LIZZY DENE.
"For my heart was hot and restless:
And my life was full of care;
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear."
Seated back in the shade, where the sunlight of the afternoon did not
fall upon him, I saw him lift his hands at the last line, with a
gesture half of despair, half of prayer, and then lay them on his pale
face. Whatever his burden might be, it was a heavy one. It was he who
had asked me to sing—Mr. Chandos; for the first time since I was in the
house. Not much of a singer at the best, I never ventured on any but
the most simple songs: and, of modern ones, "The Bridge," set to music
by Miss Lindsay, is the sweetest.
"But now it has fallen from me;
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me."
Rather boisterously the door was opened, and Mrs. Penn came in. Her
hair was decidedly of a more glowing red than usual; but her light
green gown of damask silk, her point-lace lappets thrown behind, her
gold ornaments, ay, and herself, were altogether handsome. Mr. Chandos
rose.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, "for entering so unceremoniously.
Hearing the piano, I thought Miss Hereford was alone."
I turned round on the music-stool and sat facing the room. Mr. Chandos
handed her a chair.
"Thank you," she said, hesitating to take it. "Mrs. Chandos is in the
west wing: but perhaps I shall be intruding if I remain?"
"Not at all," replied Mr. Chandos. "Miss Hereford may be glad of your
company. I am going to the west wing myself."
"Have you found your manuscript, Mr. Chandos?"
"What manuscript?"
She paused a moment. "I heard yesterday you had lost one. When Emma
came in about her housemaid's duties last evening, she mentioned it."
It may as well be said, en passant, that Emma was housemaid to the east
wing; Harriet to the chambers on the first floor generally, mine
included; Lizzy Dene 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.
"It was a memorandum-book; not a manuscript," said Mr. Chandos.
"Oh; I understood her to say a manuscript."
"I have not found it," he continued. "Fortunately the contents are of
little consequence. They consist chiefly of notes relative to the
everyday 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. The singular thing is, how it could have
disappeared from my locked desk."
"You must have left your keys out," she quickly said.
"That is more than likely. Having honest people about me at Chandos, I
have not been over-particular."
"It is a bad practice to leave keys where they may be picked up and
used; it gives opportunities that otherwise might never have been
seized upon," observed Mrs. Penn, in a dreamy tone.
"Not a bit of it, madam. Unless dishonest people are at hand to take
advantage of the opportunities."
"Then how do you think your book can have gone, Mr. Chandos?"
"Well, I cannot think. I am content to leave the elucidation to time."
Mrs. Penn looked at him: she seemed to be hesitating over something. It
was so palpable that Mr. Chandos noticed it.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I think I will speak," she said, with sudden decision. "Though indeed
I do not like to do so, Mr. Chandos: and I certainly should not, but
for hearing of this loss of yours. I have had a small loss too."
Mr. Chandos sat down; he had been standing since she came in; and
waited for her to continue.
"It is not of much value; but—as you say by your book—it is the fact of
its having gone that troubles me. Only a bit of what we call Honiton
lace, about three yards of it, two inches in width. That it was safe in
my workbox yesterday morning I know. This morning it was no longer
there."
"Was the workbox locked?"
"It was. I had left it in the library, locked. My keys were in a drawer
of my bedroom, where I keep them, for they are heavy, and weigh down my
dress-pockets. Curious to say, upon looking for my keys this morning, I
found them not in the usual drawer, but in the fellow-drawer beside it.
Whoever had taken them out forgot which was the right drawer and put
them back in the wrong one."
"And you missed the lace?"
"Yes. It happened that I was going to use it to trim some sleeves: but
for that I might not have missed it for weeks. It was in the bottom of
the workbox, lying a-top of some other things: as soon as I lifted the
upper tray I saw it was gone. Of course I searched the box over, but
without result."
"Have you spoken to the servants?"
"I have not said much, lest they should think I accused them. What I
said was that I had lost or mislaid some lace; and described it. They
all appear to be quite innocent. Still, the lace could not go without
hands.
"I don't like this," observed Mr. Chandos, after a pause.
"It is not the loss in itself—as I say: it is the feeling of insecurity
it leaves," returned Mrs. Penn. "One cannot be sure that other things
will not follow. But I must not detain you longer," she added, rising.
"I hope, Mr. Chandos, you will not think I have been wrong or unkind to
mention this."
"I think you have done quite right, Mrs. Penn," he warmly replied, as
he opened the door for her. "If we really have a thief in the house,
the sooner we are upon our guard the better. Take greater care of your
keys for the present. As to the lace, Mrs. Chandos will make it good to
you——"
"Sir! Mr. Chandos!" she interrupted, rather fiercely. "Oh, pray don't
talk in that way; I shall be vexed to have mentioned it. The loss is
nothing."
She left the room. Not a word had I spoken all the while; not a
syllable as to my own boxes having been visited. I did not care to
throw any accusation upon Lizzy Dene. Besides, the matter seemed to
present contradiction to my mind: as I found by the next words it was
doing to that of Mr. Chandos.
"I cannot fathom this at all: unless we have two light-fingered people
in the house. Mrs. Penn's lace must have been cribbed by one of the
maids, I fear; but it is hardly likely she'd take a memorandum-book.
Where would be the use of it to any one of them? There were things of
value in my desk, not touched: a gold paper-knife; a large gold seal;
and some loose silver. Well, we must wait; and meanwhile take care of
our keys," he concluded, as he left the parlour.
I finished my interrupted song in a low voice, sang another or two, and
then went up to my room. Mrs. Penn was standing at the library-door.
"Has Mr. Chandos gone into the west wing, do you know, Miss Hereford?"
"I think so. He quitted the parlour almost as soon as you did."
"I am sorry to have missed him. I don't know what he'll think of me.
Did you notice my omission?"
"What omission?"
"Never to have asked after his health. I feel ashamed of myself. I have
not seen him since the day's illness he had, when the physician came
down to him. I _hate_ to be unfeeling," added Mrs. Penn, in wrath. "But
what with seeing him in the oak-parlour when I expected only you were
there, and what with the thought of my lace, I completely forgot it."
"He says he is better. I think he must be very much better from the
alarming state they said he was in that day. But he looks ill."
"_That's_ caused by worry; his ill looks," said Mrs. Penn. "I should
wonder if he could look well. Look at his figure: it's no better than a
skeleton's."
We had been walking together to the end of the library. I don't know
whether I have mentioned it before, but every evening a good hour
before dusk, the door of this library was locked for the night by Hill,
and the key carried away in her pocket. Mrs. Penn turned to me as we
stood together at the window, dropping her voice to a whisper.
"Was there not something _mysterious_ about his illness?"
Frankly speaking, I thought there was. But in mind I had connected it
in some undefined way with his sleepwalking. I could not say this.
"But that he is so remarkably unlikely a subject for it, a living
atomy, as may be said, I should think it had been a fit," she
continued. "Did you hear whether the London doctor also saw Lady
Chandos?"
"No, I did not. There's nobody to inquire of, except Hill. And you know
how much information we should be likely to get from her."
"Except _him_," corrected Mrs. Penn, with emphasis. "With all his sins,
Harry Chandos is a gentleman and would give you an answer."
I shook my head. It was not my place, a young visitor there on
sufferance, to inquire of things they seemed to wish not inquired of:
and I said as much to Mrs. Penn.
"You are too fastidious, Miss Hereford; you are no better than a
schoolgirl. Look here," she added, turning briskly, "this is the
workbox. I will show you where the lace was."
It was a large, handsome box; a beautiful box; tortoiseshell inlaid
with silver, its fittings of silver and sky-blue velvet; its scissors
(save the steel part), its thimble, bodkin, and stiletto of gold.
"I wonder they did not take _these_ as well as the lace."
"They might be afraid to do that," said Mrs. Penn. "See!" she cried,
lifting the tray, "that's where it lay. It was a very handsome piece of
lace, and I am sorry to lose it."
The sweeping of a silk dress along the corridor gave token of the
approach of Mrs. Chandos. She passed into the east wing and Mrs. Penn
hastened after her. Standing at the door of the west wing, as if he had
attended Mrs. Chandos from it, was Mr. Chandos. He saw us both come out
of the library.
Where he had his dinner that day I don't know. Mine was over and the
things were taken away before I saw him again. I had been upstairs for
a book and met him in the hall. He followed me to the oak-parlour and
threw himself into a chair, like one utterly weary.
"You have not been walking much, have you, Mr. Chandos?"
"Not much; my foot's too weak yet. I have been taking a turn or two in
the pine-walk. And you? Have you been spirit-gazing again?"
I did not answer, except by a shake of the head, and he sat for a long
while in silence, breaking it at last abruptly.
"Does Mrs. Penn get looking from the front windows, after that—that
sight—that you professed to see the night before last?"
"I think she would like to do so: but there's no opportunity. The rooms
in the east wing do not look to the front, you know."
"Ah, I see you and she get talking of this together."
"The talking has been very little, and of her seeking, not mine. I
would rather she never spoke to me at all of it: it embarrasses me."
"Why does it embarrass you?"
"I—I——"
"Well?" he said, looking straight at me.
"I don't like to say, Mr. Chandos."
He left his chair and came to the window, where I stood playing with
the jessamine. How soft the air was! how sweet the perfume of the
flowers in the approaching night!
"Now then. I am come to hear what you mean."
The tones were persuasive: the face, as it drooped a little, wore a
smile of inviting confidence. I bent my head and told him—that I
thought what people had seen at midnight and taken for a ghost might be
himself walking in his sleep; but that I could not say this to Mrs.
Penn. He made no rejoinder whatever. He lifted his head and gazed
straight out towards the entrance of the pine-walk.
"Shall I tell Mrs. Penn that it is not a ghost at all, sir, and set her
mind, so far, at rest? I need not give any particulars."
"But suppose it is a ghost, Miss Hereford?"
The tones were very sad and serious. My heart beat a little quicker.
"Did you not assure me you saw it the other night—when I was safe in
this very parlour?"
"Yes; but I thought afterwards it might be what you said—one of the
gardeners. Night-light is so deceptive."
"Come back for his tools," added Mr. Chandos. "Mrs. Penn, however, says
it is something else that walks there—my late father's spirit. Do you
think she _believes_ it?"
"Yes. She spoke as if she did believe it: and dreaded it. Shall I tell
her she need not?"
"No," he sadly said. "I cannot unfortunately ask you to do that."
What did the speech mean? Did it really bear the intimation that he
could not in truth deny it? Something like a tremor, with that dark and
weird pine-walk within sight, crept over me. Mr. Chandos leaned from
the window, plucked a white rose, and put it into my hand.
"There," he said, "that's better than talking of ghosts. And, Miss
Hereford—keep your curtains above closed after dusk: I don't like to be
watched when I go out there."
He rang the bell for lights and tea. Ah, that rose, that rose! Does
anybody, reading this, remember receiving one from a beloved hand? Had
it been a flower of Paradise it could not have borne for me a greater
charm. The skies were brighter, the coming night was sweeter, the whole
atmosphere seemed impregnated with a bliss, not of this world. My heart
was wild with happiness; the rose was worth more than Golconda's
costliest diamonds. I have it still. I shall keep it for ever.
"And now for a cup of tea, if you'll give me one, Miss Hereford."
I turned from the window, the rose held carelessly in my fingers, and
put it down, as of no moment, beside the tray. Afterwards he stayed
talking to me a little while, and then rose to leave for the evening.
"I wish I could stay longer; it is very lonely for you," he said, as he
shook hands. "But my mother feels lonely too; and so—I must divide
myself as I best may."
"Is not Lady Chandos better?" I asked, interrupting his light laugh.
"Some days she is. Not much on the whole."
"And you, sir?"
I suppose I looked at him wistfully, for he put his hand for a moment
on my head, and bent his kind face.
"Don't be anxious for me. I am sorry you heard what Amos said. I am
very much better than I was the day he was here. Good-night."
It was all dreary again; sunshine had gone out; and I went up to bed at
half-past nine. The first thing I did was to kiss the rose before
putting it away: my cheeks burn at confessing it as they burnt then.
Kissing the senseless rose! And in the very midst of the sweet folly my
chamber-door was knocked at, and Mrs. Penn came in.
"How early you have come up! Dull? Ay, I daresay you do find it dull.
But I can't stay a moment. I want you to do me a favour, Anne Hereford.
When Mrs. Chandos shall be abed and asleep to-night, let me come to
your room."
"What for?" I exclaimed, in great surprise.
"I want to watch from your windows. I want to see whether it is a ghost
that is said to haunt the walks at nights: or—whether it is anything
else. I knew the late Sir Thomas, and should recognise——"
"Hush, Mrs. Penn," I interrupted. Every impulse my mind possessed
prompted me to deny the request utterly; to nip it in the bud. "It is
what I cannot do. I might get very much frightened myself; but it is
not that; it is that I am a visitor in the family, and would not pry
into an affair that must no doubt be one of pain and annoyance to them.
Don't you perceive that it would be dishonourable? I keep my curtains
closed at night, you see; and no persuasion would induce me to allow
them to be opened."
"You are a foolish girl," she said, with good humour. "Hill locks up
the other rooms at dusk: and if she did not, I should be too great a
coward to watch alone in them. A love of the marvellous was born with
me; I may say a terror of it; and my early training served to increase
this. As a child I was allowed to read ghost stories; my nurse used to
tell them in my hearing to her companions; of course it could but bear
fruit. I think it perfectly wicked to allow such tales to penetrate to
the impressionable imaginations of young children; they never wholly
recover it."
"But you cannot seriously believe in ghosts, Mrs. Penn!"
"I should be ashamed to avow that I do believe in them. And yet the
subject bears for me both a terror and a charm: nay, a strange
fascination."
That she spoke the truth now was evident; though I could not think she
always did. I stood waiting for her to go.
"And so you will not let me come, Miss Hereford! Well, perhaps you are
right: it never occurred to me that the family might feel annoyed at
it. Good-night."
But I did not trust her: she might steal in while I slept: and I turned
the key of my door inside for the first time since I was at Chandos.
The next day was a gloomy one. Not as to weather; that was bright
enough; but for me. Mr. Chandos was away. Gone out somewhere by rail,
very far; and would not be back until night.
"Is he well enough to bear the fatigue, Hickens?" I could not help
asking the butler as he stood by me at breakfast.
"Well, Miss, I should say he is _not_ well enough. Hill says it is some
pressing business for my lady that he has gone upon; and Mr. Harry is
one to go through with any duty, let him be well or ill; ay, though he
died for it."
Idling away the morning desultorily, I got through an hour or two. Was
this new feeling making me worthless? Half ashamed of myself as the
question flashed over me, I took out a German book of study, and
settled down to it on a bench amid the thickest trees, not far from the
entrance gates, and near the privet walk where I had once met Edwin
Barley. While I was reading steadily, a voice began speaking at a
little distance, and I recognised it for _his_.
Edwin Barley's. Did he habitually come to the shady walk? The clump of
thick shrubs, intervening, hid me from him, and him from me; for some
minutes I could do nothing but give way to my fear; and did not dare to
stir hand or foot.
Some one was speaking with him; whether man or woman I could not tell,
the voice was so faint. And it seemed that while Mr. Barley must have
had his face turned to me, and the wind, setting this way, bore his
accents with it, the other person must have faced the opposite way, and
the voice was lost.
"You are stupid, woman!" were the first distinct words I heard from
him, seemingly spoken in sudden petulance. "Where's the use of your
telling me this much, if you can't tell more?"
It was a woman, then. Sure and swiftly came the conviction of her
identity to me with a force I could not account for. Lizzy Dene.
"It must have been a very serious attack, for a physician to be
telegraphed for in that haste," resumed Mr. Edwin Barley. "And to be
well again now to go out for a whole day by rail!"
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. There's a
mystery altogether about Harry Chandos. That attack upon him in the
avenue was a curious thing. And his mother? Is she visible yet?"
Another inaudible answer.
"Well, you must work better, if you work at all. This is your affair,
mind; not mine; I did not ask you to bring me news, or to look into
letters—what do you say? Not able to look into letters? You can read, I
suppose?"
It _is_ Lizzy Dene, my conscience whispered me; for a half doubt had
been crossing me of Mrs. Penn.
"Oh, I understand; don't get the chance of looking into them?" he went
on. "Well—it is your own affair, I repeat; but as you choose to make
the offer of looking out for discoveries, _I shall expect you to make_
some. Do you hear?" he continued, in his voice of power. "What? Speak
low, for fear of hearers? Nonsense; there's no one to hear. If you want
money for bribery, of course I can furnish you with it, if you
undertake to use it legitimately."
Again a pause. The higher Mr. Edwin Barley raised his voice, the lower
the other seemed to speak.
"No, you are wrong; the greatest enemy to your plans would be Harry
Chandos; the rest are women. That there's something to be discovered
connected with _him_, and at this present time, I am absolutely certain
of. Discovered it shall be," emphatically pronounced Mr. Edwin Barley.
"About his wife?" he suddenly asked.
"All that's wanted is the clue," he recommenced, after listening to the
answer. "_It is to be had_, I know. They'd not live in this dark,
retired manner for nothing; and I have my theory about it. What do you
say?—oh, well, yes, if you like; I did not ask you to repeat things of
the family to me, you know; you are doing it of your own spontaneous
will. How long have you lived in this neighbourhood?"
Strain my ears as I would, I could not catch more than a faint sound of
whisper in reply.
"Eh? What?" briskly resumed Mr. Edwin Barley. "The ghost walks again!
Sir Thomas Chandos! Give my compliments to it, and ask if it remembers
me! You foolish woman!" he went on, the scorn in his voice echoing on
the air. "A troubled conscience may cause people to 'walk' in life; but
it never yet brought them back after death. Now don't—oh, I thought you
were going to insist on the ghost. Upon thorns lest you should be
missed and called for? Hill looks you all up so sharply? I'll depart
then. Advice? I have none to give."
I heard his steps walking leisurely away. Stealing swiftly along the
bye-paths, I went round to the servants' entrance, determined to see
whether Lizzy Dene was out of doors or not. A miserable gnat had bitten
me, affording an excuse; but I should have made one in case of need.
The cook stood by her kitchen fire.
"Oh, cook, would you please give me a little warm water? A gnat has
just stung my wrist. Perhaps if I bathe it at once, it will not
inflame."
She gave it me immediately, putting the basin on the table underneath
the window. Harriet ran and brought a little sponge. At that moment
Mrs. Hill came in.
"Where's Lizzy Dene? Is she not here?"
"No, she's not here," was the quick 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, leaving orders
for Lizzy Dene to come to her in the linen-room as soon as she entered.
"You need not have told," remonstrated Harriet to the cook, in an
undertone, on account of my presence. "Mother Hill finds enough fault
with us without being helped to more."
"I'm not going to put up with Lizzy, then, if you are!" cried out the
cook, not caring whether I was present or not. "Send her but for the
least thing, and there she stops. My custard ought to have been made,
and set to cool by this time. She gets talking to the out-door men; I
know she does. What else can she do?"
"That woman was here again last night," rejoined Harriet, as they stood
over the fire.
"I say, who _is_ that woman?—coming after Lizzy Dene, 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,"
replied Harriet. "You know that weeping ash, off yonder to the right.
Well, there they stood with their heads together, last night, Lizzy
Dene and the woman. Lizzy's very much altered of late. I can't make her
out. At the time of the accident to Mr. Chandos, she was like one out
of her mind. I asked her if _she_ had frightened the horse. There was
always something odd about her."
"There'll be something odder about her yet, if she don't speedily bring
them eggs," retorted the cook. "I wont put up with this."
I took my hand out of the water, wrapped a handkerchief loosely round
it, and went out at the back-door, taking my way leisurely round. Truth
to say, I was watching for Lizzy Dene.
And I saw her. She came darting down one of the paths, and caught up a
basket of eggs that stood behind a tree; her face was red and flushed,
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 the woman bore on to the kitchen.