IN THE PINE-WALK.
Really mine was just now a strange life. A young girl—I was only that;
young in experience as well as years—living in that house without any
companion except Mr. Chandos. More unrestrained companionship could
scarcely have existed between us had we been brother and sister. Our
meals were taken together; he presiding at luncheon and dinner, I at
breakfast and tea. The oak-parlour was our common sitting-room; the
groves and glades of Chandos, glowing with the tints of autumn, our
frequent walks. It was very pleasant; too pleasant; I don't say
anything about its prudence.
Later, when I grew more conversant with the ways of the world and its
exactions, I wondered that Lady Chandos had not seen its inexpediency.
But that _love_ should supervene on either side never crossed her
thoughts; had it been suggested to her, she would have rejected the
idea as entirely improbable: I was a schoolgirl, her son (as she had
reason to think) was love-proof. In regard to other considerations, Mr.
Chandos was one of those men with whom a young girl would be perfectly
safe; and she knew it.
Three or four days passed on. Mr. Chandos had recovered from his
lameness, and went to church with us on Sunday. Our order of going was,
as usual, this: he walked by the side of Mrs. Chandos, almost in
silence: I and Mrs. Penn behind. In a pew at right angles with ours sat
Mr. Edwin Barley alone; and his dark stern eyes seemed to be fixed on
me from the beginning of the service to the end.
Well from his lameness; but anything but well as to his health, if
looks might be relied upon; he seemed to grow more shadowy day by day.
What his illness was I could not think and might not ask: it certainly
seemed on the mind more than the body. A conviction grew gradually upon
me that some curious mystery, apart from the sleepwalking, did attach
to Mr. Chandos; and the words I overheard spoken by Edwin Barley
strengthened the impression: "That there is something to be discovered
connected with him, and at this present time, I am absolutely certain
of." What did he allude to?
Surely it was nothing of disgrace! As he sat there before me, with his
calm pale face and its sweet expression, it was against the dictates of
common sense to suppose that ill or wicked antecedents attached to him.
No; I would not believe it, let Madam Penn say what she chose.
It was a lovely autumn morning to begin the week with. The fire burnt
briskly in the grate, but the window, near which we sat, was open. Mr.
Chandos seemed low and depressed. His moods were changeable: sometimes
he would be lively, laughing, quite gay; as if he put away the inward
trouble for a time. During breakfast, which he ate this morning nearly
in silence, he took a letter from his pocket and glanced down its
contents, heaving an involuntary sigh. I recognised it for one that had
been delivered the previous morning: the name "Henry Amos" on the
corner of the envelope proved the writer. I wondered then—I wonder
still—_why_ people put their names outside the letters they send, as
some do.
"Does he write instructions to you still, Mr. Chandos?"
"Who? Dr. Amos? Well, yes; in a measure."
"I hope he thinks you are getting better?"
"I tell him that I am. You have forgotten the sugar. A small lump,
please. Thank you."
It was ever so. If I did summon up courage to ask about his health he
only turned it off. His tea did not want further sweetening more than
mine did.
We were sent out that day for a drive in the large open carriage; Mrs.
Chandos, Mrs. Penn, and I. It was the first time we had gone together.
Mr. Chandos was away; attending some county meeting. It was nearly five
when we got home. Later, when I had my hair down and dress off, getting
ready for dinner, Mrs. Penn came in.
"Oh, this dreary life at Chandos!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair,
without any ceremony or apology for entering. "I am not sure that I can
continue to put up with it."
"Dreary, do you find it?"
"It is dreary. It is not pleasant or satisfactory. Mrs. Chandos grows
colder and more capricious; and you are not half the companion you
might be. It was on the tip of my tongue just now to give her warning.
If I _do_ give it, I shall be off the next day. I never found a place
dull in all my life before."
"Something has vexed you, perhaps, Mrs. Penn?"
"If it has, it's only a slight vexation. I made haste to write this as
soon as we came in"—turning her left hand, in which lay a sealed
letter—"and I find the letters are gone. I thought the man called for
them at half-past five."
"No; at five."
"So Hickens has just informed me. What few letters I have had to write
since I came have been done in the morning. It can't be helped; it must
wait until to-morrow."
She put the letter into her bag, shutting it with a sharp click that
told of vexation; a small morocco bag with a steel clasp and chain;
took her keys from her pocket and locked it.
"What a pretty thing that is!"
"This reticule? Yes, it is pretty: and very convenient. Have you one?"
"Not like that. Mine is an ugly one, made out of a piece of carpet; I
bought it ever so long ago at the fair at Nulle."
"Shall you ever go back to Nulle?"
"I should be there at this present time, but for a fever that has
broken out at Miss Barlieu's. It is getting better, though; I heard
from Miss Annette on Saturday."
"Fever, or not fever, I should say it would be a happy change for you
from this dull place.
Dull! This! It was my Elysium. I felt like a guilty girl in my
self-consciousness, and the bright colour stole over my face and neck.
"Allow me to fasten your dress for you."
I thanked her, but laughingly said that I was accustomed to dress
myself. She laughed too; observed that schoolgirls generally could help
themselves, having no choice upon the point, and turned to look from
the window.
She stood there with her back to me until I was ready to go down,
sometimes turning her head to speak. We quitted the room together, and
she seemed to have recovered her good temper. I had reached the foot of
the stairs when I happened to look up the well of the staircase. There
was the face of Mrs. Penn, regarding me with a strange intensity. What
did she see in me?
Is this to be a full confession? When my solitary dinner was brought
in, and Hickens said his master dined at Warsall, I felt half sick with
disappointment. What was I coming to? Something not good, I feared, if
I could feel like that; and I sat down after dinner to take myself to
task.
Why did I love him? _That_ I could not help now; but I could help
encouraging it. And yet—_could_ I help it, so long as I stayed at
Chandos? I foresaw how it would be: a short period of time—it could not
be a long one—and Madame de Mellissie would be there and carry me away
with her, and end it. I should get another situation, and never see or
hear of Chandos again, or of him. Better go away at once than wait
until my heart broke! better go to the fever, as Mrs. Penn had said!
"Why! What's the matter?"
He had come up to the open window, riding-whip in hand, having alighted
at the gates, and left his horse to the groom. There was no possibility
of concealment, and my face was blistered with crying.
"I felt a little dull, sir."
"Dull! Ah, yes; of course you do," he continued, as he came into the
room, and stood with me at the window. "I wish I could be more with
you, but duties of various kinds call me elsewhere."
The very thing I had been thinking ought not to be! My tears were
dried, but I felt ashamed of my burning face.
"Would you please to let me have that money, Mr. Chandos?"
"What money?"
"Some I asked you for. Enough to take me to Nulle."
"You shall have as much money as you please, and welcome. But not to
take you to Nulle."
"Oh, sir! I must go."
He paused, looking at me. "Will you tell me _why_ you want to go there,
knowing that it might be dangerous?"
"I have not anywhere else to go to. I don't suppose the fever would
come near me. In all French schools there is, you know, an infirmary
apart."
"Then your motive is to quit Chandos. Why?"
I did not speak. Only hung my head.
"Is it because you find it dull? Are you so unhappy in it?"
"It is not dull to me; only at moments. But I ought to leave it,
because—because the longer I stay, the worse the going away will be."
But that I was confused and miserable, I should not have told him
anything so near the truth. The words slipped from me. There was no
reply, and I looked up to find his eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.
"Only think, sir, for yourself," I stammered. "I am but a governess,
accustomed to be at work from morning until night. After this life of
ease and idleness, how shall I be able to reconcile myself to labour
again?"
"It seems to me that you ought to welcome this interval as a rest. You
know best about that, of course. But, whether or not, there is no help
for it. Do you think my mother would suffer you to go to the fever?"
"I don't know," I answered, with a catching sob.
"Yes, I think you do know. _I_ should not."
"You are too kind to me, Mr. Chandos."
"Am I? Will you repay it by giving me some tea? I am going up to my
mother, and shall expect it ready when I come down. Put out, and cool,
mind, ready to drink. I am as thirsty as a fish."
I ran to the bell; he meant to forestal me, and his hand fell on mine
as it touched the handle. He kept his there while he spoke.
"Can you not be happy at Chandos a little longer?"
"Oh, sir, yes. But it will only make the leaving worse when it comes."
"Well, that lies in the future."
Yes, it did lie in it. And in the throbbing bliss his presence brought,
I was content to let it lie. Parting could not be worse in the future
than it would be now.
The tea had time to get cold, instead of cool, for he stayed a long
while in the west wing. He seemed very tired; did not talk much, and
said good-night early.
It must have been getting on for eleven o'clock the next morning. Mr.
Chandos had been asking me to sew a button on his glove. "They are
always coming off," he cried, as he watched my fingers. "My belief is,
they are just pitched on to the gloves, and left there. I have heard
Harriet say the same; she sews them on in general."
"Why did you not give her this one?" I had been laughing, and was in
high spirits; and until the words were out, it did not strike me that
it was not quite the right thing for me to say, even in joke.
"Because I best like you to do it."
"There it is, sir. Are there any more?"
If there were, he had no time to give them me. A sharp decisive knock
at the room door, and Mrs. Penn came in, looking pale and angry.
She has been coming to a rupture with Mrs. Chandos, thought I. But I
was wrong.
It appeared, by what she began to say, that she had left,
unintentionally, the small bag, or reticule as she called it, in my
room the previous evening, and had not thought of it until just now.
Upon sending one of the maids for it, she found it had been opened.
"Mrs. Penn!" I exclaimed.
"It's quite true, she rejoined, almost vehemently, as she held out the
bag. Do you remember seeing me put the letter in the bag, Miss
Hereford? The letter I was too late to send away?"
"Yes; I saw you put it in and lock the bag."
"Just so. Well, while I talked with you afterwards, I presume I must
have let the bag slip on the window-seat; and forgot it. This morning,
not long ago, I missed it, looked everywhere, and it was only by
tracing back to when I last remembered to have had it, that I thought
of your room, and that I might inadvertently have left it there. I sent
Emma to look; and when she brought me the bag, I found it had been
opened."
"Opened!" I repeated.
"Opened," she fiercely affirmed. And then, perhaps our very calmness
recalling her to herself, she went on in a quiet tone.
"I am sure you will make allowance for me if I appear a little excited.
I do not seek to cast suspicion upon any one: but I cannot deny that I
am both annoyed and angry. You would be so yourself, Mr. Chandos, did
such a thing happen to you," she added, suddenly turning to him.
"Take a seat, and explain to me what it is that has happened," replied
Mr. Chandos, handing her a chair. "I scarcely comprehend."
"Thank you, no," she said, rejecting the seat. "I cannot stay to sit
down, I must return to Mrs. Chandos; it was she who recommended me to
come and speak to Miss Hereford. Upon Emma's bringing me the reticule I
unlocked it, suspecting nothing, and——"
"I thought you said it had been opened, Mrs. Penn?"
"It had been opened. You shall hear. The first thing I saw was my
letter, and the read seal looked cracked across. I thought perhaps the
bag had fallen fiercely to the ground; but upon my looking at it more
attentively I saw it had been opened. See."
She put the envelope into Mr. Chandos's hand for examination. It had
been opened with a penknife, cut underneath, and afterwards fastened
down with gum. Of this there was no doubt; part of the letter had also
been cut.
"This is very extraordinary," said Mr. Chandos, as he turned the
envelope about. It was addressed to London, to a medical man.
"Yes, it _is_ extraordinary, sir," said Mrs. Penn, with some slight
temper, which I am sure he considered excusable. "I did. The note was a
private note to the gentleman who has attended me for some years; I
didn't write it for the perusal of the world. But _that_ is not the
chief question. There must be false keys in the house."
"Did you leave your key in the bag, Mrs. Penn?"
"No, sir. I had my keys in my pocket. The lock has not been hurt,
therefore it can only have been opened with a false key."
Remembering my own boxes and Mr. Chandos's desk, I felt no doubt that
false keys must be at hand. Mrs. Penn said she had not yet spoken to
the servants, and Mr. Chandos nodded approval: he would wish to deal
with it himself. For my part I had not seen the bag in my room, except
in her possession, and did not notice whether she had carried it away
or left it.
She quitted the parlour, taking the bag and note and envelope. Mr.
Chandos called Hickens and desired that Emma should be sent to him. The
girl arrived in some wonder. But she could tell nothing; except that
she found the bag lying on the floor by the window-seat, and carried it
at once to Mrs. Penn. Harriet was next questioned. She had seen the bag
lying in the window-seat the previous evening, she said, when she put
the room to rights after Miss Hereford went down to dinner, and left it
there, drawing the curtains before it.
"Did you touch it?" asked Mr. Chandos.
"Yes, sir. I took it up in my hand, and thought what a pretty thing it
was: I had never seen it before."
"Did you open it?"
"Open it? No, sir, that I did not. I think it was locked, for I saw
there was a key-hole: at any rate, it was close shut. I did not keep it
in my hands a moment, but put it down where I found it, and drew the
curtains."
"Who else went into Miss Hereford's room last evening?"
"Why, sir, how can I tell?" returned Harriet, after a pause of
surprise. "What I have to do in the room does not take five minutes,
and I am not anigh it afterwards. Twenty folks might go in and out
without my knowing of it."
That both the girls were innocent there could be no question. Then who
was guilty? In undrawing the curtains that morning I must have pulled
the bag off the window-seat, which caused me not to see it. Hill went
into a fit of temper when she heard of the affair.
"I don't believe there's one of the maids would do such a thing, Mr.
Harry. What should they want with other folk's letters? And where would
they get gum from to stick them down?"
"There's some gum on my mantelpiece, Hill: I use it with my drawings,"
I said to her.
"Ah, well, gum or no gum, they'd not cut open letters," was Hill's
reply, given with obstinacy.
"There must be false keys in the house, Mr. Chandos," I began, as Hill
went out.
"There's something worse than that—a spy," was his answer. "Though the
one implies the other."
And I thought I could have put my hand upon her—Lizzy Dene. But it was
only a doubt. I was not sure. And, being but a doubt, I did not
consider I ought to speak.
Some days elapsed with nothing particular to record, and then some
money was missed. Mr. Chandos and I were together as usual in the
oak-parlour. Opening his desk, he called out rather sharply, and I
looked up from my work.
"So! they have walked into the trap, have they!" he cried, searching
here and there in it. "I thought so."
"What is it, Mr. Chandos?" I asked, and he presently turned to me,
quitting the table.
"These matters have been puzzling me, Miss Hereford. Is it a petty
thief that we have in the house, one to crib lace and such trifles; or
is it a spy? I have thought it may be both: such a thing is not beyond
the bounds of possibility. A person who took Mrs. Penn's lace would not
be likely to take my memorandum-book: for _that_ must have been done to
pry into my private affairs, or those of the Chandos family: and a spy,
aiming at higher game, would keep clear of petty thefts. The taking of
Mrs. Penn's letter, I mean the breaking its seal, I do not understand:
but, before that was done, I marked some money and put it in my desk;
two sovereigns and two half-crowns. They are gone."
"You locked the desk afterwards?"
"Yes. Now I shall act decisively. Mrs. Penn has thought me very quiet
over her loss, I daresay, but I have not seen my way at all clear. I do
not, truth to say, see it now."
"In what way, sir?"
"I cannot reconcile the one kind of loss with the other. Unless we have
two false inmates among us. I begin to think it is so. Say nothing at
all to any one, Miss Hereford."
He wrote a hasty note, directed it, and sealed it with the Chandos
coat-of-arms; then ordered his own groom, James, into his presence.
"Saddle one of the horses for yourself, James. When you are ready, come
round with him, and I will give you directions."
The man was soon equipped. He appeared leading the horse. Mr. Chandos
went out, and I stood at the open window.
"Are you quite ready to go?"
"Quite, sir."
"Mount then."
The servant did as he was bid, and Mr. Chandos continued, putting the
note he had written into his hands.
"Go straight to Warsall, to the police-station, and deliver this. Do
not loiter."
James touched his hat, then his horse, and cantered off.
Ever since I had seen the police at Mr. Edwin Barley's, at the time of
the death of Philip King, I had felt an invincible dread of them; they
were always associated in my mind with darkness and terror. The
gendarmes in France had not tended to reassure me; with their flashing
uniform, their cocked hats, their conspicuous swords, and their fiery
horses; but the police there were quite another sort of people, far
more harmless than ours. The worst I saw of them was the never-ending
warfare they kept up with the servant-maids for being late in washing
before the doors in a morning. The cook at Miss Barlieu's, Marie,
called them old women, setting them at defiance always: but one day
they cited her before the tribunal, and she had to pay a fine of five
francs.
The police arrived in the afternoon; two, in plain clothes; and Mr.
Chandos was closeted with them alone. Then we heard—at least, I
did—that the servants' pockets were to be examined, and their boxes
searched. I was standing in the hall, looking wistful enough, no doubt,
when Mr. Chandos and his two visitors came forth from the drawing-room.
"You appear scared," he stayed to say, smiling in my face. "Have no
fear."
They were disappearing down the passage that led to the kitchens and
thence to the servants' rooms above, when Mrs. Penn came in with her
bonnet on. She gazed after the strangers.
"Those look just like police!" she whispered. "What have they come
for?"
"About these losses, I believe. Mr. Chandos has again lost something
from his desk."
"What! besides the first loss the other day?"
"Yes, he feels very much annoyed: and it is enough to make him feel
so."
"I'd forgive a little bit of pilfering—that is, I would not be too
harsh upon the thief," she remarked. "Pretty lace and such like
vanities do bear their attractions. But when it comes to violating
letters and private papers, that is essentially another affair. What
are the police going to do in it? Do you know?"
"I believe the servants' boxes and pockets are about to be examined."
"I should think, then, my lace, at any rate, will come to light," she
laughed, as she tripped up the stairs.
The process of searching seemed to be pretty long. Mr. Chandos was in
the oak-parlour, when one of the officers, who seemed to be superior to
the other, came in.
"Well, sir," said he, as he took the seat to which Mr. Chandos invited
him, "there's no trace of any stolen property about the maids or their
boxes. One or two of them had got some love-letters: they seemed
precious more afraid of my reading them than of finding lace or money,"
he added, with a broad smile. "I just glanced over the epistles, enough
to convince myself that there was nothing wrong: but there is no game
more formidable to be found."
Mr. Chandos made no reply. I thought he looked puzzled.
"We have hitherto placed great trust in our servants," he observed,
presently. "But the disappearance of these things is unaccountable."
"There does seem some mystery about it," returned the policeman. "You
say, sir, that you are sure of the housekeeper."
"As sure as I am of myself."
"Shall we search the rooms in the front, above here, sir? Thieves have
a trick of hiding things, you know."
"No," decisively replied Mr. Chandos. "My mother might hear you; I
could not risk the annoyance to her in her sick state. Besides, the
rooms have been fully searched by the housekeeper."
"Would you like a watch placed in the house, sir, unknown to the
servants?"
"No, no," said Mr. Chandos. "It——"
The appearance of Mrs. Penn caused the pause. She came in, after
knocking quietly at the door. Mr. Chandos rose; the officer rose.
"I beg your pardon for my interruption, Mr. Chandos. Will it not be
better that the police"—slightly bowing to the one present—"should come
up now? Mrs. Chandos has gone into my lady's rooms: if they can come up
at once, she will be spared the sight."
"Come up for what?" asked Mr. Chandos.
"I understood our boxes were to be examined."
She evidently meant her own and mine. Mr. Chandos laughed pleasantly.
"Your boxes? Certainly not, Mrs. Penn. Why, you are the chief sufferer!
It would be a new thing to search places for the articles lost out of
them."
But Mrs. Penn pressed it. It was not pleasant, although she had lost a
bit of lace: and she thought the boxes should all share alike,
excepting those belonging to the Chandos family: it would be more
satisfactory to our minds. Mr. Chandos repeated his No, courteously,
but somewhat imperatively, and left the room with the officer.
"Did you offer your boxes for their inspection?" she asked of me.
"Of course not. They know quite well I should not be likely to take the
things."
"I may say the same of myself. But I cannot help remembering that you
and I are the only strangers in the place; and it makes me, for my
part, feel uncomfortable. Such a thing never before happened in any
house where I have been."
"At any rate, Mrs. Penn, _you_ must be exempt from suspicion."
"It is not altogether that. I look at it in this light. These servants
are searched: they are proved innocent; at least nothing is found upon
them to imply guilt. They may turn round and say—why don't you search
these two strangers?—and talk of injustice. However—of course Mr.
Chandos must do as he pleases: he seems sole master here."
"Do not fear that he will suspect either you or me, Mrs. Penn. And Lady
Chandos, as I gather, knows nothing of the matter."
The search and the commotion had the effect of delaying dinner. It was
late when the men departed, and I got tired of being alone in the
oak-parlour. Mr. Chandos had gone out somewhere. Putting a shawl over
my shoulders, for the evenings were not so warm as they had been, I
went out and walked down the avenue.
All in a minute, as I paced it, it occurred to me that Mr. Chandos
might be coming home. Would it look as though I had gone to meet him!
Love was making me jealously reticent, and I plunged thoughtlessly into
the shady walks opposite, trusting to good luck to take me back to the
house. Good luck proved a traitor. It lost my way for me: and when I
found it again I was at the far end of the pine-walk.
To my dismay. The superstitions attaching to this gloomy walk flashed
into my mind. Outside, it had been a grey twilight; here it was nearly
as dark as night: in fact, night had set in. There was nothing for it
but to run straight through: to turn back would be worse now: and I
should inevitably lose myself again. I was about half way up the walk,
flying like the wind, when in turning a corner I ran nearly against Mr.
Chandos, who was coming quickly down it.
But, in the first moment I did not recognise him; it was too dark. Fear
came over me, my heart beat wildly and but for catching hold of him I
must have screamed.
"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, loosing him. "I did not know you
quite at first."
"_You_ here!" he exclaimed in abrupt astonishment, and (as it sounded
to my ear) alarm. "What did you come into this dreary portion of the
grounds for, and at this hour? I have already warned you not to do it."
I told him quite humbly how it was: that I had got into it without
knowing, after losing my way. Humbly, because he seemed to be in anger
at my disobedience.
"I had better take you out of it," he said, drawing my arm within his,
without the ceremony of asking leave. "When dusk approaches, you must
confine your rambles to the open walk, Miss Hereford."
"Indeed, yes. This has been a lesson to me. But it seemed quite light
outside."
He went on without another word, walking as though he were walking for
a wager; almost dragging me, so swift was his pace. The dark boughs
meeting overhead, the late hour, the still atmosphere, imparted
altogether a sensation of strange dreariness.
All at once a curious thing occurred. What, I scarcely know to this
day. I saw nothing; I heard nothing; but Mr. Chandos apparently did,
for he stopped short, and his face became as one living terror. At this
portion of the walk there was no outlet on either side; the trees and
the low dwarf shrubs around them were too thickly planted. His eyes and
ears alike strained—not that he could see far, for the walk wound in
and out—Mr. Chandos stood; then he suddenly drew me close against those
said trees, placed himself before me, and bent my face down upon his
breast, so that I could see nothing.
"You will be safe thus; I will take care of you," he whispered, the
words trembling as they left his hot lips. "Hush! Be still, for the
love of Heaven."
So entirely was I taken by surprise, so great was my alarm, that
"still" I kept, unresistingly; there as he placed and held me. I heard
measured footsteps advance, pass us—they must have touched him—and go
on their way. Mr. Chandos's heart was beating more violently than is
common to man, and as the steps went by, he clasped me with almost a
painful pressure; so that to look up, had I been so inclined, was
impossible. When the sound of the footsteps had died away, he raised
his head, went on a few yards up the walk, and drew me into one of the
narrow intersecting paths, holding still my face near to him. His own
was deadly white. Then he released my head, just a little.
"Anne, I could not help it. You must forgive me."
The name, Anne—the first time he had called me by it—sent a whole rush
of joy through my veins. What with that, what with the emotion
altogether, what with the fright, I burst into tears.
"You are angry with me!"
"Oh, no, not angry. Thank you for sheltering me: I am sure you must
have had good cause. I am only frightened."
"Indeed, I had cause," he replied, in a passionate sort of wail. "But
you are safe now. I wish—I wish I could shelter you through life."
He must have felt my heart beat at the words; he must; swifter, far,
than his had done just now.
"But what was the danger?" I took courage to ask.
"A danger that you may not inquire about. You have escaped it; let that
suffice. But you must never encounter the risk again; do you hear,
Anne?"
"Only tell me how I am to avoid it."
"By keeping away from these gloomy walks at nightfall. I feel as if I
could never be thankful enough for having come up when I did."
He had turned into the pine-walk again, my arm within his now, and was
striding up it. At the top he released me quite.
"Shall you be afraid to run across the lawn alone?"
"Oh, no; there's the hall-lamp for company."
"To be sure. One moment yet. I want a promise from you."
He held me before him, looking straight into my eyes, and took my hand
between both of his, not in affection, I saw that well enough, but in
painful anxiety.
"A promise not to mention what has occurred to any one."
"Trust me, I will not. _Trust_ me, Mr. Chandos."
"Yes, I do trust you. Thank you, my dear little friend."
But all the while his face had remained cold and white. Rarely had such
terror fallen upon man: its signs were there. He turned back into the
walk again, and I ran swiftly across in the stream of light thrown on
the grass by the hall-lamp, and got indoors; one bewildering query
haunting me—did ghosts emit sounds as of footsteps when they walked?
My dinner was getting cold on the table. Hickens stared at me as I went
in, wondering, doubtless, where I had been. Mr. Chandos's place
remained unoccupied; and the things were taken away. I did marvel at
his remaining out of doors so long. By-and-by, Hill came in to get
something from the sideboard; she ran in and out of the rooms at will,
without any sort of ceremony. To speak to her was a sort of relief.
"Hill, don't you think it is very imprudent of Mr. Chandos to be out in
the night-air so long, considering that he was ill recently?"
"I should if he was in it," responded Hill, in the short tone she
always gave me. "Mr. Chandos is in the west wing with my lady."
It had occurred to my mind many times—and I think I was right—that Hill
resented the fact of my unfortunate detention at Chandos.
On the following day a new feature was to be added to the mysterious
illness of Lady Chandos—a doctor at length came to see her. He had
travelled from a distance, as was understood; but whether by train or
other conveyance did not appear. They called him Dr. Laken. He was a
short, thin man, getting in years, with dark eyes, and a benevolent,
and truthful countenance. His appearance was unexpected—but it seemed
more welcome than gold. Mr. Chandos came to him in the oak-parlour,
shaking hands warmly.
"Doctor! how glad I am to see you! So you have at last returned!"
"Ay, safe and sound; and considerably refreshed by my two months'
change. Where do you think I have been, Mr. Harry? All the way to the
other end of Scotland."
"And you were such a stay-at-home!"
"When I was obliged to be. I'm getting old now, and my son has taken to
the patients. Well, and who is it that is in urgent need of me? Your
blooming self?"
"My blooming self is in no need of medical aid just now," replied Mr.
Chandos, something constrained in his voice. "Will you take anything at
once, doctor?"
"I'll see my patient first. It is my lady, I suppose?"
Mr. Chandos nodded.
"Ah," said the doctor, following him from the parlour, "I said, you may
remember, that the time might come when you'd be glad of me at Chandos.
No skill in these remote parts; a set of muffs, all; known to be."
Mr. Chandos echoed his laugh; and leading the way to his study, shut
himself in with the doctor. Afterwards he took him up to the west wing.
Why should Mr. Chandos have denied that he was ill?—as by implication
he certainly did—was the question that I kept asking myself. Later,
when he came to the oak-parlour, I asked it of him.
"One patient is enough in a house," was all his answer. He had come
down from the west wing grave, grave even to sadness.
"But—to imply that you were well—when you know what the other doctor
said!"
"Hush! Don't allude to that. It was a painful episode, one that I like
to be silent upon. The—the danger, as I thought it, passed with the
day, you know."
"But are you really better?"
"I am well enough, now," he answered, the gloom on his face breaking.
"At least, I should be if—I mean that I am as well as I can expect to
be."
"Oh, Mr. Chandos! I think you are only saying this to satisfy me."
"Anne—I must call you 'Anne;' I did so last night, you know, and I
cannot go back to the formality of 'Miss Hereford'——"
"Yes, yes, please call me it," I interrupted all too earnestly.
He touched the tip of my shoulder, looking down with a sad sweet smile
into my eyes and my blushing face.
"Anne, whether I am ill or well, you must not make it of moment to you.
I wish it might be otherwise."
I felt fit to strike myself. Had I so betrayed my own feelings? The
soft blush of love turned to the glowing red of shame, and I could but
look down, in hope of hiding it.
"My little friend! my dear little friend!" he softly whispered, as if
to atone for the former words, "in saying I wish it might be
otherwise—and perhaps I owe it to you to say as much—the subject must
close. You and I may be the best friends living, Anne; and that is all
I can be to you, or to any one."
Quitting the parlour rather hastily, he encountered Dr. Laken in the
hall, who had just come down from the west wing. Mr. Chandos said
something in a low tone; I presume, by the answer, it was an inquiry as
to what he thought of his patient.
"Emaciated, and as obstinate as——"
Mr. Chandos checked the loud voice; and the doctor, turning into the
parlour, caught sight of me.
"I never was famous for civility you know, Mr. Harry, but I confess I
ought not to abuse Lady Chandos before this young lady: I was going to
say 'obstinate as a mule.' Your mother _is_ obstinate."
"I know it," replied Mr. Chandos, lifting his eyes to the doctor's.
"That is one of the worst features of the case. They are all bad
enough."
"And it can't be remedied. Unless—but there might be danger attending
that. Besides—well, well, we must do the best we can; it would not
answer to try experiments on Lady Chandos."
Up to the word "besides," Dr. Laken seemed to be forgetting that I was
in the room; with the recollection he stopped, making the break. Mr.
Chandos rang for refreshments to be served, and I gathered up my work
to leave them alone.
"I wish you could remain for the night, Dr. Laken."
"So do I. But it's of no use wishing it, Mr. Harry. I'll see what I can
do towards spending a couple of days here next week."
They were the last words I heard. In half an hour the pony carriage was
ordered round, and the doctor went away, Mr. Chandos driving.