OUT OF DOORS AT CHANDOS.
That day was a dull one. I did not feel at home, and could not make
myself feel so. Madame de Mellissie went out in the carriage with Lady
Chandos, and I was alone. I strolled out a little in the afternoon,
just to see what the place outside was like. The gates of egress were
on the left, the gravel drive leading straight to them; but there were
so many paths and walks, and trees and rocks, and banks and flower-beds
on either side, that you might almost lose yourself, and quite lose
sight of the broad drive. The most curious-looking feature about
Chandos was the little upper turret: but for the narrow Gothic window
in it, it might have been taken for a pigeon-house.
I came back, and crossed to the Pine Walk; that again was intersected
by paths, conducting it was hard to say whither. The trees were
towering aloft, the lower shrubs were high and thick. In three minutes
after quitting the house, not a vestige even of its chimneys was to be
seen; and I retraced my steps, not caring to lose myself. But for the
beautiful order in which everything was kept, the place might have been
called a wilderness.
I noticed one thing: that the front windows in each of the wings had
their inside shutters closed; strong oak shutters: both the lower and
the upper rooms were shut in from the light of day. I never saw them
opened while I stayed at Chandos. The lower windows, looking to the
sides of the house, were also kept dark; but the rooms above and those
looking to the back were open. A narrow gravel path, shut in by
laurels, led round the wings to the back of the house. The servants
used that by the east wing, the one inhabited by Mrs. Chandos. No one
used the other, except Lady Chandos. For a servant or any one else to
be seen there would have been high treason, involving probably
dismissal. It was an understood law of the house, and never rebelled
against. The shrubs on Lady Chandos's side had grown thick as a very
grove, affording just space for one person to pass to the small door
that gave entrance to the wing. I knew nothing of the prohibition in
strolling there that day. On learning it afterwards, I felt thankful
not to have been seen.
I was indoors, and sitting in my bed-chamber, the chintz room, when the
carriage returned. Emily, in high spirits, saw me as she ran upstairs,
and came in.
"All alone, Anne! We have had a charming drive. To-morrow, if you are
good, you shall have one; we'll take the large carriage."
She stood with her foot on a small low chair, tilting it about, and
looking out at the servants, who were turning the horses to drive round
to the stables at the back.
"What a nice place this seems to be, Madame de Mellissie! But I think,
if I were Lady Chandos, I should have the trees and shrubs thinned a
little."
"It is mamma's pleasure that they shall be thick. She only lives in
retirement. Were my brother, Sir Thomas, to come home, he might effect
a change. As long as he is away, mamma's will is paramount at Chandos."
"How many brothers have you?"
"Two. Sir Thomas and Harry."
"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. It has been crossing my
mind that she is perhaps a daughter-in-law."
Madame de Mellissie 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?
It effectually silenced me for the rest of the day. We dined together;
herself, Lady Chandos, and I. Mrs. Chandos I saw no more of, and Mr.
Chandos was dining at Marden, a town some few miles off.
We were at breakfast the following morning, when the letters, as
before, were brought in. Two or three for the servants, which Mr.
Chandos returned to Hickens, one for Mr. Chandos, and one for Madame
Alfred de Mellissie.
"I thought he would be writing," Emily observed, in a tone of apathy,
carelessly holding 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 cried.
"There! was ever anything like that?" she exclaimed, glancing down the
letter. "Alfred's taken ill: his fancied gastric fever has turned into
a real one. And I must go back without delay, the old mère writes."
"Is he very ill?" inquired Lady Chandos.
"So _she_ says—in danger. But she is timid and fanciful. I shall not
go."
"Will you allow me to see the letter, Emily?" asked Lady Chandos, in a
grave tone.
"See it and welcome; read it out for the public benefit, if you will,
mamma. Look at Harry, staring at me with his blue eyes! He deems me, no
doubt, the very model of a loving wife."
"Emily! can you have read this letter?" asked Lady Chandos.
"Yes, I've read it."
"Then how can you hesitate? Your husband is in danger: he may not
survive: he will not, they say, 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 wrapped up in her son, that if his finger aches she
sends for a doctor, and asks whether it will mortify."
"Child! I must recommend you to go," was the impressive response of
Lady Chandos.
"Of course I shall go; I never meant to hesitate," came the peevish
answer. "But it is excessively tiresome."
It appeared that the letter to Mr. Chandos was also from Madame de
Mellissie, asking him to urge his sister's instant departure. She
finished her breakfast, and was leaving the room to prepare, when she
saw me following.
"I do not want you just now, Miss Hereford. Pauline will see to my
things."
"But I have my own to pack."
"Your own! What for? Alfred de Mellissie is not your husband, that you
should hasten to him."
"But—am I not to go with you, madam?"
"Certainly not," was her emphatic answer. "It would be a needless
expense and trouble."
I felt dumbfounded. "But, Madame de Mellissie, what am I to do?"
"Do! Why, stay here till my return. What else should you do? I shall be
back in a few days at most. I know what Monsieur Alfred's danger is!
Only, if I did not make the journey, madame la mère would hold me forth
to all Paris as a model of barbarity. Mamma," she quickly added,
turning to Lady Chandos, "I shall return here to finish my visit as
soon as I can get away. It will not be a week before you will see me
again. You can let Miss Hereford wait here for me, can't you? Can't
you, Harry?"
"Provided Miss Hereford will make herself at home with us, which I
fancy she has not yet done," was the reply of Mr. Chandos, looking at
me with a smile. Lady Chandos simply bowed her head.
"Oh, she is one who always gives you the notion of being shy,"
carelessly replied Emily, as she ran up the staircase.
What was I to do? I could not say to her, "You shall take me;" but,
after the conversation I had overheard, it was most unpleasant to me to
stay. I ran after Emily. I told her that my remaining might not be
really agreeable to Lady and Mr. Chandos. Her reply was, that they must
make it agreeable, for there was no accommodation for me at Madame de
Mellissie's.
"Look here, Anne; don't you be shy and stupid. I cannot drop you in the
street like a waif, en route, and I cannot take you home. Suppose
Alfred's illness should turn to typhus fever? would it be well for you
to be there? But there's no room for you, and that's the fact."
I disclosed to her my penniless condition, for some of my poor
twenty-five shillings had melted on the journey from Paris, and I had
but fifteen left. I begged her to lend me some money, and I would find
my way alone to Nulle. Emily laughed heartily, but she did not give me
any.
"I shall be back next week, child. Make yourself easy."
By mid-day she was gone, Pauline attending her, and Mr. Chandos
escorting her to the station. I was left, with the words I had heard
spoken, as to my unwelcome presence in the house, beating their refrain
on my brain. Whether Lady Chandos remonstrated privately with her
daughter against leaving me or whether she recognised it as a sort of
necessity, and tacitly acquiesced in the arrangement, I had no means of
knowing.
What was I to do with myself? Put on my things and go out? There was
nothing else to do. As I came down with them on, Lady Chandos met me in
the hall.
"Are you 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. I speak for your sake, my dear," she kindly
added.
"I should be so glad to do anything for you. I can sew."
"My maids do the sewing," she said. "You will find some pleasant walks
in the vicinity. There is one to the left, as you leave the gates,
exceedingly rural and quiet. You will be quite safe; it is an honest
neighbourhood."
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 few
houses there were lay to the right. This one stood in view of the
entrance gates, nearly opposite to the lodge; 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 ones, an awfully fierce great dog
sprang forward, savagely barking. Back I flew, 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. Never having been brought into contact with dogs, I was
terribly afraid of fierce ones, and 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 behind me, and I looked round, hoping for protection. It
was Mr. Chandos. He saw what was the matter, and seemed to make but one
bound to the gate.
"Stay there, Miss Hereford!"
He passed quietly through, 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 do not make me come near him!"
Mr. Chandos turned his face quickly towards me, "Are you afraid of
dogs?"
"Rather, sir. I am of that one."
At this juncture, a groom came running up, in search of the dog. 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 opened the gate for me. I had not overcome the fright yet, and
my face felt ashy pale.
"My poor child! It has indeed frightened you. Do you feel faint?"
"I shall not faint, sir. I never fainted in my life."
Without the least ceremony, he placed my hand within his arm, and
walked on. A little to the right, underneath some thick cypress trees,
there was a bench. He bade me sit down, and seated himself beside me.
"You will be all the better for resting here a minute or two. 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 have
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 kept on the premises. Some few months ago, when a
friend of mine was dying, he asked me to take his dog—this one which
has just frightened you—but Lady Chandos 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 mostly condemned making it more fierce. I will take care it does not
break bounds again, and I would prefer that my 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. I must make you and
Nero friends, Miss Hereford; you will then find how little he is to be
dreaded. You shall come to the stables with me when he is tied up fast.
How long have you known my sister?" he resumed, changing the subject.
"I knew her a little at Mademoiselle Barlieu's. I entered the school
just before she left it."
"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 kept from the school."
"A mad act—a mad act!" he murmured: "and—if I may read signs—heartily
repented of. It is, I fancy, an exemplification of the old saying, Miss
Hereford, 'Marry in haste, and repent at leisure.' Poor Emily has
leisure enough for it before her: she is only beginning life. I went
over at the time to Mademoiselle Barlieu's."
"Yes, sir; I saw you when you were going away, 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 said, laughing.
"I think a circumstance made me recollect you, sir. 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.
"Who was it, Miss Hereford?"
"I cannot tell, sir. I wish I could tell. The resemblance in your face
haunts me still."
"It's not much of a face to remember," he slightingly said, as a stout
gentleman came through the entrance-gates. He carried a roll of paper,
or parchment, and was wiping his brows, his hat off.
"You look warm, Dexter," called out Mr. Chandos.
"It's a close day for autumn, sir, and I walked over," was the response
of the new-comer, as he turned out of the great drive and came up. "I'm
glad to catch you at home, Mr. Chandos. I have had an offer for this
house."
Mr. Chandos made 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, and 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? which house do you mean?"
"I speak of the house opposite your lodge-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 belonging to this neighbourhood, sir: a stranger. Haines 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. Freshfield'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, and did not
trouble you with it, for I know you would not have accepted the tenant.
It was that Major Mann, and his rough lot," added Mr. Dexter, dropping
his voice.
"Oh," shortly replied Mr. Chandos, his lip curling. "I should be sorry
to have them within hail of my gates."
"I was sure of that. He pressed hard, though; 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 to be concluded to-day, sir," said Mr.
Dexter, rising. "He has orders to furnish at once."
"Is Haines going to furnish?"
"As it appears. I should fancy it may be for somebody arriving from
abroad. There's plenty of money, Haines says. I had better put a man or
two on to the garden at once, had I not, sir?"
"Yes. And don't have those complaints about the locks, Dexter, as we
had, you may remember, when the last house on the estate was let. Let
them be examined throughout."
"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 dilapidated.
Our last agent was not a desirable one; accepted tenants who were not
eligible, and did not look after details. He died some months back, and
a pretty game we found he had been carrying on; grinding the tenants
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: but 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. Here's Dexter coming back again!"
"It is not often I go away and leave half my errand undone, though I
have this time," Mr. Dexter 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. On the right the drive leading to the stables branched off. I
was glad that Mr. Chandos passed on, and did not propose to go to Nero
then. Lady Chandos came forward as we were entering the portico.
"What is this—about the dog attacking you, Miss Hereford?" she
exclaimed.
I was so taken to, 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 he 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 peculiar significant tone. "A fierce, powerful dog, like
that, _is_ liable to break his chain and get loose; and I have said so
to you over and over again. He would attack a stranger—any one he did
not know, and might cause a fearful disturbance. You know why I have
feared this."
"The stables are safely closed at night, mother," was the somewhat
curious 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 did it 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."
"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
interposed, "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! have you forgotten the stake?"
"What stake?" I thought, as I went up to my room. Certainly the words
savoured of something that I could not comprehend.
Standing at the window at the head of the stairs 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; "some drops were falling 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 the 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 anything so tiresome?" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos to
her. "It is raining fast. I am 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.
Oo—oh!" she added, with a shiver, "I don't like to hear the dripping of
the rain on 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; as 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 looked wild, 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_," was the retort of Mrs. Chandos,
her tone peevish at the interruption. "My lady asked me if I could bear
trouble; fiery trouble, such as had rarely overtaken one in my rank 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 pattering 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, if they pleased to
look; therefore they might choose their subjects 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 as travelling companion."
"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
frightful bonnets, Mrs. Freeman; as ugly as the black ones of Lady
Chandos."
"I do not think widows' bonnets 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 there! I know what you want to
say; why do I dwell upon trifles such as bonnets, when heavy calamities
are on the house?"
"Suppose you walk about the gallery, my dear?" suggested Mrs. Freeman.
"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. I saw it from my window. 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 my 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 me as conveying the keenest
reproach for my unjustifiable curiosity; unjustifiable so far as that I
had betrayed it. I faltered forth the question again—for she seemed
looking at me and waiting; and it might be that she had not heard it.
"Who is Mrs. Chandos?"
"Mrs. Chandos?" was the answer. "Who should she be? She is Mrs.
Chandos." And Mrs. Freeman stalked away.
That same evening at dusk, the dog Nero was taken away. A few words
spoken by Hickens to his master enlightened me as to the exit.
"Is he going to be shot?" I asked, impulsively, of Mr. Chandos.
"Oh no. A farmer living near has promised to take care of him."
But the tone was not quite so free as usual, and I said no more.