IN THE IRONING-ROOM.
"Will you allow me to repose a word of confidence in you, Miss
Hereford, and at the same time to tender an apology?"
Playing a little bit of quiet harmony, reading a little, musing a
little, half an hour had passed, and I was leaning my back against the
frame of the open window. Mr. Chandos had come across the grass unheard
by me, and took me by surprise.
I turned, and stammered forth "Yes." 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 out there last night," he began, sitting
on the stone ledge of the window outside, his face turned to me, "and I
rashly 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 sleepwalkers?"
"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 spoke, I did not know I had been
out, and denied it, really believing 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 houses, to
the tops of chimneys, and contrive to spirit themselves down again,
without coming to harm. So far as I am aware, I have never yet
attempted those ambitious feats."
"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. But for her additional testimony, I might not have believed
you yet, Miss Hereford."
"You seemed to be making for her apartments, sir—for the little door in
the laurel walk."
"Did I?" he carelessly rejoined. "What freak guided my steps thither, I
wonder? Did you see me come back again?"
"No, sir. I did not stay much longer at the window."
"I daresay I came back at once. A pity you missed the sight a second
time," he continued, with a laugh that sounded very much like a forced
one. "Having decorated myself with a cloak and broad hat, I must have
been worth seeing. I really did not know that I had a cloak in my
dressing-closet, but I find there is an old one."
He sat still, pulling to pieces a white rose and scattering its petals
one by one. His eyes seemed to seek any object rather than mine; his
dark hair, looking in some lights almost purple like his eyes, was
impatiently pushed now and again from his brow. Altogether, there was
something in Mr. Chandos that morning that jarred upon me—something
that did not seem _true_.
"I cannot think, sir, how you could have gone down so quietly from your
room. For the first time since I have been in your house—for the first
time, I think, in my whole life—I sat up reading last night, and yet I
did not hear you; unless, indeed, you descended by some egress through
the east wing."
"Oh, you don't know how quiet and cunning sleepwalkers are; the
stillness with which they carry on their migrations is incredible," was
his rejoinder. "You must never be surprised at anything they do."
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.
"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?"
"For 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 taken sudden leave of my senses."
"Mr. Chandos, can nothing be done for you? To prevent it, I mean."
"Nothing at all."
"If—if Lady Chandos, or one of the 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 said, hiding my eyes with a shudder. "I do
not understand these things: I spoke in ignorance."
"Happily few do understand them," he replied. "I have given you this in
strict confidence, Miss Hereford; you will, I am sure, regard it as
such. No one knows of it except my mother; but she would not like you
to speak of it to her."
"Certainly not. Then the servants do not know it?"
"Not one: not even Hill. It would be most disagreeable to me were the
unpleasant fact to reach them; neither might they be willing to remain
in a house where there was a sleepwalker. The last time the roving fit
was upon me, some of them unfortunately saw me from the upper window;
they recognised 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," he added, with a slight laugh.
"Do you think they saw you last night?" was my next question.
"I hope not," he replied, in a tone meant to be a light one; but that,
to my ear, told of ill-concealed anxiety.
"But—Mr. Chandos!—there are no windows in the servants' part of the
house that look this way!" I exclaimed, the recollection flashing on
me.
"There is one. That small Gothic window in the turret. The fear that
some of them may have been looking out is worrying my mother."
"It is that, perhaps, that has made Lady Chandos ill."
"Yes; they took me for my own ghost," he resumed, apparently not having
heard the remark. "You now 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: will you 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, leaving me to digest 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 so
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, but a week or so 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! To me it seemed a most
awful affliction.
As I quitted the oak parlour and went upstairs, Hill stood in the
gallery.
"Lady Chandos is up, I understand, Hill?"
"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 time
enough. _I_ don't think she will be."
I declare that the words so astonished me as to take my senses
temporarily away, and Hill was gone before I could speak again. Which
of the two told the truth, Mr. Chandos or Hill? He said his mother was
up; Hill said she was not, and would not be for a week to come.
Meanwhile Hill had traversed the gallery, and disappeared in the west
wing, banging the green-baize door after her. I stood in deliberation.
Ought I, or ought I not, to proffer a visit to Lady Chandos?—to inquire
if I could do anything 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, with a handsome oak door before me. I gave a stout
knock at that, and the green-baize door made a noise in swinging to.
Out rushed Hill. 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 when my lady is ill, except myself and Mr. Chandos? I knew
it was not he; and 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," I continued,
resenting Hill's assumption of authority.
"But it is not agreeable, and it never can be agreeable," returned
Hill, working herself up to a great pitch of 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 from
beyond the oak door, as Hill had done, apparently wondering at the
noise. I was thunderstruck. She looked quite well, and wore her usual
dress; but she went back again at once, and it was but a momentary
glimpse I had of her. Hill made no ceremony. She took me by the
shoulders as you would take a child, turned me towards the entrance,
and bundled me out; 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 would have been almost a matter
of life or death."
"I think you are out of your mind, Hill," I gasped, recovering my
breath, but not my temper, after the summary exit.
"Perhaps I am, Miss; let it go so. All I have got to say, out of my
mind or in my mind, is this: never you attempt to enter this west wing.
The rooms in it are sacred to my lady, whose pleasure it is to keep
them strictly private. And intrusion here, after this warning, is what
would never be pardoned you by any of the family, if you lived to be
ninety years old!"
"Hill, you take too much upon yourself," was my indignant answer.
"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 anything in my life than to do that.
Certainly her warning had been solemnly spoken.
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 savoured 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. And, besides, would it be
enough to keep Lady Chandos in for a week? I dwelt upon it all until 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
path on the left of the broad gravel drive, midway between the house
and the entrance-gates. It 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, imparted to it an air
of excessive gloom. The path wound in its course; in turning one of its
angles, I came right in the face of some one advancing; some one who
was so close as to touch me: and my heart leaped into my mouth. It was
Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Good morning, young lady."
"Good morning, sir," I stammered, sick almost unto death, lest he
should recognise me; though why that excessive dread of his recognition
should be upon me, I could not possibly have explained. 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 the 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 looked at me with his jet-black eyes as if
waiting for it; the same stern, penetrating eyes as of old. 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 terrible eyes off me. Not that the eyes in themselves were
so very terrible; but the fear of my childhood had returned to me in
all its force—a very bugbear. I had made the first acquaintance of Mr.
Edwin Barley in a moment of fear—that is, he frightened me.
Unintentionally on his own part, it is true, but with not less of
effect upon me. The circumstances of horror (surely it is not too
strong a word) that had followed, in all of which he was mixed up, had
only tended to increase the feeling; and woman-grown though I was now,
the meeting with him had brought it all back to me.
"Will you not favour me with your name?"
He spoke politely, quite as a gentleman, but I felt my face grow red,
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,
little more than a schoolgirl. 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
pass through 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."
He had turned his eyes away now, and was speaking in a dreamy sort of
tone; as I once heard him speak to Selina.
"They will be wanting some one to fill Mrs. Freeman's place, will they
not?"
"I cannot say, I'm sure, sir. The family do not talk 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. I was intimate with
part of the family once, but a coolness arose 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 that would bring me to the open grounds, and nearly struck
against Mr. Chandos.
"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!" he repeated, looking
keenly at me, as a severe expression passed momentarily across his
face. "Was it any one you knew?"
"It was he who came into the broad walk, and whom you ordered out—the
new tenant. He is gone now."
"He! I fancied so," returned Mr. Chandos, the angry flush deepening.
And it seemed almost as though he were angry with me.
"I found out the walk by accident, sir, and I met him in it. He stopped
and accosted me with several questions, which I thought very rude of
him."
"What did he ask you?"
"He wished to know my name, who I was, and what I was doing at Chandos;
but I did not satisfy him. He then inquired about the family, asking
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! he mentioned her, did he! 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 everyday life at home. His name is Barley—Edwin
Barley. He is a bitter enemy of ours, and if he could pick up any scrap
of news or trifle of fact that he could by possibility turn about and
work so as to injure us, he would do it."
"But how could he, sir?" I exclaimed, not understanding.
"His suspicions are no doubt aroused that—that—I beg your pardon, Miss
Hereford," he abruptly broke off, with the air of one who has said more
than he meant to say. "These matters cannot interest you. You—you did
not tell Mr. Barley what I imparted to you this morning, touching
myself?"
"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."
He had pained me in no slight degree, and the tears very nearly rose in
my eyes. I would rather be beaten with rods than have my good faith
slighted. I think Mr. Chandos saw something of this in my face.
"Believe me, I do not doubt you for a moment; but Edwin Barley, in all
that regards our family, is cunning and crafty. Be upon your guard,
should he stop you again, not to betray aught of our affairs at
Chandos, the little daily occurrences of home life. A chance word, to
all appearance innocent and trifling, might work incalculable mischief
to us, even ruin. Will you remember this, Miss Hereford?"
I promised him I would, and went back to the house, he continuing his
way. At the end of the privet walk a gate led to the open country, and
I supposed Mr. Chandos had business there. As I reached the portico a
gentleman was standing there with the butler, asking to see Lady
Chandos. It was Mr. Jarvis, the curate.
"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?"
"Rather so, sir, I believe. Mrs. Hill fears it will be days before her
ladyship is downstairs. 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.
At six o'clock I went down to dinner, wondering who would preside. I
have said that no ceremony was observed at Chandos, the everyday life
was simple in the extreme. Since the departure of Emily de Mellissie we
had sat in the oak-parlour, and all the meals were taken there. In
fact, there was nobody to sit but myself. Lady Chandos had been mostly
in the west wing; Mr. Chandos out, or in his study; Mrs. Chandos I
never saw. The servants were placing the soup on the table. In another
moment Mr. Chandos came in.
"A small company this evening, 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 downstairs," 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 a 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 wont 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, when she left her there were symptoms of a second attack coming
on."
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 am 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 thought himself at
liberty to talk in season and out of season. "I warned Mrs. Chandos's
maid, sir, not to tell her mistress about Mrs. Freeman's being worse,"
he went on. "It would 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 expect 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—not
solitary in itself; but from want of tenants.
I went and stood at the window. The wax-lights were burning, but
nothing but the muslin curtains was before the windows. There was no
one to overlook the room; comers to the house did not pass it; the
servants had no business whatever in the front; and very often the
shutters were not closed until bedtime. It was scarcely yet to be
called dark: the atmosphere was calm and clear, and a bright white
light came from the west. Putting on a shawl, I went quietly out.
It was nearly, for me, as dreary out of doors as in. All seemed still;
no soul was about; no voices were to be heard; no cheering lights
gleamed from the windows. I was daring enough to walk to the end and
look up at the west wing; a slight glimmering, as of fire, sparkled up
now and again in what I had understood was Lady Chandos's sitting-room.
Back to the east wing, and looked at the end of that. Plenty of
cheerful blaze there, both of fire and candle; and, once, the slight
form of Mrs. Chandos appeared for a minute at the window, looking out.
I passed on to the back of the house, by the servants' ordinary path,
round the east wing. It was a good opportunity for seeing what the
place was like. But I did not bargain for the great flood of light into
which I was thrown on turning the angle. It proceeded from the corner
room; the windows were thrown wide open, and some maid-servants were
ironing at a long board underneath. Not caring that they should see me,
I drew under the cover of a projecting shed, that I believe belonged to
the brewhouse, and took a leisurely survey. Plenty of life here; plenty
of buildings; it seemed like a colony. Lights shone from several
windows of the long edifice—as long as it was in front. The entrance
was in the middle; a poultry-yard lay at the other end; a pasture for
cows opposite; the range of stables could be seen in the distance.
Harriet and Emma were the two maids ironing; Lizzy Dene, a very dark
young woman of thirty, with a bunch of wild-looking black curls on
either side her face, sat by the ironing-stove, doing nothing. Why they
added her surname, Dene, to her Christian name in speaking of her, I
did not know, but it seemed to be the usual custom. These three, it may
be remembered, have been mentioned as the housemaids. Another woman,
whom I did not recognise, but knew her later for the laundry-maid, was
at the back, folding clothes. They were talking fast, but very
distinctly, in that half-covert tone which betrays the subject to be a
forbidden one. The conversation and the stove's heat were alike wafted
to me through the open window.
"You may preach from now until to-morrow morning," were the first words
I heard, and they came from Harriet; "but you will never make me
believe that people's ghosts can appear before they die. It is not 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 Dene, looking up and speaking in
strong, fierce jerks, as she was in the habit of doing. "I sat up in
the bedroom sewing. It's that new black silk polka of mine that I
wanted to finish, and if I got it about downstairs, Madam Hill would go
on above a bit about finery. Emma got into bed and lay awake talking,
her and me. Before I'd done, my piece of candle came to an end, and I
thought I'd go into Harriet's room and borrow hers. It was a lovely
night, the moon shone slantways in at the turret window, and something
took me that I'd have a look out. So I went up the turret stairs and
stood at the casement. I'd not been there a minute before I saw it—the
living image of Mr. Chandos!—and I thought I should have swooned away.
Ask Emma."
"Well, I say it might have been Mr. Chandos himself, but it never was
his ghost," argued Harriet.
"You might be a soft, but I daresay you'd stand to it you are not,"
retorted Lizzy. "Don't I tell you that in the old days we saw that
apparition when Mr. Harry was safe in his bed? When we knew him to be
in his bed with that attack of fever he had? I saw it twice then with
my own eyes. And once, when Mr. Harry was miles and miles away—gone
over to that French place where Miss Emily was at school—it came again.
Half the household saw it; and a fine commotion there was! Don't tell
me, girl! I've lived in the family seven years. I came here before old
Sir Thomas died."
There was a pause. Harriet, evidently not discomfited, whisked away her
iron to the stove, changed it, and came back again before she spoke.
"I don't know anything about back times; the present ones is enough for
me. Did you see this, Emma, last night?"
"Yes I did," replied Emma, who was a silent and rather stupid-looking
girl, with a very retreating chin. "Lizzy Dene came rushing back into
the room, saying the ghost had come again, and I ran after her up to
the turret window. Something was there, safe enough."
"Who was it like?"
"Mr. Chandos. There was no mistaking him: one does not see a tall,
thin, upright man like him every day. There was his face, too, and his
beautiful features quite plain; the moon gave a light like day."
"It was himself, as I said," coolly contended Harriet.
"It was not," said Lizzy. "Mr. Chandos would no more have been dancing
in and out of the trees in that fashion, like a jack-in-the-box, than
he'd try to fly in the air. It was the ghost at its tricks again."
"But the thing is incredible," persisted Harriet. "Let us suppose, for
argument's sake, that it is Mr. Chandos's ghost that walks, what does
it come for, Lizzy Dene?"
"I never heard that ghosts stooped to explain their motives. How should
we know why it comes?"
"And I never heard yet that ghosts of live people came at all,"
continued Harriet, in recrimination. "And I don't think anybody else
ever did."
"But you know that's only your ignorance, Harriet. Certain people are
born into the world with their own fetches or wraiths, which appear
sometimes with them, sometimes at a distance, and Mr. Chandos must be
one. I knew a lady's-maid of that kind. 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 do they do?
That's what I want to know."
"Harriet, don't you be profane, and set up your back against spirituous
things," rebuked Lizzy Dene. "There was a man in our village, over
beyond Marden, that 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 wished he could get
the chance. What was the awful consequences? Why that man, going home
one night from the beer-shop, marched right into the canal in mistake
for his own house-door, and was drowned."
Emma replenished the stove, took a fresh iron, singed a rag in rubbing
it, and continued her work. The woman, folding clothes at the back,
turned round to speak.
"How was the notion first taken up—that it was Mr. Chandos's fetch?"
"This way," said Lizzy Dene, who appeared from her longer period of
service in the family to know more than the rest. "It was about the
time of Sir Thomas's death; just before it, or after it, I forget which
now. Mr. Harry—as he was mostly called when he was younger—was ill with
that low fever; it was said something had worried him and brought the
sickness on. My lady, by token, was poorly at the same time, and kept
her rooms; and, now that I remember, Sir Thomas _was_ dead, for she
wore her widow's caps. At the very time Mr. Harry was in his bed, this
figure, his very self, was seen at night in the grounds. That was the
first of it."
"If there's one thing more deceptive than another, it's night-light,"
meekly observed the woman.
"The next time was about two years after that," resumed Lizzy, ignoring
the suggestion. "Mr. Harry was in France, and one of the servants
stopped out late one evening without leave: Ph[oe]by 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 pine-walk, which
she had come across, as being the nearest way, 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 were rung, and to bed we went. The next
morning we found he had not come home, and finely laughed at Ph[oe]by,
asking her what she had taken to obscure her eyesight—which made her
very mad. Evening came, and one of them telegraph messages came over
the sea to my lady from Mr. Harry, proving he was in the French town.
But law! that night, there he was in the dark pine-path again, walking
up and down it, and all us maids sat up and saw him. My lady was ill
again then, I remember; she does have bad bouts now and then."
"Do you mean to say you all saw him?" questioned Harriet.
"We all saw him, four or five of us," emphatically repeated Lizzy.
"Hickens came to hear of it, and called us all the simpletons he could
lay his tongue to. He told Hill—leastways we never knew who did if he
didn't—and didn't she make a commotion! If ever she heard a syllable of
such rubbish from us again, she said, we should all go packing: and she
locked up the turret-door, and kept the key in her pocket for weeks."
"You see, what staggers one is that Mr. Chandos should be alive," said
Harriet. "One could understand if he were dead."
"Nothing that's connected with ghosts, and those things, ought to
stagger one at all," dissented Lizzy.
"According to you, Lizzy Dene, the ghost only appears by fits and
starts."
"No more it does. Every two years or so. Any way it has been seen once
since the time I tell you of when Mr. Chandos was abroad, which is four
years ago, and now it's here again."
"One would think you watched for it, Lizzy!"
"And so I do. Often of a moonlight night, I get out of bed and go to
that turret-window."
Some one came quickly down the path at this juncture, brushing by me as
I stood in the shade. It was the still room maid. She had a bundle in
her hand, went on to the entrance, and then came into the ironing-room.
Hill followed her in; but the latter remained at the back, looking at
some ironed laces on a table, and not one of the girls noticed her
presence. The still-room maid advanced to the ironing-board, let her
bundle fall on it, and threw up her arms in some excitement.
"I say, you know Mrs. Peters, over at the brook! Well—she's dead."
"Dead!" echoed the girls, pausing in their work. "Why it was not a week
ago that she was here."
"She's dead. They were laying her out when I came by just now. Some
fever, they say, which took her off in no time; a catching fever, too.
A mortal fright it put me in, to hear that; I shouldn't like to die yet
awhile."
"If fever has broke out in the place, who knows but it's fever that has
taken my lady!" exclaimed Emma, her stupid face alive with
consternation: and the rest let their irons drop on their stands. "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 the
sharp voice of Mrs. Hill from the background. The servants started
round at its sound, and the irons were taken up again.