied that it was not Sir Thomas: and she ran to her room and put on her things and was going out, when Mrs. Chandos saw her and detained her. Then she wrote a pencilled note, and told Lizzy she would give her five shillings if she would convey it at once to Mr. Edwin Barley.""Good heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Chandos, starting up in agitation. "Edwin Barley! What will be the consequence?""But the note did not go to him, Mr. Chandos. I got it from Lizzy.""You?""She put her basket down after receiving the note into it, while she went to the kitchen for an umbrella. I took it out and hid it. Here it is."He seized it and eagerly ran his eyes over it. How pale and perplexed his countenance was, I cannot well describe."The most curious part of the affair is, that when Lizzy came back she affirmed to Mrs. Penn that she had delivered the note," I resumed. "I cannot make that out."The words troubled Mr. Chandos, and he sat thinking."Could Mrs. Penn have written two notes, think you, Anne?""I fear to think so: but it is not impossible. She may have forgotten something she wished to say, and, having sealed up the first, may have written a second.""Yes. If not, the secret is confined to the house, and no mischief, as yet, is carried beyond it. And I must take care that it is not, for the next few hours. After that—"He concluded his sentence in too low a tone to be heard; and rang for Hickens. The man came immediately."Hickens, will you lock the entrance doors of the house, back and front, and put the keys into your pocket. It is my pleasure that nobody passes out of it again to-night."Hickens stared as if stupefied. It was the most extraordinary order ever given to him at Chandos. "Law, sir," he uttered, "whatever for?""It is my pleasure, I say, Hickens," replied Mr. Chandos, in his quiet tone of command. "Lock the doors and keep the keys; and suffer no person to go out on any pretence whatsoever. No person that the house contains, you understand, myself excepted. Neither Mrs. Chandos nor Mrs. Penn; Miss Hereford"—turning to me with a half smile—"or the servants. Should any one present themselves at the door, and, finding it fast, ask to be let out, say you have my orders not to do it.""Very well," sir, replied the amazed Hickens. "There's two of the maids out on an errand now, sir; are they to be let in?""Certainly. But take care that you fasten the door afterwards again. Go at once and do this; and then send Lizzy to me."Away went Hickens. And, by and by, Lizzy appeared."Did you want me, sir?" she asked of Mr. Chandos."I do. Come in and shut the floor. Lizzy my girl," he began, in a firm but kind tone, "you have been in the Chandos service for some years. You are well paid, well fed, well considered and taken care of. The least yon can do, in return for this, is to be faithful and true to the Chandos interests. Can you be so?"Lizzy burst into tears, without any occasion, that I could see. "It's what I always have been, sir, and what I hope I shall be," she cried. "What have I done?"I require a little information from you, Lizzy, and I insist upon its being given. If you are true and faithful to us, you will do it readily."The girl held down her head and kept on sobbing. It struck me that there must be some point or points, she feared to be questioned on."Did Mrs. Penn give you a letter some two or three hours ago, to deliver to Mr. Edwin Barley, at the house he occupies?""Yes, sir," was the reply, spoken without hesitation or embarrassment. Apparently that was not Lizzy's sore point."Did you deliver it?"Lizzy hesitated now, and Mr. Chandos repeated his question."Now only to think that one can't meet with an accident without its being known all round as soon as done," she uttered. "If I had thought you'd had any thing to do with the matter, master, I'd have told the truth when I came back; but I was afeared Mrs. Penn would be angry with me.""Lizzy," said Mr. Chandos, "I shall be pleased to hear that the letter was not delivered. So tell the truth now.""Where I could have lost it, master, I know no more than the dead. I know I put it safe in my basket; and though I did run, it couldn't have shook out, because the lid was shut down; but when I got to Mr. Barley's, and went to take it out, it was gone. Sleighted off right away, like that letter you lost from the hall-table, sir. What to do I didn't know, for I had give a good pull at their bell afore I found out the loss. But I had got another letter in my basket—""Another letter?" interrupted Mr. Chandos."Leastways, as good as a letter, sir. As luck would have it, when I was a running down the avenue, I met the young man from the draper's shop in the village, and he thrust a folded letter in my hands. 'For Lady Chandos, and mind you give it her,' says he, 'for it's a list of our new fashions.' So, what should I do, sir, when I found the other was gone, but give in the fashions to Mr. Barley's young man. 'And mind you take it into your master without no delay,' says I, 'for it's particular.' He'll wonder what they want sending him the fashions," concluded Lizzy."And you said nothing to Mrs. Penn of this?""Well, no sir, I didn't. I meant, when she found it out, to let her think I had give in the wrong letter by mistake. I don't suppose hers was of much consequence, for it was only writ in pencil. I didn't take the money she offered me, though; I thought that wouldn't be fair, as I had not done the service.""And my command to you is, that you say nothing to her, Lizzy," said Mr. Chandos. "Let the matter rest as it is."Lizzy went away in glee, better off than she had anticipated. Mr. Chandos sat in deep thought after she withdrew."This person is in our house under false colors," he observed. "She calls herself Mrs. Penn, but the note is signed ' C. D.' A female Jesuit! a spy for Edwin Barley! Anne, cast your thoughts back. Was there any woman in his house, at all answering to her description, at the time that tragedy was enacted?"I looked up in wonderment."I mean when Phillip King was killed. That she must have been in the house, knowing what she does of the details, I have often thought. I feel convinced of it now.""No," said I, "I think not. No woman was there, but my aunt, and the servants, and Charlotte Delves.?""Stop a bit. Charlotte Delves. C. D. would stand for that name. Is Mrs. Penn Charlotte Delves?"The truth now flashed upon me; all that was obscure, that had puzzled me in the likeness I could not trace, became startlingly clear; Mrs. Penn was Charlotte Delves. She had grown stouter; she had grown older; the fashion of her dress was changed, and its materials were more rich; the style of wearing her hair was altered, throwing me altogether completely off the scent: but I could trace her features now to be those of the Charlotte Delves of my memory."You are right," I said, in a low earnest tone. "It is Charlotte Delves.""Who is she?" he asked."She is a distant relation of Edwin Barley's. It was said at that time that they were upon close and intimate terms.""And is helping Mr. Barley to search out and persecute George Heneage, coming here for the purpose, I see.""But, Mr. Chandos, what is George Heneage to you?""He is my brother, Anne. He is George Heneage," he added, pointing in the direction of the west wing.He George Heneage! I sat in netter amazement. But, as I had traced the likeness in Charlotte Delves, so, now that the clue was given me, did I see that the resemblance, which had so haunted me in Mr. Chandos, was to the George Heneage of that unhappy time. But when I met Mr. Chandos, some years had elapsed since saw I George Heneage, and the clue would not come to me. How could they be brothers?"You look perplexed, Anne. Soon after the enacting of that dreadful tragedy, a large estate—this—was bequeathed to my father, Sir Thomas Heneage, upon condition that he assumed the name and arms of Chandos. You may be sure we lost no time in taking up the right; too thankful to drop the name of Heneage, which George had so disgraced.""Then his name is no longer George Heneage, but George Chandos?" I breathlessly cried, unable to take the facts in quickly."Strictly speaking our name is Heneage-Chandos; and Heneage-Chandos we should have been always styled. But we were too thankful to be able to drop the name of Heneage, and we dopped it completely. Now you can understand the interest that Mr. Barley has in prying into the concerns of our house. He has always been on the watch for George; his most earnest desire is to see him brought to trial for murder, and condemned. You can also understand, Anne, why I and my brother Sir Thomas have felt ourselves bound in honor not to marry. For a brother to have committed murder is obloquy enough; but if that brother should come to suffer on the gibbet, the obloquy would be increased ten fold: and few young ladies would like to ally themselves with so notorious a family.""I do not see it in that light, Mr. Chandos. The crime was committed by your brother George alone, and the disgrace ought to be confined to him. The rest of you had nothing to do with it.""You don't know the world," he said, shaking his head. "If there be a black sheep in a family, be assured the odium of its color will fall on the rest.""Did he really do it?" I asked in a low tone."He did. He made the confession to me a day or two ago. All the explanation or excuse that he offered was, that he was 'provoked to it.' He is very near his end.""Do you believe he cannot live?""I should say not for many days; if hours. Mr. Barley may do his worst then.""Has he been concealed here ever since?""That would have been next to impossible," replied Mr. Chandos, with a half smile at my simplicity. "He has been here but a short time: and no end of stratagems have we had to resort to to conceal the fact. My mother has been compelled to feign illness, and remain in the west wing, that she might have provisions and things carried up, as if for her. I have assumed the unenviable character of a sleep-walker: we have encouraged the notion that my dead father, Sir Thomas, haunted the pine-tree walk—""And are you not a sleep-walker? and is there no ghost?" I again breathlessly interrupted."The only ghost, the only sleepwalker, has been poor George," he sadly answered. "You saw him arrive, Anne.""I!""Have you forgotten the night when you saw me—as you thought—dodging in and out of the trees, as if I wished to escape observation, and finally disappearing within the west wing? It was George. The next morning you accused me of having been there; I knew I had not, and positively denied it. Later I found that George had come: and then I amused you with a fable of my being addicted to sleepwalking. I knew not what else to invent: any thing to cast off the scent from the right quarter; and I feared you would be seeing him there again.""But—is it not highly dangerous for him to have ventured here?""Aye. After the murder he escaped abroad, and made his way to the Prussian dominions. We heard nothing of him for some time, though we were in the habit of remitting him funds periodically for his support. But one night he made his appearance here; it was not long after we had settled at Chandos, startling my mother and Hill nearly out of their senses. They concealed him in the west wing, and my mother feigned illness and remained in it with him, as she has done this time. He did not stay long, but my mother said she could henceforth be at no certainty, and she took to leaving the lower entrance door of the west wing unfastened at night, so that he might enter at once, should he arrive a second time. Three times in all has he come, including this.""But it must surely be hazardous?""Nothing can be more so. Not to speak of the constant state of suspense and anxiety it keeps us all in. He de-clares he is obliged to come, or die; that he has the mal du pays, the yearning for home, to such an extent that when the fit comes on him, he is forced to come, and risk it. More dangerous, too, than his actually being here, is his walking out at night in the grounds, which he will do in spite of remonstrance. George was always given to self-will.""Does he walk out?""Does he? Why, Anne, need you ask the question? Sometimes at dusk, sometimes not till midnight, out he will go. He says he could not live unless he breathed the fresh air once in the twenty-four hours. Have you not seen the ' ghost' yourself, more than once? Were you not terrified at him in the corridor? Do you forget when I gathered your face to me in the dark walk, while some one passed? I feared that you should see him—should detect that it was a living man, real flesh and blood, not a harmless ghost. Very glad were we when the servants, at his first visit, took up the theory of a ghost, in place of any more dangerous notion. From them it spread outside, so that the Chandos ghost has become public rumor and public property.""Do the servants know of the murder?""There is little doubt of it; that is public property, also. But years have elapsed since the period, and in all probability they have nearly forgotten it. But I have a word to say to you, Anne, respecting Mrs. Chandos. Mrs. Penn—I believe every breath and action of that woman to be vilely false, put forth with a covert motive—informed you that Mrs. Chandos was my wife. She never was my wife, but she was once my love."A sort of chill stole over my heart. I did not answer."I met with her when she was Ethel Winn, a lovely, soft-mannered girl, and I learned to love her with impassioned fervor. We were engaged to be married, and she came on a visit to us with her elder sister, since dead. Little thought I that my sweet, soft-mannered girl was eaten up with ambition. One morning, at breakfast, a letter was brought in to my father. It was from India, and contained news of the death of my brother Tom, which, I need not tell you, who know that he is alive yet, was premature. He had been in action, the letter stated, was desperately wounded, and taken up for dead. Tom wrote us word afterwards that it was only when they went to bury him that they discovered he was alive. But he is given to joking. Well, we mourned him as dead; and George, in his free, careless manner, told Ethel she had better have engaged herself to him than to me, for that he could make her Lady Heneage, being the heir, which I never could. That George had always admired her was certain. He had a weakness for pretty women. But for that weakness, and Mrs. Edwin Barley's being pretty, Philip King might be alive now."Mr. Chandos paused a moment, and then went on in a lower tone, bending rather nearer to me: "Anne, will you believe that in less than three weeks' time they had eloped together?""Who?" I uttered, believing that I must misunderstand."They—George Heneage and Ethel Winn. They soon came back, man and wife, for George had nowhere else to take her—no other home—Lady Heneage was for refusing them, in her indignation, but Sir Thomas talked her over. A marriage entered into as theirs had been, would bring plenty of punishment in its wake, he observed. The punishment—for Ethel, at any rate—had already begun. She liked me best, far best, but ambition had been a powerful incentive, and she had married George on the strength of his being heir apparent to the title. News had now come that Thomas was alive and progressing steadily towards health.""And you—what did you do?" I interrupted."I pocketed my bruised feelings and rode the high horse of mocking indifference; letting none suppose false Ethel had left a wound. The wound was there, and a pretty sharp one, five fathom deep, though I strove to bury it.In six months' time she and George were tired of each other—if we might judge from appearances—and George spent a great deal of his time abroad. Ethel grumbled; said he had no right to go out; seeking pleasure, unless he took her; but George laughed off the complaints. They had been married about a year when the tragedy took place at Edwin Barley's. The shock to her, Ethel, was dreadful. Instead of being the wife of the heir of Sir Thomas Heneage, she was the wife of a murderer, who might at any time be brought to the gallows. She was attacked with brain fever, and has never been quite bright in intellect since. At times she is worse than at others; at the full and change of the moon, they are fond of saying; but that is all nonsense, old wives' tales.""Has she been aware of these visits of her husband?""They could not be kept from her, seeing that she has the entree to the west wing. But they have not met on very cordial terms, and she has never regarded him as her husband since the tragedy. She took up some unpleasant notion with regard to Mrs. Edwin Barley, and has continued to resent it. Not but what she is most anxious to guard his secret; our only fear has been lest she should inadvertently betray it by some word of negligence when she was not herself. And now, Anne, I think you know all."And a strange "all" it was. I could scarcely get reconciled to it."What is to be your answer?""My answer?" I faltered."Will you venture to promise yourself to me?''"I thought I had promised," was my whisper, as I stole nearer to him.Fervently he threw his arms round me, fervently he held me to him. How long I had remained in that sweet embrace I hardly know, when a faint cry of dismay escaped my lips. There stood Mrs. Penn.Mr. Chandos lifted his face, and a haughty, displeased flush passed over it. He did not release me, but stood with me on his arm."May I inquire the meaning of your intrusion?" he demanded."Intrusion—oh. If it's looked upon in that light, I can retire, sir. I came to ask Miss Hereford to sit half an hour with me, but it appears that she's more agreeably occupied.""Very much more. I can answer for Miss Hereford, that she will not be able to sit with you this evening. Perhaps you will allow me to suggest the courtesy of your knocking at this door another time, Mrs. Penn, before you enter it."She turned away angrily, and banged the door after her. I quitted Mr. Chandos, sat down, and took up my embroidery."You have not told me what it is that is the matter with your brother.""A broken heart. That is my opinion. He has fretted himself into his grave. Think what a life it has been for him! In exile, under a false name, no home, no comfort, the crime of murder ever searing his conscience—the marvel to me is, that he has lived so long. The doctors call it decline; but he has become rapidly worse within a few days.""Is it to him that the doctors came?""To no one else. Lake was away, and we could not have him, and we dared to trust nobody but him with the secret. When the physician came from town, he was summoned 'to Mr. Harry Chandos,' and I had to feign illness to the household, and have a chamber made ready for me in the west wing."I scarcely understood."Did the physician think he was called in to you?""He thought so. Thought that the sickly, worn-out man he saw lying on the sofa in my mother's sitting-room was Mr. Harry Chandos. I being all the while closely boxed up from sight in my temporary chamber.""Then—when he told Mr. Dexter on going away that there was little hope of your life, he spoke of your brother.""In point of fact; believing however that he spoke of me. I have not been ill at all, nor my mother either. Save that she is of course much worn with anxiety and watching.""How much has Madame de Mellissie known of this?""She was cognisant of the crime George was said to have committed, and that he was in exile. She also knew, in a degree, that we were always in dread of his coming to Chandos. It was for this reason that we condemned her imprudence in bringing you here and leaving you. And you now, Anne, understand the reason why it was so objectionable to my mother to have any stranger located at Chandos; even though that stranger," he added, looking fondly down on me, "was a young and innocent girl.""But Mr. Chandos, if your brother—"I stopped my words half way. There had glided into the room what I almost, at the first moment, took to be an apparition, so worn, so pale, so weary looked she. It was Lady Chandos. She wore her black robes as ever, but a large white china crape shawl was thrown over her shoulders."Harry, will you come up? I think it is nearly over.""You should not have come down yourself, mother. Who is with him?""His wife. And Hill is supporting his shoulders: he cannot lie down now.""You may say any thing before this young lady, mother. She knows all. "We have been afraid of her, shunning her as a stranger; but I having leisure on my hands, have made better acquaintance with her. She is the little girl who was at Mrs. Edwin Barley's at the time of the occurrence; you may remember that my father mentioned her. Her sympathies are with us, not with Edwin Barley."Lady Chandos smiled a greeting upon me, and they proceeded to the west wing together. I sat on by the fire; on, on. I heard the doctor come, and hasten up-stairs; and still I sat on. Madame de Mellissie was in and out, now restless in her chamber, now coming to the oak parlor. As the clock struck twelve, Mr. Chandos came down with a slow step."Anne, it is over."I started up."Do you mean that your brother is dead?""Yes. Poor George is gone, with all his sins and sorrows. Let us hope that his spirit is at rest."CHAPTER XXXIWHAT LAY IN THE WEST WING. SIR HARRY CHANDOSONCE more there was light for the gloomy house of Chandos. He who had been the destroyer of its tranquillity and its fair name, through whom they had lived in dread for years, having—as Mrs. Penn aptly expressed it—a sword hanging perpetually over their heads, which might fall at any minute, he, the erring George Heneage Chandos, was now no more. With him the fear and the dread were gone; almost the disgrace; there was no further need of secrecy, of retirement, of ghosts, of sleepwalking; there was no longer dread of a night invasion by the police. Chandos could hold up its head now in the bright face of day. But entire peace was not to be its portion quite immediately.Whether any in the house slept well that night, I cannot answer. I did not. It was near morning when I dropped asleep; and it was barely morning when I awoke: the hall clock was striking six. I got up and dressed. It was of no use lying there, restless. Little thought the servants, as they went about their work, of the burden, cold and stiff, that there was in the west wing.Mr. Lake must have gone out before dawn, for, as I was drawing up my blind, I saw him come up the avenue in a great coat, his face ruddy with walking in the morning air. With him was a man in a cap, with a two-foot rule in his hand. I wondered for a moment, and then it flashed across me that the man was come to take the measure of what lay in the west wing.I heard them come in at the principal entrance, and advance with stealthy steps up the stairs. As they paced the corridor towards the west wing, I gently opened my door to look after them. Somebody else was looking. Peeping from the east wing door, dressed, as I was, was Mrs. Penn. She stared with all her eyes at the man with the rule. We pretended not to see each other.Five minutes, and they emerged again. Mr. Lake escorted him to the door and closed it upon him, and the man went away whistling, balancing the rule on his fingers, his coat thrown open to the morning air, like a hardy British workman, as he was. The next noise I heard was Lizzy, likewise coming up-stairs. I knew her step, and heard her knock at the door of the west wing. Hill opened it."There'll be nothing to do here yet awhile, Lizzy," said she. "My lady will be down-stairs to-day, and the rooms can' be left till then. You can go and help in the dairy."Lizzy's voice sounded as if confounded at the news. "My lady down-stairs?" she echoed. "What! has she got so well as that, all on a sudden?""She is much better, and Mr. Lake advises the change to other rooms, as likely to be beneficial," returned Hill, condescending to be more explanatory than she usually was to a servant. "Go at once into the dairy, Lizzy."Poor Lady Chandos! I should think the change to different apartments must have been sadly needed. But twice had she been out of those rooms since she took to them, when she stealthily sought the garden for a mouthful of fresh air, to our great alarm, one of the times, when we suspected it was her spirit.Mrs. Hill closed the door of the west wing on Lizzy, who returned along the corridor in pursuance of her orders to go to the dairy, when Mrs. Penn arrested her."Lizzy," said she in a covert tone, "I cannot think that you delivered that letter last night.""Not deliver it, ma'am!" uttered Lizzy, with every appearance of surprise. "I took it right to the door, and give it to the young man. Why do you suppose I didn't, Mrs. Penn?""Because—because I ought to have had an answer by this time," spoke Mrs. Penn, in a hesitating voice."An answer at half after six in the morning," quoth Lizzy."Long before now. Indeed it should have come last night.""Oh, it'll come, ma'am, in the course of the day," cried Lizzy, tripping off. "Don't be uneasy.""Here, Lizzy, stop an instant!" Mrs. Penn called after her. "Are you sure Mr. Edwin Barley was at home?""Of course I ain't," returned Lizzy. "How can I be."Mrs. Penn's cheeks turned red, and Mrs. Penn's eyes flashed fire. "You deceitful woman! you assured me positively last night that he was at home!""I said that the young man told me he was at home. He said he was at home and alone. I can speak positive as to that. I can't stay, ma'am, a moment longer. If Hill comes out and sees me here, she'll just pull my ears."Away, finally, went Lizzy, deaf to all further colloquy on Mrs. Penn's part. The latter retired and closed the door of the east wing, and I proceeded to the oak parlor. But I was too early; the servants were setting it to rights; so I strolled out of doors. The doors were open this morning. I wondered whether Mr. Chandos had cognizance of it.Scarcely had I been outside a minute, when Mrs. Penn came flying by, fastening her shawl and tying her bonnet as she ran."You are going abroad early," I said to her. But she flew on, without answering.I did very much wish that Mr. Chandos could know she was gone, for there was little question that her errand was to Mr. Edwin Barley. Glancing upwards at Mr. Chandos's window, my relief was great to see him there, his eyes following Mrs. Penn. In a few minutes he came down. His face was grave, but he had a smile of tenderness for me."How are you, my darling?""Mr. Chandos—""Stop a moment, Anne. I broke you of calling me 'sir.' I must break you now of calling me 'Mr. Chandos.'My cheeks were red with blushes."What can I call you, then?""I was christened Harry. Now go on with what you were about to say.""I fear that Mrs. Penn has gone to Mr. Edwin Barley. She was questioning Lizzy about the note, telling her she could not have delivered it, or the answer would have arrived—"Ay, the police officers," he interrupted. "That would have been the answer.""And I think she must have gone to see about it. You saw how she ran off.""Let her go, Anne, if she will. It is too late for her to do harm. Were the whole establishment of Scotland yard to make their appearance here, they would only find a dead body; and the dead are sacred. I have sent to the police on ray own account this morning; Lake went for me; and expect some of them here shortly.""What for?" I breathlessly asked."Ah! what for!" he repeated with a smile. "To take you into custody.""Do not joke, Mr. Chandos. "For the words seemed to bring back to me all the wretchedness of the days gone by."Mr. Chandos?" he cried, taking me up."I fear I shall call you Mr. Chandos many times, before I have quite learnt the other name. Oh!—what is this!"Two police, mounted, as they had been that night, were riding up the avenue."I told you they were coming," said Mr. Chandos. "Are you ready for them?"Instinctively I ran in, and took shelter in my own room. From the window I watched them alight, and saw the horses taken round to the stable. Presently they ascended the stairs, accompanied by Mr. Chandos, and proceeded to the east wing I did wonder very much what had brought them.Shall I tell you, reader? for it was not long ere I knew. They were examining Mrs. Penn's drawers and boxes: Mr. Chandos had summoned them for that purpose.Most ample proofs of her being Charlotte Delves were found. There were letters where she was addressed by her proper name; there was a book or two in which it had been written; there were articles of wearing apparel displaying the initials. It appeared that Mrs. Chandos's maid had once seen these letters on the linen, and questioned about it, seeing they were not the initials of the name Mrs. Penn bore; but the latter turned the matter carelessly off, saying the things had been given her by a lady with whom she had lived.As to the proofs of her having been the black sheep in Chandos House, they were more numerous than I can tell you A bunch of skeleton keys was found, so that she had been at no fault to open boxes and desks. There were the missing letters, in short the whole plot and scheme was laid bare—Charlotte Delves had come to Chandos as the spy and agent of Edwin Barley. She had not come to rob: oh no: she had come to spy into their private affairs, their letters, their movements, any thing she might pick up, hoping to obtain a clue to the dwelling place of George Chandos. The taking of the money—the false pretence of the stealing of her piece of lace, were so many ruses to induce Mr. Chandos to think this petty pilfering was the object, and to prevent his getting on the right scent. I was in her way, for she feared I might detect her as being Charlotte Delves, and she dexterously put the money in my box with the hope that it would be discovered, and I driven ignominiously away. That time when the police searched the servants' boxes, and she so officiously offered her own, she had of course removed all suspicious objects, while there was as little doubt that she had placed something in mine, and it was with a view to mine being examined, that she pressed forward hers. Of all the abstractions at Chandos, she had been the author; of all the annoyances. She had rifled her own bag and stolen her own letter, and then come carrying the news and laying the accusation before Mr. Chandos, hoping, as it had been done (according to her assertion) in my room, his suspicions would fall upon me. During her sojourn at Chandos there were two objects she had been strenuously pursuing: the one to get me from it: the other to make discoveries touching George Chandos. And she had succeeded in neither.During the turn-out of her boxes, a suspicious-looking gray cloak, with a large hood, was come upon. It caused Mr. Chandos to think of the night he was stopped in the avenue and thrown from his horse. It caused me to think (when it was afterwards told to me) of the allusion to a gray cloak I had heard in that conversation between the person in the summer house and Mr. Edwin Barley. Beyond all question that person had been Charlotte Delves.But what could have been her motive for springing; before the horse of Mr. Chandos? That it was she who had been guilty of it, there was little doubt: the account given by the gipsy of the lady's attire would prove that, in corroboration with other circumstances. It must have been done on the spur of the moment, with a view to disable Mr. Chandos and make him less active in his house, which she was about to enter, less liable to witness her manoeuvres. In speaking of her this morning, Mr. Chandos said if he could find out the Mrs. Howard who gave her the recommendations at Marden, he would prosecute her for giving a false character.She was away a full hour. And came back looking angry, calling Lizzy to her."Where's the letter I gave you last night?" she curtly demanded."Whatever's the use of asking me?" returned the undaunted Lizzy, after a faint pause. "You must ask Mr. Edwin Barley, ma'am.""The letter you gave in there was not my letter," proceeded Mrs. Penn."Not your letter!" uttered Lizzy, opening her eyes and professing the most genuine astonishment. "I don't know what you mean, ma'am.""The letter you left at Mr. Edwin Barley's, instead of being the one I handed to you, was some rubbishing circular of the fashions. How dared you do such a thing?""My goodness me!" apostrophised Lizzy. "To think of that! But Mrs. Penn, it's not possible.""Don't talk to me about it's not being possible! You have been willfully careless," raved Mrs. Penn. "I must have my letter produced.""I declare to heaven that I don't know where it is, or what has become of it!" spoke Lizzy, this time with genuine earnestness—"if you say it was not it I gave in to Mr. Barley. I had a letter of fashions in my basket, I remember that; but it's odd that I could make such a mistake.""You did make it," she angrily returned. "Where is the letter now?""I can't imagine. It must have been spirited away.""If you gave in the one letter for the other, you must still have had mine in your basket. What did you do with it?""If you offered me a thousand pounds I couldn't tell," was Lizzy's answer. "Looking upon it as nothing but a letter of the fashions, I thought it was of no moment, else I remember opening my basket after leaving Mr. Barley's and seeing there was nothing in it. I wondered then what could have gone with the fashions. I'm sure, ma'am, I'm very sorry.""You shall be sorry to some purpose, for—"Mrs. Penn stopped. Hearing strange footsteps, she turned and saw two police officers descending the stairs, accompanied by Mr. Chandos.' A puzzled look of wonder overspread her face. What could they be doing there? She knew that Mr. Barley had not had time to see or to send to them since her recent communication to him."That is the lady,"spoke Mr. Chandos. And the officers advanced, one each side of her.Mrs. Penn recoiled. "What do you want with me?" she cried, as if in some terror."Madam," said Mr. Chandos, "you entered my mother's house under a false name, and by means of a false recommendation. You have been calling yourself Mrs. Penn: your name is Charlotte Delves."She gathered in her breath: something like a hunted stag."This, of itself, would have been sufficient offence to place you within the power of the law," continued Mr. Chandos. "But you have also pursued a course of conduct here, which I can only characterize by the word iniquity. My suspicions were aroused, and I deemed it necessary to have your boxes examined, which these officers have now been doing. In them we find ample proof that you are the offender who has been giving so much trouble at Chandos. It is you who have picked locks, and rifled desks and boxes, and stolen money."Charlotte Delves turned of an ashy whiteness. She put up her handkerchief to her face, as if to hide it."You came here as the spy of our implacable enemy, Edwin Barley: you have been in league with him: even this very hour you have been out stealthily, to carry to him tales of Chandos. What have you to answer?"Indeed what had she to answer? Nothing."What excuse have yon to offer?" he resumed. "Can you urge any, that I should not give you into custody?"She looked round helplessly. But there was no one to offer her support or succor."I ask you if you have any palliation or excuse to offer why I should not hand you over to the law?""If you choose to hand me over, you must," she sullenly said, wiping the moisture from her brow. "I seem to be powerless among you. What I have done I should do again. I am of the kin of the Barleys; and, as you say, they are implacable enemies of your race. In an hour's time from this perhaps the tables will be turned.""No, they will not be turned, in the sense you would insinuate, and for that reason I can afford to be generous," answered Mr. Chandos. "Had real harm come of this matter, I would have prosecuted you to the utmost rigor of the law. But, as it is beyond your power now, or Mr. Edwin Barley's either, to do us harm, you may go off scot free. I will not trouble myself to punish you: I wash my hands of a woman so crafty and despicable. Not another hour shall you remain at Chandos; not another meal shall you eat in it: one of these officers will accompany you up-stairs, while you gather your things together; they will then escort you out of this house into that of Mr. Edwin Barley.""I will not be escorted abroad by police officers," she passionately answered."You possess no choice. I have, so far, given you into their charge: and they will take care to undertake it"She swung up the stairs, the officer close to her, darting looks of defiance at Mr. Chandos, at me, at the officers, even at Lizzy, who had remained an amazed spectator of the scene. In less than half an hour she was down again, and her luggage with her. In some mood of reckless defiance, she had thrown on the gray cloak, the hood drawn over her head."Ah," said Mr. Chandos, "you look just as you did the night you stopped me with that hullabaloo of a noise. Did you do it to frighten me, or my horse?"She would make no answer.They started: Charlotte Delves walking between the policemen. The luggage had been put into a truck, and that was wheeled behind her. In this fashion she was marshalled to Mr. Edwin Barley's.But I had yet to learn, now it was proved that Miss Delves was the culprit, what had caused Lizzy's suspicious behaviour I asked her there and then."Ah," said she, with a sort of fling out of the hands habitual to her when annoyed or in pain, "I don't mind telling now. I was in trouble at that time.""What do you mean, Lizzy?""I have got a brother, miss: as steady, well-meaning a man as you'd wish to see. He came into this neighborhood in search of work, him and his wife. Oh, but it's her that's the plague; and a fine bother he have had with her, on and off. She's as wild as wild can be: if there's a wake or a dance within ten mile, she'll be off after it: and at times she have been seen the worse for drink. Not that you'd think it, to look at her; she's a pretty, neat, jaunty young woman as can be, and never was a pleasanter when she chooses. Well, try as he would, he couldn't get work in these parts, only a odd job now and again: and you know, miss, when there's means only a going out, and nothing coming in, it don't take long for any few pounds, as may have been saved in a old stocking, to come to an end.""That's true enough, Lizzy.""Well, miss, what did they do when their funds was gone? Why, come to me, in course. And I helped 'em. I helped 'era till I got tired, till I could help no longer. She it was, mostly, that asked: he'd never have begged a sixpence from me, but when drove to it by sheer famine. She pestered my very life out; coming here continually; and I when I wouldn't give no more money, prayed for broken victuals. ' Who's that woman that's always sneaking here after Lizzy?" the servants said."Who's that man that we see her with?" they'd say again. And I didn't choose to say who, for both of 'em were got seedy and shabby then. It wasn't a pleasant life for me, miss."I thought it could not have been."One afternoon—the same that the accident occurred to Mr. Chandos—she had been up to the house, begging as usual. She vowed, if I would not relieve her with either money or food, to do some damage to the family: but she had been having a drop of beer, and I paid no attention to her, and wouldn't give her any thing. I may be giving forever, I said to her, and she went away, threatening. After she was gone, I kept thinking over what she had said—that she'd do some damage to the family—the words wouldn't go away from me, and I got right down frightened, lest she should put her threat in force. What if she should fire one of the haystacks, or poison the poultry?—all sorts of horrors I kept on imagining. I begged some cold meat of the cook, and collected some broken bits of bread, and off I scudded with a basket at the dusk hour. They were lodging close by, but when I got there, I found she hadn't been in. I left the bread and meat, and a pinch of tea, and was hurrying back again when I came upon you and master, him a lying down, and heard what had happened to him. Miss, as true as that we were there, I was afeard she had done it. I taxed her with it after, and she was sullen, and wouldn't say yes nor no. I was frightened out of my senses, for fear it should come out; and I tried, to master, to lay it upon them gipsies. But when her temper came to her, she vowed and protested that she'd had nothing to do with it; that she hadn't been anigh Mr. Chandos, and so she stuck it out to the very hour as they left the neighborhood again. My brother said he was sure she hadn't done it. That's the truth, miss, as I'm here living.""And what were you doing in my room that night, Lizzy?""What night, miss?""When I surprised you, and you appeared so confused. The excuse you made was that you were looking for the ghost.""And so I was looking for it, miss," she answered. "One of the girls had said the ghost was abroad that night, but some freak had taken Madam Hill, about that period, to have the doors and windows down-stairs shut up early, and none of us could look out. In leaving my lady's rooms afterwards, I stepped into yours, but I could see nothing then under the pine trees. As I was looking, however, I caught sight of something else, a'most as bad. It were my sister-in-law, and she was marching fierce up the little path, her hands out, by which I knowed the sort of humor she was in. I turned from the window to pelt down, and there at the door I met you, miss. I daresay I did look confused, but it was at sight of her. I'm sure I put up a thanksgiving when they cleared off from these parts, which they did soon after. They went back to where they come from, and he have got into work again.""Mr. Chandos appeared to have confidence in you, Lizzy.""Miss, I'm true to the family to the backbone, and so I always will be. And they have known me a long while, has my lady and Mr. Chandos."It was a morning of confusion altogether, but we sat down to breakfast at last. I, Mr. Chandos, and Madame de Mellissie. She chose to preside; and did so; taking scarcely any notice of me. Mr. Lake had breakfasted earlier."How wretched it is to have arrived just now!" she uttered. "There can be no going out in the carriage, I suppose, for the next few days.""Ill doing is sure to bring its own punishment, Emily," Mr. Chandos Bald to her, in a jesting manner. "You should not have run away.""We shall have Alfred over after me, I expect. His gastric fever will politely vanish when it is necessary that his wife should be looked up. But I am glad that I was here, Harry, after all," she added, in a changed voice, "for it enabled me to see the last of him.""I am glad that he was here," observed Mr. Chandos, "for it gave him the Opportunity of comforts and attendance in his illness, which he could not have procured abroad.""But, Harry, what a while he stayed!""He was too ill to leave. And we thought the end was rapidly approaching.""Did he come home to die?—I mean, knowing that he was about to die?""No. He was ill when he came, ill and weak; but he got much worse suddenly.""What will be done about—about—the funeral?" she asked in a whisper."It is all arranged. Lake will manage it. I hope nothing of the affair will get about in the neighborhood; it will do no good to reap an old subject up again.""But, Harry, there must be a—a coffin.? I detest the horrid name!""That is all settled. The man who has the order will not talk.""Will it be kept from the servants?""I expect so.""And mamma comes down to-day I Well, it is time she did.""It is," assented Mr. Chandos."For more reasons than one," tartly cried Madame de Mellissie. "Harry, now that Chandos will be looking up, and taking its share in the county gaieties, which I conclude it will be doing, I think it would not be a bad plan for me to come here as its mistress. Mamma, you know, will be going back to the old Heneage homestead; she always said she should, if this crisis came, leaving you here to manage for Tom. You will want a mistress at it—and I am sick and tired of Paris.""Many thanks, Emily; but the mistress for Chandos is already bespoken."She turned her large blue eyes upon him, possibly wondering what he could mean, possibly about to ask, but at that moment Hickens entered with several letters, which he handed to Mr. Chandos."The Indian mail's in, sir," he observed, with the familiarity of a privileged servant."I see it is, Hickens," answered Mr. Chandos, bending his eyes on the letters."Any for me from Tom?" exclaimed Madame de Mellissie. "He never writes to me "Mr. Chandos shook his head. "There's only one from Tom, and that's to me.""But I see another Indian letter,'' she said. "It has a black seal.""Not from Thomas: it is a strange hand-writing. It is addressed to my mother."Mr. Chandos had opened his brother's letter, and was deep in its contents, when Hill entered."Any letters for my lady, sir?""Two. One of them from India, tell her; but not from Sir Thomas."Hill retreated with the letters, and Mr. Chandos resumed his reading."They were on the eve of action, Emily," he presently said. "Just going into it when he wrote this.""Is it well over?""I hope so. But he closed this letter at once. Here is what he says in conclusion: 'I shall drop this into the post now, and if I come out of the turmoil safely, give you a second note to say so. That is if the post should not have gone: if it has, you must wait another fortnight.' Where's the evening paper?" added Mr. Chandos, seeking out a newspaper which had come with the letters, and tearing it open. "News of this action ought to have come by telegraph.""Sir," exclaimed Hill, looking in with a pale face, "my lady wishes to see you immediately."He appeared aroused by the tone—or the looks—and went up-stairs, opening the sheets of the newspaper as he did so. Hill was following him, when Madame de Mellissie called to her."Hill, what has happened? You look scared.""I hardly know what has happened, ma'am. Something very sad, I fear."Emily de Mellissie started up."Hill, that letter never contained bad news from India?—from Sir Thomas?""It has got bad news of some sort in it, for certain," was Hill's rejoinder. "My lady gave a great scream before she had read three lines, and said some confused words about her darling son Thomas. The fear upon me, ma'am, is, that he has been hurt in battle."Worse than that! worse than that! Emily, impulsive in all she did, ran up to the west wing. We waited; I mean I and the servants; for the rumor that something was amiss soon spread to them, and they came, gathering, to the hall. The truth was brought to us by Hill with great tears upon her face. Sir Thomas Chandos was dead.Not the false report that had once come of his death. Ah, no. He had fallen in battle, gallantly leading his men to the charge. The commander-in-chief had written to Lady Chandos with his own hand: he said how much her son was regretted—that all the officers who could be spared attended the funeral.Full an hour passed, and the morning appeared to be growing weary, when Mr. Chandos appeared again, traces of emotion on his face. Alas! he was no longer "Mr.," but Sir Harry Chandos.CHAPTER XXXIICONCLUSIONIT appeared, by what was gathered afterwards, that when Mrs. Penn—or Charlotte Delves, whichever you please to call her—stole out in the early morning, she did not find Mr. Edwin Barley: he had gone abroad shooting, a sport he had not much favored since he had been in the neighborhood of Chandos. Surprised at this, for she thought he would be after very different game, she inquired of his man servant respecting the note Lizzy was to have delivered the previous evening, and then learnt that, instead of her note, the girl had given in some foolish circular of the fashions. The man said he was positive of it, for his master opened it instantly while he remained in the room, and threw it aside with a "pish," telling him, the servant, to "take that nonsense away." Upon hearing this, Mrs. Penn (breathing no doubt a few blessings upon Lizzy), sat down and wrote another note, which she desired should be given to Mr. Edwin Barley the instant he entered. But, as it happened, he did not enter, until just as Mrs. Penn was being escorted to his house by the officers. Mr. Edwin Barley turned round the corner of the road, his gun in one hand and a brace of pheasants in the other, when the vision of Charlotte Delves, marching between two policemen, a truck of luggage following, propelled by a man in the Chandos livery, met his astounded sight."What is the meaning of this? what are you doing with that lady?" he demanded, in a menacing manner, of the two policemen."We have orders, sir, to see the lady safely away from Chandos.""Who gave you those orders?""Mr. Chandos.""I will make Mr. Chandos eat his orders before the day's out," uttered Mr. Edwin Barley, in his passion."Don't know any thing about that, sir," said one of the policemen. "The lady -has not been behaving on the square, and we thought at first she would be given into custody. But Mr. Chandos considered it over; and said, as she had been able to effect no great harm, he'd let her go."Charlotte looked at him. "I'll explain later," said she.The group arrived at Mr. Edwin Barley's door. The latter, Charlotte Delves, and the luggage, went into it, while the officers returned to Chandos in search of their horses."What's the meaning of all this?" began Mr. Edwin Barley to her, as they entered the room where breakfast was laid."It means that I am discovered. But let that pass. Have you—""Stop a bit," he interrupted, with authority. "How did it come about? Through Anne Hereford? Did she find you out?""I cannot tell. Mr. Chandos had those men in, and they searched my boxes. But he must have made the discovery previously, for of course the discovery led to the search. He told me that I was a spy, your agent, that my name was Charlotte Delves, not Mrs. Penn, that I had entered the house by means of a false character; in short, he appears to know all, even about my stopping him And startling his horse that night."Mr. Edwin Barley gave vent to a few ugly words.I wrote a note to you yesterday evening. I fear you did not get it.""I had no note from you," returned Mr. Edwin Barley."And it was of such consequence! I was coming round, but Mrs. Chandos stopped me: so then I entrusted it to one of the housemaids, who mast have lost it, for Jenkins says what she left with him was a circular of the fashions.""Some folly of the sort was brought in to me. What were the contents of the note?""The same that this contains," she answered, catching up the one she had written that morning. "You have been searching for years after George Heneage. The last few weeks, since I have been at Chandos, we have been straining every nerve to obtain information as to his abiding place: what should you say, if I tell you that he has been, all that time, within our reach—within a few yards of us?"Mr. Edwin Barley's face twitched with emotion."WHAT do you say?" he asked."I have spoken to you of the mysteries of that west wing. I could not fathom them; but all is clear now. He has been concealed there.""No!" uttered Mr. Edwin Barley."He is there yet. My note last night was to apprise you of this. Anne Hereford penetrated there yesterday for some purpose of her own, and saw him. She told me of the man she had seen—an 'emaciated being, bearing a striking resemblance to Mr. Chandos.' There's no mistaking the description: it is George, and they have had him in hiding. What shall you do?"Mr. Edwin Barley laughed a savage laugh."Do! Now that he is within my clutches! Let me get my breakfast.""And then you will proceed to the police station.""Wrong," said Mr. Barley. "The first thing I shall proceed to the house, and have it out with Mr. Harry Chandos. Then for the police.""Have what out with him?""This ejection of you.""No," said Charlotte Delves, impressively. "Better let well alone. He might hand me over to the mercies of the law: he has his hold upon me."Mr. Edwin Barley made no reply, but busied himself with his breakfast. When his head was set upon a thing, it was not Charlotte Delves, or any body else, that could turn him.Thus it happened that soon after the melancholy news from India had efficiently circulated from one end of the house to the other, Mr. Edwin Barley arrived at it. It was Hickens who answered the summons at the door."Can I see Lady Chandos!" he imperatively demanded. Though why he should have inquired for her was best known to himself."My lady cannot be seen, sir," replied Hickens. "Sir Harry is within." For, take you notice, that the well-trained servants in these aristocratic families, never fail to accord the inheritor the title the instant that it lapses to him."Who did you say is within?" cried Mr. Edwin Barley, pricking up his ear.""Sir Harry Chandos.""Sir Harry," repeated Mr. Edwin Barley. "What do you mean by calling him that?""I call him nothing but what's right, sir. He is Sir Harry, unfortunately: that is, unfortunately for poor Sir Thomas. News came this morning, sir, that he had been killed in battle.""Bad news, that. He was the of the lot. But Mr. Harry Chandos does not take the title, my man.""Oh, dear, yes, sir. He is now Sir Harry Chandos.""I tell you no," returned Mr. Barley, with a scornful smile. "It is not he who comes into the title; he is no more Sir Harry Chandos than I am.""Did you want him, sir?" inquired Hickens, declining to pursue the controversy."I do. I would have preferred to see my lady.""Quite out of the question, sir," replied Hickens, shaking his head, as he conducted Mr. Edwin Barley to the state drawing-room.Sir Harry went to him. He was standing before one of the windows, his thumbs in the button-holes of his waistcoat. He wheeled round when Sir Harry entered."Good morning, Mr. Chandos. You have been treating a lady most shame-fully. As she is a connection of mine, I must demand an explanation. I allude to Mrs. Penn," Mr. Edwin Barley continued. "She was engaged by Lady Chandos, engaged as a lady, and you have turned her out like a menial."Sir Harry stared at the man; he could scarcely believe his own ears."I am astounded," he uttered, "astounded at your cool impudence. You are not welcome in this house, Mr. Edwin Barley, and I cannot conceive how you dared to come.""The explanation, sir. Fine words will not help you to shuffle out of it.""You will obtain no explanation from me; you can apply to Charlotte Delves for that. I am disgusted at the treachery of the whole affair, and will not condescend to meddle further with it.""Treachery," echoed Mr. Edwin Barley, with a suppressed laugh upon his face."Treachery; on your part and on hers. Foul, despicable treachery. But it has not availed you.""I want the explanation," doggedly returned Mr. Edwin Barley."Very well," said Sir Harry, speaking with decision, "as you insist, you shall have it. But not from me. I was willing to overlook the affair, no damage, as I say, being done, and it being altogether a dirty affair to soil one's hands with—but as you are pressing, you can receive the explanation from the police. To enable them to afford it, however, it will be necessary that I prefer my charge against Charlotte Delves, alias Penn, and give her in charge.""In charge!" foamed Mr. Edwin Barley, who was turning yellow. "You have no pretext.""I'll find the pretext," returned Sir Harry. "Entering houses by means of a false character, and the rifling desks of money and letters, are two offences sharply cognizable by law. It is the only way in which you can get from me the explanation you desire; the police will gladly take the lady and her offences in charge. I believe I disappointed them this morning, by not giving them the job.""The police will soon be called upon to take charge of a worse offence than those trifles," cried Mr. Edwin Barley, savagely, whose temper was betraying him into an avowal that he would cautiously have concealed at a calmer moment. "A criminal, under ban of the law for a dark crime, is not a hundred miles off.""You allude to my brother, Mr. Edwin Barley."The words took Mr. Barley by surprise. Was it possible that Harry Chandos should acknowledge the proximity of his brother? He began to fear that the latter had made his escape again; he clenched his hands, and a dreadful expression of baffled rage arose to his face."He shan't elude me; no, I swear he shan't. I have waited for years—for years, Harry Chandos, to catch him upon English ground. That he is on it now, I know. I know that you have had him here in hiding; in the west wing. He may have escaped again, but he cannot have got far, and I'll set every telegraph to work; I'll sot all the police in motion, but what I'll have him caught. The worst criminal ever let loose upon earth, is George Chandos. In an hour's time from this, on shall find your house filled with policemen, searching its every nook and corner.""Where will be the use of that, if—as you appear to assume—he has made his escape from it?" calmly asked Sir Harry."They'll let you know the use," retorted Mr. Edwin Barley."I think—to save you and the police useless trouble—you had better pay a personal visit to my brother," said Sir Harry. "You have rightly said that he has been in hiding in the west wing; he is there still.""Your brother!—George?" uttered Mr. Edwin Barley, perfectly confounded at the avowal, and suspecting some trick."My brother George," was the quiet answer. "Did you think I was speaking of Sir Thomas? He, poor fellow, is no longer in existence.""And your servant would have made out to me that it is you who succeeded to the title! I told him better,"sneered Mr. Edwin Barley. "By no means," hastily replied Sir Harry. "Miss Hereford's future position in life will preclude her feeling the want of it. No: I mentioned it from a motive of my own, as I told you; I hold my opinion upon the point, strongly."Mr. Edwin Barley turned to leave the room: he was getting the worst of it. Sir Harry followed him down the stairs."You will consider the point as to whether I shall give Charlotte Delves into custody," Sir Harry said to him: "it shall be as you please. Hickens,—for at that moment the butler was crossing the hall—"show Mr. Edwin Barley to the door."And Mr. Edwin Barley passed out at the door, vouchsafing no farewell greeting. He was a baffled man: baffled in all ways; and he was feeling it keenly. His hold over Chandos was gone; as completely vanished as though it had never been.Dull, gloomy, sombre was the house that day; its shutters closed (those windows which possessed shutters), its blinds down. All ostensibly for Sir Thomas Chandos: the servants and the neighborhood knew not that there was another gone, to be mourned for. For him no outward signs of sorrow would have been observed; no blinds drawn, no token displayed that one of the Chandoses had passed away. I was sitting in the dim oak parlor when Madame de Mellissie entered it; she met Sir Harry quitting it."What do you put yourself continually in his way?" she exclaimed, in a passionate, abrupt tone."Did you speak to me?" I asked, really doubting if she did."To whom else should I speak? How dare you presume to entangle Sir Harry Chandos?""I do not understand you, Madame de Mellissie. I have never yet striven to entangle any one.""You have; you know you have," she said, giving the reins to her temper. "I am aware how it has gone on during my absence; you have been with him continually, thrusting yourself into his presence: I an see it. And now he is as eager for it as you are. Is it fitting that you, a dependent governess, should cast your covetous eye upon a Chandos?"My heart was beginning to beat. What was I to say or do under the attack? Oh, where was Harry to defend me?"Why did you' leave me here?" I said."Leave yon here! Because it suited my convenience. But I left you here as a dependent; a servant; I did not expect you to put yourself on a level with my brother, or to make yourself his associate. Neither would you have done it, had you not been lost to all sense of—""Stay, Madame de Mellissie. I beg you to reflect a little before you reproach me. To any one but you I would not stoop to defend myself. You say I have thrust myself into your brother's way—""So you have," she interrupted. "Can you deny that you have been forever with him?""We have been together very much indeed.""And you can sit there, with your face of brass, and avow it to me!"I avow it because it is the truth. My conscience is clear, Madame de Mellissie; I can charge myself with nothing wrong; not an action, not a movement unbecoming a lady. You accuse me of being much with your brother, and I say that it is correct; but where was the help for it?""The help!" she disdainfully echoed."Yes, the help. This, the oak parlor, was the general sitting room; no other was shown to me for my use; was it my fault that Mr. Chandos also made it his?""I don't care," she intemperately rejoined. "I say that had you not been lost to all sense of decency, you would have kept yourself from his notice."I compressed my lips; my temper was getting up also. Surely the reproach cast on me was undeserved; I had not purposely thrown myself into the way of Mr. Chandos."To me, there appears to be an understanding between you," she went on. "It will bring you no good, Anne Hereford. When gentlemen of high family stoop to familiarity with girls beneath them, we all know what it is done for, and what is too often the result. You will do well to remove yourself out of my brother's house this day In fact I shall insist upon it.""To whom are you speaking, Emily, in that extraordinary tone?" demanded a voice behind us.And we both turned to behold Sir Harry Chandos."I am speaking to Anne Hereford," she boldly answered. "Giving her a summary warning of ejection from the house. You and she have been together rather too long!""You might have moderated your words, had you known to whom you were offering a gratuitous insult," he calmly said. "Shall I inform you?"She turned quickly to him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning."You are dealing in riddles," she observed. "I spoke to Anne Hereford.""Yes. To the future Lady Chandos."The crimson color flushed into her beautiful face."Sir Harry!" she haughtily ejaculated."Therefore I must insist that you treat Miss Hereford with all due courtesy, otherwise it may be expedient that somebody else leave the house, instead of her," he quietly said. "She has promised to be my wife, Emily.""Are you mad, Harry?""Perfectly sane, I hope.""It cannot be your intention to marry her? How can you think, so to degrade yourself?""Degrade myself!" he repeated, looking full at his sister."Degradation to its very depth. Who is she? A governess; a—""Don't go on, Emily: you labor under a misapprehension if you deem her beneath me. She is my equal every way, and yours also. Her father and ours—though she does not know it—were friends in early life. He was Colonel Thomas Hereford: and the daughter of Colonel Hereford is surely no unequal match for a Chandos.""I shall go and acquaint mamma," she cried, the angry flush not yet faded from her features."Mamma knows it already," said Sir Harry. "And is ready and willing to welcome Anne as her future daughter-in-law.""Was your father Colonel Hereford?" she asked me, after a pause."I thought you had known that he was, Madame de Mellissie.""Then what took you out as governess? You were educated for one, too!""Because he died poor; and not sufficient provision was left for me. My mother thought—""Who was your mother?—of what family?" she interrupted."She was a Carew.""And the sister," interposed Sir Harry, "of Mrs. Edwin Barley.""No!" uttered Madame de Mellissie, in evident astonishment."She was. On the score of family, you see, Emily, your objections mast disperse themselves."She made no answer, but suddenly wheeled round, and quitted the room.Gliding into it, like a ghost, almost immediately on Emily's departure, came Mrs. Chandos. I fancy she had expected to find my lady there. A moment's hesitation and she approached Sir Harry."So! The Indian mail has brought ill news, I hear," she said, "and you are at length Sir Harry Chandos. Who would have ever thought that your turn would come, to inherit?""Strange changes take place," was his reply."Possibly you will be marrying now?""In a very short time."The faint pink on her delicate cheeks deepened to crimson. Could it be that she, in the last few hours, had suffered hopes to arise?—surely not. And yet—poor thing!—her intellect was not quite as ours is."Have you fixed on your wife?" she resumed, drawing a deep breath."This young lady will be my wife," he answered, drawing me forward, and holding me by his side.She looked at us alternately, her cheeks' color varying."I thought Lady Chandos was here," she presently said."Not yet. She is in the west wing.""Oh, I am afraid to go there now! I never saw anybody dead. I was almost afraid to come down the stairs alone; and now I am afraid to go up again.""Do you wish to go?" asked Sir Harry."Yes. I wish to go back to my rooms.""Allow me to take care of you thither," said Sir Harry, holding out his arm. And they left together.I had a fire in my bed-room that night, and went up to bed early, leaving Lady Chandos, Sir Harry, and Mr. Lake in the oak parlor. The latter had been away all day; but came back at eight o'clock. Over this fire, mine, a bright, blazing, beautiful fire, as befitted a dull house, I sat late; reading, musing, half dreaming. The clock struck twelve, and still I sat on.For half an hour, or so. Then I rose and stretched myself, and slipped off my slippers for a moment, for they were burning hot with the fire, and burnt my feet: "If I am to have any sleep to-night," I said to myself, "I had better undress."I wondered what sort of a night it was. There had been indications of snow in the evening, and I drew the heavy window curtains back, to take a view outside. "No fear of seeing a ghost now," I too boastfully uttered.I thought I should have fainted: I nearly dropped on the floor with startled alarm. There was no ghost, it is true: but emerging from the avenue to open space, advancing at a snail's pace, as if it cared not to alarm sleepers with its echoes, advancing, as it seemed, upon me, came a great, black, dismal thing, savoring of the dead. A hearse: a hearse without its plumes, driven by a man in a long black cloak.For a moment I believed it was a phantom. I rubbed my eyes, and looked, and rubbed again, doubting what spectral vision was obscuring them. But no, it was too real, too palpable. On it came, and halted before the entrance door.I sat down to hold my beating heart: sure never were enacted night alarms like those I had encountered at Chandos. And, while I sat, muffled sounds as of measured footsteps bearing a burden, smote upon my ear from the corridor.I listened till they had passed my door, and then silently drew it an inch open. Do not attribute it to unjustifiable curiosity: I declare that I was impelled to it by fear. I felt perfectly sick with fright, with superstitious dread: and the truth, of what it all really meant, never crossed my brain for a moment.They had gained the head of the stairs and were stopping there, apparently hesitating how best to get down. Four of them, and they bore a coffin on their shoulders covered with black cloth: Sir Harry Chandos, Mr. Lake, Hickens, and the working man with the two-foot rule whom I had seen in the morning. So! that was it! the unhappy George Chandos was being removed from the house in secret.I could not see, for the hearse was right underneath my window, but I heard the sounds as they put in the coffin, after they had got it safely down. And then the great black thing turned and drove away again with its' covert steps, one who looked like Mr. Lake seated by the coachman, and the workman departing on foot. I heard his whistle as he strode down the avenue: it was the same tune as that in the morning. And I heard Sir Harry and Hickens come in and bar the door. I crept, shivering, into bed: time I did."Were you disturbed in the night?" Sir Harry asked me in the morning."I was not gone to bed," I murmured."Then you heard—perhaps saw?""Both.""It was obliged to be done: it would not have suited for the funeral to take place from Chandos; the place round about would have been up in arms. He is taken to Lake's, poor fellow! and will be buried from thence on Saturday.""But is not Mr. Lake's residence at a distance?"Sir Harry nodded."It would be conveyed by rail. That hearse was only going as far as the station.""Do you attend the funeral?""Certainly. What are you thinking of, Anne? It will have no mourners but myself and Lake."Madame de Mellissie was cordial that morning. She actually shook hands with me when she came in to breakfast."We shall make very good sisters, I daresay, Anne," she cried, her blue eye laughing and her bright face beaming, "and I shall inflict my presence upon you at Chandos as often as I like: I warn you of that beforehand. I always did like you when we were at school; but you see I did not know who you were; and, for Harry to marry beneath his rank, would have been to me as gall and wormwood. I can pardon your having been a governess, but I never could have pardoned Harry had you been of obscure birth.""Do not be uneasy. My father was a soldier and a gentleman, and the Carews were always a proud race.""I have heard of the Carews," she nodded. "And now, where shall you reside until the wedding? That must be the next consideration. It would be out of all precedent, you know, to remain here, under the same roof with Harry. The world would talk."The idea had never struck me: indeed I had not given a glance to plans and ways and means. I looked up in consternation."Have you no relatives?" she continued."None in the world."Poor Mrs. Hemson, my last remaining one, had been dead two years."Then what on earth shall you do?""Do not trouble yourselves for nothing," spoke Sir Harry, from his seat at a distance. "It is all arranged. My mother requires a change before settling herself with Ethel at Heneage Grange, and has decided to pass a few months at the seaside. She takes Anne with her.""And you?" asked Emily. "For I think I'll go to the seaside too.""Oh, I remain at Chandos. The house requires altering and embellishing, and I must stay to superintend it.It has been a gloomy house long enough, but I hope it will be cheerful in future. We have been glad to keep workmen out of it, but things are altered now.Two visitors came that morning to Chandos. Mr. Dexter was one—though it may not be right to style him a visitor; and he did not stay five minutes.The purport of his call was to acquaint Sir Harry that Mr. Edwin Barley had quitted the house and shut it up: sending in a notice that he should resign it at a twelvemonth's end, as the lease empowers him to do."Left, has he?" cried Sir Harry."Gone clean away, bag and baggage, Sir Harry. And the furniture—it was only hired, you may remember—is to be removed out of it to-morrow. A pretty good sign he never means to come back again. A strange whim, to be red-hot for a place, and take it, and then not stop in it.""Joy go with him, Dexter," cried Sir Harry.The other visitor was Monsieur Alfred de Mellissie—lookingvery ill. Of course, he had come after his wife. A somewhat stormy interview ensued between them: but she spoke like one accustomed to have things her own way, and he appeared rather meek beside her. He had arrived with the view of taking her back to France: she vowed and protested that she was not going home yet awhile—that all the steamers plying between the two countries should not drag her; her mamma was about to spend some time at Brighton or Scarborough, or some one of the watering places, and it was arranged that she and Anne Hereford and Ethel should accompany her: and accompany her she would.I wondered whether Emily meant this in earnest: but it proved she did. A day or two's sojourn, and then M. de Mellissie went home without her. He inquired when she would follow. She could not say, was her answer, but she should be sure to stop for Harry's marriage.Very early on the following Saturday morning, before any of us were up, Sir Harry Chandos went away by the train, and late at night he returned. He was dressed in the deepest mourning, and we knew he had been following the remains of George to their last home.On the Monday we quitted Chandos.The winter and the early spring had passed, and it was a brilliant day, bordering upon summer, when I saw Chandos again. I was in Harry's carriage then, Lady Chandos. For a whole month I had been his dear wife, and now we were nearing our happy home.I saw it as we rounded the avenue; I saw its gay, light appearance, so different from its former gloom; I saw the servants, with their glad faces of greeting, assembled to welcome us. The tears rained over my face, and Harry turned to me."My darling, what is grieving you?""Joy, I think. There is a promise of so much happiness that I cannot realize it: cannot believe in it. My past life has been all loneliness, I may say all sorrow; can you wonder, Harry, that I doubt the blessing now in store?""Anne," he gravely said, "I thought you, of all people, had faith in God.""Entire faith.""And who, but He, has sent these blessings? We have neither of us been happy. You have worked, and I have suffered; but I believe we neither of us lost our trust in God. Let us trust Him still.""Forever and forever," I murmured, as he clasped me to him. "God be praised for His great and many blessings!"THE END