THE NEW TENANT BY THE LODGE GATES.
The new tenant by the lodge gates! And it was Edwin Barley! What could
have brought him to Chandos?
Was it to look after me?
The conviction that it was so, fixed itself in my mind with startling
force, and I grew nearly as sick with fear as I had been when I was a
little child. That he was personally unknown to the Chandos family was
evident: it seemed a strange thing that he should come and plant
himself down at their very gates as soon as I became an inmate in the
family. Had he in some crafty manner made himself acquainted with my
entrance to it the very hour it took place? Surely it must have been
so. And he had lost no time in following.
When once suspicion connected with fear arises in man's mind, or in
woman's, the most trifling circumstances are allowed to confirm it.
Events, however unconnected with it in reality, accidental coincidences
that have no rapport (I'm afraid that's a French word, but I can't help
it) with it whatever, are converted by the suggestive imagination into
suspicious proofs, and looked upon as links in the chain. It might have
occurred to my mind—it did occur to it—that it was just within the
range of possibility Mr. Edwin Barley's advent had nothing whatever to
do with me or my presence at Chandos, that it might be wholly
unconnected with it, and he ignorant of it and of who I was; but I
threw this view away at once in my fear, and did not glance at it a
second time. Edwin Barley had come to Chandos because I was there, and
no power of reasoning could have removed this impression from me. All
these years, and he had never (so far as appeared) sought to put
himself in personal connexion with the family: why should he have done
it now, save for my presence in it?
Thought is quick. Before Mr. Chandos returned to me from watching Edwin
Barley out at the lodge-gates and across the road, I had gone over it
all in my mind, and arrived at my unpleasant conviction. Some dim idea
of putting as great a space of ground between me and him as was
practicable, caused me to rise hastily from the garden chair and turn
to go indoors. Mr. Chandos walked by my side, talking of various
things—the leaves that were beginning to fall, the fineness of the
early autumn day, the discontent of Mr. Nero in his new home at the
farmer's—having apparently forgotten already the episode of the
intrusion. I answered in monosyllables, scarcely knowing what, my mind
full of its new trouble.
I had done no harm during my short sojourn at Mr. Edwin Barley's, in
those long past days; I had never heard of or from him since; he had
never, so far as I knew, inquired after me; so why should I fear him
now? I cannot answer this: I have never been able to answer it—no, not
even since things, dark and mysterious then, have been made clear. The
fear had taken possession of me, and probably seemed all the worse
because it was vague and inexplicable.
Luncheon was on the table when we turned into the oak parlour, and Lady
Chandos ready for it. Hickens was uncorking a bottle of claret.
"Harry, Hickens says that our new tenant has arrived," observed Lady
Chandos.
We were sitting down then and Mr. Chandos did not immediately reply.
Perhaps Hickens thought the news required confirmation, for he turned
round from the sideboard.
"The gentleman took possession last night, sir; so Brooks tells me:
himself and four or five servants. It is only a single gentleman;
there's no family. Immensely rich, they say."
"Do you know who he is, Harry?" pursued Lady Chandos.
"I don't know who he is, but I have just seen himself," replied Mr.
Chandos. "He came in at our gates, deeming Chandos public property. I
had to warn him off by telling him it was private."
"What did he want?" asked Lady Chandos.
"Nothing, except to look about him. Had I known he was your new tenant,
I might not have been in so great a hurry to eject him."
"Oh, but, Harry, it was as well to do it. Better to let him understand
from the first that we cannot have strangers entering here at will. It
would not suit me, you know; I like privacy."
"That is what I told him."
"I suppose you were civil?"
"Quite civil, both of us—on the surface, at any rate. I did not take to
him at first sight; that is, to his looks; and I don't fancy he took to
me. There was something peculiar in the tone of his voice, and he eyed
me as though he wished to take my photograph."
"He did not know you, I daresay."
"He said he supposed he was speaking to Mr. Harry Chandos. Perhaps he
thought it discourteous to be warned off in that manner. Not that he
looks like one to go in for much courtesy himself: there was an air of
independence about him _almost_ bordering upon insolence. This young
lady, I fancy, was not prepossessed in his favour."
I had sat with my head bent on my plate, trying to seem unconcerned, as
if the matter were no business of mine. The sudden address of Mr.
Chandos turned my face crimson. Lady Chandos looked at me.
"He—is very ugly," I stammered in my perplexity.
"Is he?" she cried, turning to her son.
"He is rather ill-favoured, mother; a short, dark man. There's one
redeeming feature in his face; his teeth. They are small, white, and
regular: very beautiful."
"What is his name?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Chandos.
"Not know his name!" repeated Lady Chandos, laughing slightly; "and yet
you accepted him as tenant!"
"Oh, well, Dexter made all the arrangements. I did not interfere
personally."
"I think, before I accepted a man as tenant, I should make myself
acquainted with his name," spoke Lady Chandos, in a half-joking tone,
evidently attaching no importance to the matter. "Do you happen to have
heard it, Hickens?"
"No, my lady."
"We shall learn it soon enough," carelessly observed Mr. Chandos. "A
man may not make a less desirable tenant because he happens not to have
a handsome face. Tastes differ, you know, Miss Hereford. Were we all
bought and sold by our looks, what a squabbling of opinions there'd
be!"
The meal was nearly over, when a startling interruption occurred. Mrs.
Chandos burst wildly into the room, agitated, trembling; her hands
raised, her face ashy white. Mr. Chandos threw down his knife and fork,
and rose in consternation.
"Oh, Lady Chandos! Oh, Harry!" came the words, almost in a shriek. "Do
come! She has fallen on the carpet in a fit—or something. I think she
may be dying!"
"Excited again, Ethel!" observed Lady Chandos, the perfect calmness of
her tone presenting a curious contrast. "When will you learn to take
trifles quietly and rationally? Who has fallen? The white kitten?"
Mrs. Chandos did not like the reproach. "There's nothing to blame me
for this time," she said, with a sob of vehemence. "It is Mrs. Freeman.
She is lying there on the floor, looking frightful. I am not sure but
she's dead."
"Take care of her, Harry," said Lady Chandos. "I will see what it is."
"Shall I go?" he asked. "It may be better. You can stay with Ethel."
Lady Chandos only answered by waving him back, as 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 nonsense you talk, Harry! As if everybody could have their
feelings under control as she has—as you have! Time was when I was calm
and heedless enough, Heaven 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; it 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 tell you what happened. We were at
luncheon—that is, I was, for she sat by the window, and would not take
any: she has complained of illness latterly, as I told you. '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 anything?" he inquired, pointing to the luncheon-tray;
and it struck me that he wished to get the scene she had described out
of her memory.
"No, thank you. The sight of Mrs. Freeman has taken my appetite away.
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. Hill ran
upstairs; two or three of the maids followed her. Hickens looked after
them in curiosity, and then came back to his luncheon-table. Not to be
in the way of anybody, I went up to my room.
For some hours I saw none of them. There was bustle in the house. Lady
Chandos's voice I heard now and then, and once I caught a glimpse of
Mr. Chandos in the grounds. Getting tired of my confinement, I looked
out, and asked a maid-servant, who was passing in the corridor, what
had been the matter.
"It was a sort of fit, Miss, but she's better now," was Harriet's
reply. "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?"
"Yes, Miss. She is going 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 until to-morrow, but Mrs.
Freeman said she would rather go, especially as she can be of no
further use at present to Mrs. Chandos. They 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 accompany her."
Harriet departed, leaving my door on the latch. I sat, reading and
listening by turns, and presently 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, at last. "Mrs. Freeman is too ill to
be trusted to the care of any one but you."
The carriage was brought to the lower door in the wing, unbarred and
unbolted for the occasion, and Mrs. Freeman was taken down the enclosed
stairs to it, by Mr. Chandos and the doctor, so that I and my curiosity
saw nothing of the exit, which I looked upon as an unmerited wrong. She
was placed in the carriage, and Hill and the doctor went with her.
It was getting near dinner-time. I scarcely knew whether to go down or
not, or whether there would be any dinner at all, in the state of
confusion the house seemed to be in, when my doubt was solved by Lady
Chandos herself. Looking out at my door, she passed me, coming along
the gallery from her own room.
"I think the dinner is ready, Miss Hereford?"
Following her downstairs, I saw Mr. Dexter, the agent, in the open
portico, having that moment, as it appeared, come to the house. Lady
Chandos crossed the hall to speak to him. He put a sealed parcel, or
thick letter into her hands.
"I beg your pardon, my lady. As I was passing here, I brought up these
papers for Mr. Chandos. The new tenant opposite says there's something
amiss with the roof of the coach-house, and I'm going to call and look
at it."
Lady Chandos glanced casually at the letter she held; and then a
thought seemed to strike her.
"What is the name of the new tenant, Mr. Dexter?"
"Barley, my lady. Mr. Edwin Barley."
There was a startled pause. Lady Chandos suddenly put her hand to her
heart, as if some pang had taken it.
"Barley!" she repeated. "Edwin Barley! Do you know whether he comes
from Hallam?"
"Hallam?—Hallam?" debated Mr. Dexter with himself, in consideration.
"Yes, that _is_ the place he comes from. I remember now. 'Edwin Barley,
Esquire, of the Oaks, Hallam.' That's the address in the deed of
agreement. Good-day, my lady."
She did not attempt to detain him. With the look of awful consternation
on her livid face, she turned to come back. I slipped into the
dining-room, and sat down in a shady nook by the piano, hoping not to
have been seen. The cloth was laid, but no servants were in the room.
Only Mr. Chandos, and he stood at a side-table looking into his desk,
his back to the room.
"Harry! Harry!"
Turning at the tones of unmistakeable terror, Mr. Chandos came swiftly
to his mother, and took her hand.
"The new tenant," she gasped—and I think it was the only time I ever
saw Lady Chandos excited; she, who imparted always the idea of calmness
intensified; who had reproached Mrs. Chandos with allowing emotion to
sway her! "The man by our entrance-gates!"
"Yes, yes! what of him?" cried Mr. Chandos, when she stopped from pain.
"My dear mother, what has alarmed you?"
"It is Edwin Barley."
"Who?" almost shouted Mr. Chandos.
"Edwin Barley. Here at our very gates!"
Whatever calamity the words might imply, it seemed nearly to overwhelm
Mr. Chandos. He dropped his mother's hands, and stood looking at her.
"Is the agreement signed, Harry?"
"Yes."
"Then we cannot get rid of him! What can have brought him here? Here,
of all places in the world! Chance, think you?"
"No. Chance it cannot have been. I told you the new tenant had an
ill-favoured face. He——"
Mr. Chandos stopped: Hickens and the footman were coming in. The soup
was put on the table, and we sat down to dinner. As I moved forward
from my corner, quietly and unobtrusively, looking as if I had neither
seen nor heard, Lady Chandos turned to me with a start, a red flush
darkening her cheeks. But I don't believe she knows, to this hour,
whether I had been present during the scene, or had come in with the
soup and the servants.
The dinner was eaten in almost total silence. Lady and Mr. Chandos were
absorbed in their own thoughts; I in mine. The chance words of the
agent, "Mr. Edwin Barley of the Oaks," had disclosed the fact that the
simple-minded old man who had been so kind to me was dead, and his
brother reigned in his stead, lord of all. A rich man, indeed, Edwin
Barley must be. I think the servants in waiting must have seen that
something was amiss; though, perhaps, the silence did not strike upon
them so ominously as it did on my own self-consciousness.
You cannot have failed to note—and I think I have said it—that there
was little ceremony observed in the everyday life at Chandos. Ten
minutes after dinner, tea was rung for. Lady Chandos sat while it was
brought in, and the dessert taken away.
"Will you oblige me by presiding at tea this evening, Miss Hereford?"
Had Lady Chandos not preferred the request at once, I should have
withdrawn to my own room, with an excuse that I did not wish for any
tea. How miserably uncomfortable I felt, sitting with them, an
interloper, when I knew they must want to be talking together, and were
wishing me, naturally, at the other end of the earth, none but myself
can tell. I poured out the tea. Lady Chandos drank one sup, and rose.
"I must go to sit with Ethel, Harry. Will you come?"
"She does not want me," was his reply. And Lady Chandos left the room.
He let his tea stand until it was quite cold, evidently forgetting it:
forgetting all but his own thoughts. I sat in patient silence.
Awakening later out of his reverie, he drank it down at a draught, and
rang the bell for the things to be taken away. As the man left the room
with them, I happened to look at Mr. Chandos, who was then standing
near the mantelpiece, and caught his eyes fixed on me, something
peculiar in their expression.
"Mr. Chandos," I took courage 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 in-break on our monotonous life."
"And that one thing, sir?"
"Ah! I cannot tell you all my secrets," he said, with a light laugh.
"Do you make yourself at home, young lady. But for your book, that I
know you are longing to be reading again, I should have compunction at
leaving you alone."
He quitted the room, laughing still. I reached the book he alluded to,
and sat down again. But I could not read; the surprise was too new, and
thought upon thought kept crowding upon me. _They_ evidently had cause
to fear Edwin Barley, far more than I; perhaps then, after all, he had
not come here to look after me? What the matter or the mystery could
be, I knew not: but unmistakeably there was something wrong between him
and Chandos.
It was turned half-past ten when Lady Chandos came back again to the
oak-parlour. I had got to my book then, and was buried in it. Mr.
Chandos followed her nearly immediately, and began to wish us
good-night.
"You must be tired, Harry," she observed. "You have had a fatiguing
day."
"I am tired," was his reply. "I shall sleep to-night without rocking.
Good-night, mother; good-night, Miss Hereford."
He left the room. Lady Chandos said she was tired too, and she and I
went out together. Mr. Chandos, who had stayed in the hall, speaking to
Hickens, went up just before us, entered his room and closed the door.
I turned into mine; and I heard Lady Chandos traverse the long gallery
and shut herself into the west wing.
Instead of undressing, what should I do but put back the curtains and
shutters, sit down and open my book again. Only for two minutes, of
course, said I to my conscience. It was that most charming of all
romances, whether of Scott's works or of others, the "Bride of
Lammermoor," which Mr. Chandos had given me out the previous day. The
two minutes grew into—but that I have to do it, I should not confess
how many, especially as I could only guess at the number. My watch—the
pretty watch of Selina's, given me so long ago by Mr. Edwin Barley—had
latterly acquired a trick of stopping. It had been so delightful
sitting there with that enchanting romance, the window open to the
bright night and balmy air.
Perhaps, after all, it was not more than twelve o'clock. I wound up the
defaulting watch, shook it till it went again; set it at twelve by
guess, and undressed slowly, and in silence. Then, putting out the
light, I threw on a warm shawl, and leaned out of the window for a last
look, before closing it. Which, of course, was a very senseless
proceeding, although romantic. If Mademoiselle Annette could have seen
me!
I stayed there, lost in thought; various interests jumbling themselves
together in my mind, Lucy Ashton and the Master of Ravenswood; my own
uncertain future and present disagreeable position; the curious
mysteries that seemed to envelop Chandos; and the ominous proximity of
Mr. Edwin Barley. As I leaned against the corner of the window, still
as a statue, I was startled by observing a movement in the garden.
And a very extraordinary movement, too, if it was that of a rational
being. Something dark, the height of a tall man, appeared to emerge
from the clusters of trees skirting the lawn opposite, approach a few
steps; and then dart in again and this was repeated over and over
again, the man advancing always nearer to the other end of the house.
It was like the motions of one who wished to come on, yet feared being
seen; a full minute he stood within those dark trees, each time that he
penetrated them.
I watched, still as a mouse, and gazed eagerly, feeling like one
chilled with a sudden fear. It was certainly very singular. When
opposite the west wing, he stood for a minute out on the open
greensward, and took off his round broad-brimmed hat as he looked up at
the windows. Then I recognised the features of Mr. Chandos. He wore a
short cloak, which in a degree hid his figure; but there was no
mistaking the face, for the moon shone full upon it. The next moment he
crossed the grass, and disappeared within the narrow laurel path that
led to the private entrance of the west wing.
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? and put on a cloak and broad
hat to do it in, just as if he wished to disguise himself? And what
could he want in the apartments of Lady Chandos in the middle of the
night? Truly there _was_ mystery at Chandos. But I could not solve it,
and went to bed.
"Good morning, Miss Hereford."
The salutation came from Mr. Chandos, who was following me into the
breakfast-room, having that instant quitted his own. I was going
quickly; so was he; for we were late, and Lady Chandos liked
punctuality. But she was not in the oak-parlour.
"That's right," he cried, when he saw the room empty. "I hope my mother
has overslept herself too, and had as good a night as I have."
"Have you had a good night, sir?" came the involuntary question.
"Too good: a man does not want eight or nine hours' sleep. I dropped
asleep the minute I got into bed last night; did not even hear my clock
strike eleven, though it only wanted a few minutes to it; and I never
woke until twenty minutes to eight this morning. I was very tired last
night."
Was Mr. Chandos mystifying me? Somehow it caused me vexation. My eyes
had a resentful expression as I fixed them on his; which, of course,
they had no right in the world to have.
"You did not go to sleep at eleven o'clock, sir."
"Indeed I did, Miss Hereford."
"Then you must have got up again, sir."
"Nothing of the sort! Why do you say that? I never woke until this
morning."
Standing there and deliberately saying this to my face, with every
appearance of truth, could only be done to mislead—to deceive me. I had
far rather he had struck me a blow; though _why_, I did not stay to ask
myself.
"Mr. Chandos, I saw you in the grounds in the middle of the night!"
"Saw me in the grounds in the middle of the night!" he echoed. "You
were dreaming, Miss Hereford."
"No, sir; I was wide awake. It must have been getting on for one
o'clock. You had on a cloak and a low broad-brimmed hat, and were
dodging in and out of the trees."
"What trees?"
"Those opposite."
"Wearing a cloak and broad hat, and dodging in and out of the opposite
trees! Well, that is good, Miss Hereford!"
His face wore an amused expression: his dark eyes—and they were looking
dark as purple in the morning light—were dancing with mirth. I turned
cross. Some foolish thought, that Mr. Chandos would make a confidant of
me in the morning, had run into my mind in the night.
"I don't possess a cloak, young lady."
"At any rate, sir, I saw you in one. A short one, a sort of cape. I saw
your face quite plainly when you were looking up at the windows. The
moon was as bright as day, and shining full upon you."
"It must decidedly have been my ghost, Miss Hereford."
"No, sir; it was yourself. I don't believe in ghosts. When you had
finished your dance in and out of the trees, you crossed the grass to
the laurel walk that leads down by the west wing."
"What do you say?"
The tone was an abrupt one; the manner had entirely changed: something
like a glance of fear shot across the face of Mr. Chandos. But at that
moment Hill came in.
"So you are back, Hill!" he exclaimed.
"I have been back an hour, sir. Mrs. Freeman's no worse, and I came by
the Parliamentary train. And it is well I did come," added she, "for I
found my lady 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 up and see her."
"She was very well last night," he observed, striding upstairs on his
way to the west wing.
"You had better begin breakfast, Miss," Hill said to me. "My lady won't
be down; I'll go and order it in."
"Am I to send any up to Lady Chandos, Hill?"
"I have taken my lady's breakfast up," was her answer. The tea and
coffee came in, and I waited; waited, and waited. When I had nearly
given Mr. Chandos up, he came. 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 Hickens, to ask
after a paper that ought to have come. Afterwards he quitted the room,
and I saw him go strolling across to the Pine Walk.