MRS. PENN'S REVELATION.
Against the tree to which the powerful push had flung him, he stood
quietly. There had been no blow. Mr. Chandos had but come between us,
calmly put me behind him, laid his hand on Mr. Edwin Barley's chest,
and pushed him backwards. These very slender, delicate-looking men
sometimes possess unusual strength—as he did. Edwin Barley, in an
encounter, would have been as a reed in his hand.
Neither of them seemed in a passion: at least their manner did not
betray it. Mr. Chandos's face was a little paler than common; it was
stern, haughty, and its nostrils were working; but otherwise he looked
cool and collected. And Mr. Edwin Barley stood gazing at him, a strange
look of conscious power in his eye and lip.
"How dare you presume to molest this young lady?" were the first words
of Mr. Chandos. "What do you mean by it?"
"As to 'molesting,' I do not understand the term, as applied to Miss
Hereford," returned Mr. Edwin Barley, with cool equanimity. "I possess
the right to talk to her, and touch her; you don't. Neither possess you
the right to protect her: I do. What relative may she be of yours?"
"None. But she is my mother's guest."
"None; just so. She is my niece."
Mr. Chandos, with a gesture of astonishment, looked in my face for
confirmation or refutation. He got neither. I only clung to him for
protection, the tears running down my cheeks.
"She has no protecting relative save myself; she has no other relative,
so far as I know, or she knows, in the world, save a lad younger than
she is," pursued Mr. Edwin Barley, no anger in his tone, only the
firmness of conscious power. "My niece, I tell you, sir."
"Whatever she may be, she is residing under my mother's roof, and as
such, is in my charge. If you ever dare to touch her against her will
again, sir, I will horsewhip you."
Mr. Chandos held his riding-whip in his hand as he spoke (he had
brought it out by chance), and it trembled ominously. Mr. Edwin Barley
drew back his lips: not in laughter, in all he did he was in earnest,
and his teeth were momentarily seen. Few could boast a set so white and
beautiful.
"Harry Chandos, you know that you will one day have to pay for your
incivility."
"I know nothing of the sort; and if I did, the Chandoses are not given
to calculation. I can tell you what you shall be made to pay for, Mr.
Edwin Barley—the trespassing upon my domains. I warned you off them
once; I will not warn you again—the law shall do it for me."
"_Your_ domains!" retorted Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Yes, sir, mine," was the haughty answer. "They are mine so long as I
am the representative of Sir Thomas Chandos. Have the goodness to quit
them now, or I will call my servants to escort you."
Whatever Mr. Edwin Barley might do privately, he knew he had no legal
right to remain within the domains of Chandos, when ordered off them,
and he was not one openly to defy usages. He moved away in the
direction of the gates; turning his head to speak at about the third
step, and halting as he did so.
"The law, so far, lies with you at present, Mr. Harry Chandos. A short
while, and perhaps it will lie with me, in a matter far more weighty.
As to you, Anne, I shall officially claim you."
Nothing else was said. Mr. Chandos watched him to the turning of the
dark wall, then walked by my side to the house, flicking the shrubs
with his whip.
"I happened to have it with me," he said, whether addressing the whip,
or me, or the air, was not clear. "I was fastening the handle, which
had got loose. _Is_ that man your uncle?"
He turned to me full now, a look of stern pain on his pale, proud face.
The tears gushed forth again at the question; I was wishing my heart
could break.
"Oh no, no; indeed I am no blood-relation of his."
Mr. Chandos went on without another word. I thought he was despising
me: would think that I had been in league with his enemy, Edwin Barley.
I who had pretended not to know him!
The cloth was laid in the oak-parlour, but there were no lights yet.
Mr. Chandos flung his whip into a corner, and stood in the shade of the
curtain. I went up to him, feeling very hysterical.
"Do not misjudge me, Mr. Chandos. I will tell you all, if you please,
after dinner. I should have told you before but that I have felt so
frightened at Mr. Edwin Barley."
"Since when have you felt frightened?"
"Since I was a little girl. I had not seen him for a good many years
until I saw him here at Chandos, and I was afraid to speak of
him—afraid also that he would recognise me."
"He says he can claim you. Is that an idle boast?"
"I don't know; I don't understand English laws. Perhaps he might, but I
would a great deal rather die."
The tears were falling down my face, lifted to his in its yearning for
pity and forgiveness. Mr. Chandos bent towards me, a strange look of
tenderness in his earnest eyes. I think he was going to lay his kind
hand on my shoulder to assure me of his care, when at that moment some
one passed the window, whom I took to be Edwin Barley. It was but the
gardener—as I learned later—he had put on his coat to go home; a short,
dark man walking past, and the dusk was deceptive. I thought Edwin
Barley had come to take me there and then.
For the minute I was certainly not in my proper senses: terror alone
reigned. I laid hold of Mr. Chandos in hysterical excitement, clinging
to him as one clings for dear life.
"Oh, keep me, keep me! Do not let him take me! Mr. Chandos! Mr.
Chandos! I know you are angry with me and despise me; but do not give
me up to him!"
Before I had done speaking he had me in his arms, holding me closely to
his breast. We stood there in the shade of the dark room, heart beating
wildly against heart.
"I wish I could give myself the right to keep you from him, and from
every other ill," he breathed. "Do you know, Anne, that I love you
above all else in the world?"
I—I made no answer, save that I did turn my face a little bit towards
his; but I should have liked to remain where I was for ever.
"But, my darling, it can only end here as it has begun; for I cannot
marry. My brother, Sir Thomas, does not marry."
I looked at him. He saw that I would have asked why.
"Because we ought not: it would not be right. There are dark clouds
hanging over Chandos: should they open, it would be to hurl down
desolation and disgrace. How can either of us, he or I, think of
exposing a wife to encounter this? Could I in honour do it?"
"It might be happier for you, if this sorrow should arrive, to have one
with you to soothe your cares and share them."
"And there is one who would not shrink from it," he said, tenderly, the
tears standing in his eyes. "Had I not seen that, Anne, I should have
been as much knave as fool to confess to my own state of feeling. For
some days past I have been thinking it might be better to speak; that I
owed as much to you; to speak and have done with it. Before I knew my
danger, love had stolen over me, and it was too late to guard against
it. It has not been our fault: we were thrown together."
He took some impassioned kisses from my face. I let him take them. I'm
afraid I did not think whether it was right or wrong; I'm not sure that
I cared which it was: I only know that I felt as one in a blissful
dream.
"I have been betrayed into this, Anne," he said, releasing me. "I ought
to beg your pardon in all humility. It is not what I intended: though I
might just tell you of my love, I never thought to give you tokens of
it. Will you forgive me?"
He held out his hand. I put mine into it, the silent tears running down
my blushing face. "Do not fear a similar transgression for the future.
The fleeting moment over, it is over for good. I would give half my
remaining existence, Anne, to be able to marry, to make you my wife;
but it cannot be. Believe me, my darling, it _cannot_. No, though you
are my darling, and will be for ever."
"Oh look! look at this! It is from your hand! What has happened to it?"
On my dress of white sprigged muslin there were two red stains, wet.
The straps of his hand had become loosened, perhaps in the encounter
with Mr. Edwin Barley, and it had burst out bleeding again. I ran
upstairs to put on another dress, leaving Mr. Chandos to attend to his
hand.
Oh, but I was in a glow of happiness! He had said he could not marry.
What was marriage to me? Had there been no impediment on his side,
there might have been one on mine: a poor friendless young governess
was no match for Mr. Chandos of Chandos. He loved me: that was quite
enough for present bliss; and, as it seemed to me, for future.
Mr. Chandos presided at dinner as usual, himself once more; calm,
collected, courteous, and gentlemanly. The servants in waiting could
never have suspected he had been making me a declaration of love, and
pressing kisses on my lips not many minutes before.
"Did you get to see the letter at Warsall?" I asked, when the servants
had left again, and silence was growing for me too self-conscious.
"Yes, but I don't know the handwriting. It looks like a lady's. They
let me bring the note home; I'll show it you presently. Talking of
that——"
"Without concluding, he rose, went to a side-table, and brought me a
box, done up in paper.
"There! Don't say I forget you."
It contained gloves; a good many pairs. Beautiful French gloves of all
colours; some dark and useful, others delicate and rare. But I thought
it would not be right to accept them, and the tell-tale pink flushed my
cheeks.
"Don't scruple; they are not from me. Look at the bit of writing
paper."
I pulled it out of the box. A few words were on it, pencilled by Lady
Chandos, asking me to wear the gloves.
"It happened that I was going to buy some for my mother to-day. When I
went up to her after Black Knave was brought round, I told her Miss
Hereford had no gloves left, and she asked me to get you some. There,
Miss Hereford."
I supposed I might wear them now. The blushes changed to crimson, and I
began putting on a glove to cover my confusion. Mr. Chandos ate his
grapes with his usual equanimity.
"Six and a half. How did you guess my size?"
"By your hand. I had seen it, and felt it."
As if jealous of the interview—it seemed so to me at the moment—Hill
came in to break it. Lady Chandos wanted him in the west wing.
He went up at once. I sat thinking of all that had occurred. Would Mr.
Edwin Barley indeed claim me? _Could_ he? Would the law allow him? A
shiver took me at the thought.
The tea waited on the table when he came down again. It seems very
monotonous, I feel sure, to be alluding so continually to the meals,
but you see they were the chief times when I was alone with Mr.
Chandos; so I can only crave pardon.
Mr. Chandos's countenance wore a sad and gloomy look: but that was
nothing unusual after his visits to the west wing. I wondered very much
that he did not have the shutters closed after what took place the
previous night; but there they were open, and nothing between the room
and the window but the thin lace curtains. The oak-brown silk curtains,
with their golden flowers, were at the extreme corners of the windows,
not made to draw. Long afterwards I found that he had the shutters left
open because I was there. As the habit had been to leave them open
previously, he did not choose to alter it now: people inclined to be
censorious, might have remarked upon it. That aspect of the affair
never occurred to me.
"What led to the scene with that man to-day?" he abruptly asked, after
drinking his cup of tea in silence. "How came you to meet him?"
I briefly explained. Mentioning also that I had seen Mrs. Penn with
him, and what she said to me of his inquiries. And I told him of Mr.
Edwin Barley's questions to me about the visit of the police-officers.
"If Mrs. Penn is to make an acquaintance of Mr. Edwin Barley, she
cannot remain at Chandos," he coldly remarked. "Have you finished tea?
Then it shall go away."
He rose to ring the bell, did not resume his seat again, but stood with
his back to the fire, and watched the servants take the things away. I
got my work about as usual.
"Now then, Anne, I claim your promise. What are you to Edwin Barley?
and what is he to you?"
A moment's pause. But I had made my mind up to tell him all, and would
not flinch now the moment had come. Putting down the work, I sat with
my hands on my lap.
"Did you know that there was once a Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
"Unfortunately, I had too good cause to know it."
I thought the answer a strange one, but went on.
"She was a Carew. Miss Selina Carew, of Keppe-Carew."
"I know she was."
"And my aunt."
"Your aunt!" he repeated, looking at me strangely. "Why, whose daughter
are you?"
"My father was Colonel Hereford. A brave officer and gentleman."
"Thomas Hereford? Of the —th?"
"Yes."
"And your mother?"
"My mother was Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew. She was a good deal older
than Selina. They were sisters."
The information appeared to surprise him beyond expression. He sat down
in a chair in front of me, his eyes fixed on my face with an earnest
gaze.
"The daughter of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew! And
we have been thinking of you as only a governess! Je vous en fais mes
compliments empressés, Miss Hereford! You are of better family than
ours."
"That does me no good. I have still to be a governess."
"Does it not, young lady? Well—about Mrs. Edwin Barley. Did you see
much of her?"
"Not much until the last. I was there when she died."
"There! At Edwin Barley's! She died at his place near Hallam."
"Yes." And I gave him the outline of what had taken me there: to spend
the short interval between mamma's death and my being placed at school.
"You must have heard of a—a tragedy"—he spoke the words in a
hesitating, unwilling manner—"that occurred there about the same time.
A young man, a ward of Edwin Barley's, died."
"Philip King. Yes; he was killed. I saw it done, Mr. Chandos."
"Saw what done?"
"Saw Philip King murdered. That's not a nice word to repeat, but it is
what they all called it at the time. I was in the wood. I saw the shot
strike him, and watched him fall."
"Why, what a strange girl you are!" Mr. Chandos exclaimed, after a
pause of astonishment. "What else have you seen?"
"Nothing like that. Nothing half so dreadful. I trust I never shall."
"I trust not, either. Anne," he continued, dropping his voice to a low,
solemn tone, "you say you saw that shot strike him. _Who fired it?_"
"It was said to be—but perhaps I ought not to mention the name even to
you, Mr. Chandos," I broke off. "Mrs. Hemson cautioned me never to
repeat it under any circumstances."
"Who is Mrs. Hemson?"
"She was also once a Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew. Her father was John
Carew; and my grandfather, Hubert Carew, succeeded him. She married Mr.
Hemson; he was in trade, and the Carews did not like it: but oh, Mr.
Chandos, he is one of the noblest of gentlemen in mind and manners."
"As I have heard my mother say. Go on, Anne."
"After Mrs. Edwin Barley died, I was sent to Mrs. Hemson's at
Dashleigh; she had undertaken the charge of fixing on a school for me.
It was she who told me not to mention the name."
"You may mention it to me. Was it George Heneage?"
"You know it, then, Mr. Chandos!"
"I know so much—as the public in general knew. They said it was George
Heneage; a gentleman staying there at the time. Did you see who it was
that fired the shot? Pray answer me."
"I did not see it fired: but I think it was George Heneage. Quite at
first I doubted, because—but never mind that. I did not doubt
afterwards, and I think it was certainly George Heneage."
"'Never mind' will not do for me, Anne. I mind it all; have too much
cause; and from me you must conceal nothing. Why did you at first doubt
that it was George Heneage?"
"I saw Mr. Edwin Barley coming from the direction where the shot was
fired, with his gun in his hand, and wondered at the moment whether he
had done it. I used to feel afraid of him; I did not like him; and he
disliked George Heneage.
"Did you hear or know the cause of his dislike of George Heneage?"
"I gathered it," I answered, feeling my face flush.
"Mrs. Edwin Barley was beautiful, was she not?" he asked, after a
pause.
"Very beautiful."
"Are you anything like her?"
I could not help laughing. I like Selina!
"Not one bit. She had a very fair, piquante face, light and careless,
with blue eyes and a mass of light curling hair."
"Do you remember George Heneage?" he continued, stooping for something
as he asked the question.
"No; not his face. When I try to recall it, it always seems to slip
from me. I remember thinking him good-looking. He was very tall.
Charlotte Delves called him a scarecrow; but I thought she disliked him
because Mr. Edwin Barley did."
"Who was Charlotte Delves?"
"She lived there. She was distantly related to Mr. Edwin Barley.
Jemima—one of the maids—once said that Charlotte Delves liked Mr. Edwin
Barley too well to be just."
"I remember hearing of her—of some relation, at least, who was in the
house at the time," he observed, in a dreamy sort of tone. "Delves?
perhaps that was the name. A candid, pleasant-mannered, ladylike
woman—as described to me."
"I don't recollect much about her, or what she was like, except that
she was very kind to me after my Aunt Selina's death. It is a good
while ago, and I was only a little girl."
"Ay. But now, Anne, I want you to relate to me all the particulars of
that bygone miserable tragedy: anything and everything that you may
remember as connected with it. Understand me: it is not curiosity that
prompts me to ask it. Were I to consult my own wishes, I would bury the
whole in a stream of Lethe; every word spoken of it is to me so much
agony. Nevertheless, you may do me a service if you will relate what
you know of it."
"I would tell you willingly, Mr. Chandos. But—I fear—I—should have to
seem to cast blame on Selina."
"You cannot cast so much blame on her as has already been cast on her
to me. Perhaps your account may tend to remove the impression it left
on my mind."
I began at the beginning, and told him all, so far as I could
recollect, giving my childish impressions of things. I told him also my
own early history. When I came to the details of Philip King's death,
Mr. Chandos sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, his face turned
from me and buried in his hand.
"You saw George Heneage just afterwards?" he remarked.
"Yes. He was hiding in the wood, trembling all over, and his face very
white."
"Had he the look of a guilty man?"
"I think he had. Had he not been guilty, why should he not have come
openly forward to succour Philip King?"
"True. Did Mrs. Edwin Barley deem him guilty?"
"Not at first. I don't know what she might have done later. Mr. Edwin
Barley did."
"As he took care to let the world know. Go on with your narrative,
Anne. I ought not to have interrupted it."
I went on to the end. Mr. Chandos heard me without comment; and
remained so long silent that I thought he was never going to speak
again.
"Has George Heneage ever been heard of, do you happen to know, Mr.
Chandos?"
"It is said not."
"Then I think he must be dead. Or perhaps he has kept out of the
country. Mr. Edwin Barley said at the time that he would bring him to
justice, were it years and years to come."
"Mr. Edwin Barley was excessively bitter against him. He, Barley,
succeeded to Philip King's fine property. Were I on the jury when
George Heneage was brought to trial, I should require strong
proof—stronger than brought, Edwin Barley's word—ere I convicted him."
"Mr. Edwin Barley did not shoot him," I said, gravely.
"I do not accuse him; I feel sure he did not. But there were one or two
private doubts entertained upon the matter; I can tell you that, Anne.
He was suspiciously eager in his accusations of George Heneage!"
"Think of his provocation! Selina and George Heneage had both lived
only to provoke him; and people said he was really attached to Philip
King."
"Good arguments, Anne. I believe I am unjust in all that relates to
Edwin Barley."
"But why should you be, Mr. Chandos? Don't you think it must have been
George Heneage who did the murder?"
"I beg you will not use that ugly word, Anne. My full and firm belief
is that it was an accident—nothing more."
"Then why should George Heneage stay away?"
"A natural question. Of course we cannot answer for what George Heneage
does or does not do. Were he to appear in England, Mr. Edwin Barley
would instantly cause him to be apprehended; there's no doubt of that;
innocent or guilty, he must stand his trial; and to some men that
ordeal would be just as bad as conviction. Besides, he might not be
able to prove that it was but an accident; I think he would not be;
and, failing that proof, he would be condemned. In saying this, I am
not seeking to defend George Heneage."
"Did you ever see George Heneage, Mr. Chandos?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you knew him?"
He made no reply; but rose from his seat and began to pace the room.
"About that will of Mrs. Edwin Barley's, Anne?" he presently asked.
"Did her husband destroy it?"
If I had thought so as a child, and thought so still, it was not
possible for me to say it; but Mr. Chandos had acquired a habit of
reading what I hesitated to speak.
"I see; you think it better not to avow dangerous doctrines."
"Indeed, I should be grieved to know that he really took it. Its
disappearance was very strange."
"You don't think he took it; you only had an instinct that way. But,
Anne, your instincts are generally true ones. Mr. Barley has the
character of being a hard, grasping man, loving money better than
anything else in the world, except the bringing to punishment of George
Heneage. He could not bear for the little trifle to go beside him;
compared to his large property, it was but what a drop of water is to
the wide ocean. He did not want it, you did; you have but little."
"I have nothing, nothing but what I earn. Mamma sunk for my education
the trifle of money she had saved."
"But—the daughter of Colonel Hereford ought to enjoy a pension," he
debated, stopping short in his walk.
"Papa sold out previous to his death."
"Oh, I see," and he resumed his walk.
"Mr. Chandos, may I ask you a question?"
"You know you may. I will answer it if I can."
"What has Mr. Edwin Barley to do with you? Why should he be your
enemy?"
"That is what I cannot answer," he quickly rejoined. "He is an
implacable enemy to me and my family; and likely ever to remain so. I
cannot divest myself of the idea that he was the author of that visit
we were favoured with last night by the police. Between the two—him and
his wife—we have suffered enough. I should be puzzled to say which of
them did us most harm, Miss Hereford."
Miss Hereford! And I was the Barleys' relative! My heart felt sick and
faint within me.
"Well, what now?" asked Mr. Chandos, who happened to be looking, and he
came up and stood close before me.
"Nothing, sir, nothing; only I cannot help Selina's having been my
aunt. Perhaps you will never care to be kind to me again."
His eyes, so grave before, quite danced with their pleasant light. He
laid his hand gently on my shoulder.
"Anne, the only kind thought I have had of your aunt Selina is since I
knew she was of your kindred. If——"
I pushed his hand away from me. I rose with a vivid blush. Inside the
door, having come in so quietly as to be unheard, stood Mrs. Penn, Mr.
Chandos turned, a haughty frown on his brow.
"I beg your pardon, madam; do you want anything?"
"I beg yours, sir, for my intrusion," she answered, civilly. "I only
had a little errand with Miss Hereford. Will you"—turning to me—"kindly
let me have my embroidery scissors, if you have done with them?"
I took them from my basket and gave them to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Penn,
for the loan of them. They cut my strip of work nicely."
"It is a chilly evening," she remarked, moving to depart. "I fancy we
are going to have rain."
Mr. Chandos opened the door for her, and when she left slipped the
bolt. Ere he was half way across the room on his return, however, he
went back and undid it, some reflection appearing to strike him. His
brow was stern and displeased.
"That Mrs. Penn is a curious woman!"
"Curious! In what way, sir? Do you mean her hair?"
He slightly laughed. "I spoke the word literally, Anne. She came in, I
fancy, just to see what was going on, the scissors being the excuse."
"She complains of its being so dull in the east wing. I think she is
glad to escape from it for a moment when she can."
"Ay, no doubt; we must not be harsh upon her. She is a contrast to Mrs.
Freeman, who never put herself into anybody's way. I wish I could
discover the author of these losses in the house," he continued,
passing to another subject. "Had it been alone the looking into letters
or stealing them, I might have suspected Edwin Barley. That is, that
some one was at work for him here. That he would like to get my private
memoranda into his fingers, and peep at my letters, I know; but he
could have no possible motive for causing lace and money to be stolen."
My head was full of Lizzy Dene, and I thought the time had come for me
to speak. Ah, what would I not tell him in the bond of confidence that
seemed to be established between us.
"But, Mr. Chandos—suppose, for argument's sake—that he has an agent in
the house; suppose that it is a woman, that agent may be transacting a
little business on her own account while she does his."
Mr. Chandos came and stood before me. "Have you a motive in saying
this?"
"Yes. I think, I do think, if there is one, that it is Lizzy Dene."
Of course, having said so much, I told all. Of the interview that some
one (I suspected Lizzy Dene) had held with Edwin Barley in the grounds;
the chance meeting they had held that afternoon. Mr. Chandos was
terribly displeased, but still he could not—I saw it—be brought to
believe that it was Dene.
"You have great faith in her, Mr. Chandos?"
"I have, because I believe Lizzy Dene to be of true and honest nature;
I do not think her capable of acting as a spy, or any other false part.
She is an inveterate gossip; she is superstitious, and looks after
ghosts; but I believe her to be faithful to the backbone."
It was no use to contend: he had his opinion, I had mine. To look at
Lizzy's face, to listen to her voice, I should have thought her honest
too; but I could not shut my eyes to facts and circumstances. Mr.
Chandos rang for Hill.
"I want to say a word to Lizzy Dene, Hill; incidentally, you
understand. Can you contrive to send her here on some ostensible
errand?"
Hill nodded her head and withdrew. Presently Lizzy Dene came in with a
knock and a curtsey; she went to the sideboard and began looking in it
for something that appeared difficult to find. Mr. Chandos, standing
with his back to the fire, suddenly accosted her; she had got her head
nearly inside one of the sideboard cupboards.
"How long have you known Mr. Edwin Barley, Lizzy?"
"Known who, sir, did you ask?" she returned, standing up and looking
round at him.
"Mr. Edwin Barley."
"I don't know him at all, sir," she replied, after a minute's pause
given apparently to surprise and consideration. "Not but what I seem to
have heard that name—lately, too."
"He is the new tenant at the house outside the gates."
"Dear! yes, to be sure! Two of the men were talking of him one day;
that was the name, for I remember I said it put me in mind of the
fields. I have seen him once or twice sir; a short, dark man."
"Where did you first see him?"
"It was coming home from church one Sunday, sir. We were crossing the
road to the gates, me and Robin, and Harriet, when I noticed a swarthy
gentleman standing stock-still and staring at us. 'I hope he'll know us
again,' said I; 'he's ugly enough.' 'Hush!' says Robin, 'that's
master's new tenant at the house there!'"
"Have you spoken to him?" inquired Mr. Chandos.
"Well, sir, if you can call it speaking, I have. This evening, as I was
coming home, I met him in one of the walks. He wished me good evening,
and asked how my lady was. I stood to answer him, saying my lady was
still very ill. That's all, sir."
"Has he spoken to you at any other time?"
"No, sir, never. I had forgot his name, sir, till you mentioned it
now."
She did seem to speak truthfully, and Mr. Chandos looked at me. Lizzy,
finding nothing more was asked, turned to the sideboard again, and
presently quitted the room.
"The traitor is not Lizzy Dene, Anne!"
Certainly it did not appear to be. I felt puzzled. Mr. Chandos
continued his walk, and the clock struck ten. Putting up my work, I
held out my hand to wish him good-night, and took courage to speak out
the question lying so heavily on my heart.
"Do you think, sir, Mr. Edwin Barley can really claim me?"
"I cannot tell, Anne. At any rate he would have, I imagine, to make you
first of all a ward in Chancery, and get himself appointed guardian;
and that would take time."
"He could not come into your house and take me forcibly out of it?"
"Certainly not; and I—acting for Lady Chandos—will take very good care
he does not do it."
"Good-night, sir!"
"It is to be 'sir' to the end—is it? Good-night, Anne," he went on,
shaking me by the hand. "I wish I dare offer you a different good-night
from this formal one! I wish I could feel justified in doing it."
I don't know what I stammered; something foolish and incoherent; and in
tone, at any rate, full of my depth of love.
"No, it may not be," he answered, very decisively. "If a wavering
crossed my mind before, when I thought you—forgive me, Anne—an
unpretending governess-girl, as to whether I should lay the good and
the ill before you and let you decide, it has passed now. The daughter
of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew, must not be
trifled with. Good-night, child!"
The tears were streaming down my cheeks when I entered my bedroom. Had
Mr. Chandos cast me off for ever? Since that unlucky remark of his,
that my family was better than his own, I know not what sweet visions
of rose-colour had been floating in my mind. I _was_ of good descent,
with a lady's breeding and education; surely, if he could forgive my
want of money and my having lived as a dependent at Mrs. Paler's, there
had been no very great barrier between me and a younger brother of
Chandos!
Dwelling upon this, my tears blinding me, it startled me to see Mrs.
Penn quietly seated in my room. She pointed to the door.
"Shut it and bolt it, Miss Hereford. I have been waiting to talk to
you!"
I shut it, but did not slip the bolt. Where was the necessity? Nobody
ever came into my room at night—Mrs. Penn excepted.
"Come and sit down, and tell me why you are crying!"
"I am not crying. I have no cause to cry," I resentfully answered,
vexed beyond everything. "I thought of something as I came upstairs,
which brought the tears into my eyes: we often laugh until we cry, you
know."
"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Penn, "perhaps yours are tears of joy?"
"I should be so very much obliged if you could put off what you wish to
say until the morning. You don't know how sleepy I am."
"I know that you can tell a parcel of fibs, you wicked child," she
returned, in a fond accent. "Anne,—I shall call you so to-night,—I have
come to talk to you; and talk I shall. I want to save you."
"Save me from what?"
"From the—what shall I call it?—the machinations of Harry Chandos."
"Mr. Chandos is working no machinations against me."
"I know that he _is_. He has been making you a declaration of love."
The tell-tale crimson lighted up my face. Mrs. Penn continued, taking
my hand.
"I felt uneasy, and made my scissors an excuse for coming to the
oak-parlour. You should not have heard it from him. I warned you that
any attachment between you and Mr. Chandos could not end happily; you
cannot marry him!"
My nerves were completely unstrung, and I burst into tears; I could
play a false part no longer. It was bitter enough to hear her confirm
his own words. Mrs. Penn gently stroked my hair.
"Child, do you know why I thus interfere between you and Mr. Chandos? I
will tell you. A few years ago I became attached to a young girl of
eighteen—a connexion of mine. She was under my charge and under my eye;
her name, Lottie Penn! A stranger came, fascinating as Mr. Chandos; and
I, believing him to be upright and honourable, exercised little
caution. He gained her love, just as Mr. Chandos is gaining yours——
"Mrs. Penn!"
"Hush! do you think I am blind? He gained the love of Lottie; and, when
marriage came to be spoken of as a natural sequence, we found out that
we had been entertaining a Jesuit in disguise. He could not marry."
"A Jesuit?"
"I am speaking metaphorically. The man called himself a Protestant, if
he called himself anything. I heard him say he was a Christian. Very
Christian work it was of him to gain Lottie's heart, and then confess
that he had gained it for no end. Lottie died. The blow was too sharp
for her. She was a timid, gentle flower, and could not stand the rough
blast. Anne, believe me, there is no fate so cruel in the whole
catalogue of the world's troubles as that of misplaced love."
"Why could he not marry?" I asked, growing interested in the tale.
"Ah! why, indeed!" she answered, curling her lips with mockery: "why
cannot Harry Chandos? The cases are somewhat parallel. It is the
remembrance of Lottie which causes me to feel this interest in you, for
you put me very much in mind of her, and I must try to save you."
"There is nothing to save me from!" I answered, touched with her
kindness, and feeling ashamed of myself not to be more touched with it
than I was. "I am not likely to marry Mr. Chandos, or to be asked to
marry him!"
"My dear, I don't think I can be deceived. There _is_ love between
you!"
"You did not finish about Lottie," I said, evading the question. "Why
could he not marry her?"
"Because he had a wife living, from whom he was separated."
"At least, Mr. Chandos has not that."
She remained silent, only looked at me. I am not sure but an idea
struck me that the silence was strange. I could never tell afterwards
whether or not it so struck me _then_.
"I said the cases were somewhat parallel," she slowly observed.
"Scarcely, Mrs. Penn. Mr. Chandos at least does not deceive me. He says
he cannot marry. His life is given up to sorrow."
"Given up to sorrow? He says that, does he? Anne, I have half a mind to
tell you the truth. What is his sorrow, compared to that of poor Mrs.
Chandos. I pity _her_."
"Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I interrupted, seizing on the opportunity to
inquire on the subject that remained a puzzle, and thinking this kind
woman might satisfy me. "They call her Lady Chandos's daughter-in-law,
but I cannot see how she can be so."
"Mrs. Chandos was once Miss Ethel Wynne."
"But who is her husband?"
"Ah, _you_ may well ask. It is curious though that you should."
Was it the stress on the word "you?"—was it that her face was so
suggestive as it gazed into mine?—or was it that the previous vague
idea was growing into life? I knew not; I never have known. I only felt
that I turned sick with an undefined doubt and dread as I waited for
Mrs. Penn's answer. She was a full minute, looking into my whitening
face, before she gave it.
"My poor stricken lamb! Has it never struck you who it might be?
Speak."
Speak! I put up my trembling hand as if to beat off her words. That
unholy idea—yes, it did seem to me unholy in those first confused
moments—was growing into a great monster of fear. Mrs. Penn looked as
if she could not take in enough of the signs.
"What if her husband were Harry Chandos?"
With the strange noise surging in my ears—with my pulses standing cold
and still, and then coursing on to fever heat,—with my temples beating
to burning pain—no wonder I could not weigh my words.
"Oh, Mrs. Penn! Do not tell it me!"
"Think you that you need telling, Anne? I can add something more. Never
will Harry Chandos love again in this world, you or any one else, as
passionately as he once loved Ethel Wynne."
My senses were getting confused; as if I no longer understood things.
She went on.
"Husband and wife live apart sometimes, although they may inhabit the
same roof. She and Harry Chandos parted; it is years ago now; she used
him very ill; and I don't suppose he has ever so much as touched her
hand since, save in the very commonest courtesies of everyday life: and
that only when he could not help himself. Passion has long been over
between them; they are civil when they meet; nothing more. My poor
child, you look ready to fall."
I did fall. But not until she left the room. I fell on the ground, and
let my head lie there in my shock of misery. Much that had been obscure
before seemed to shine out clearly now; things to which I had wanted a
clue, appeared to be plain. I wished I could die, there as I lay,
rather than have found him out in deceit so despicable.