NOTHING BUT MISERY.
The sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, but there would be
no more day's sun for me. What a night I had passed! If you have ever
been deceived in the manner I had, you will understand it; if not, all
the writing in the world would fail to convey to you a tithe of the
misery that was mine—and that would be mine for years to come. _Her_
husband! whilst he pretended to love _me!_
All my study would now be to avoid Mr. Chandos. Entirely I could not;
for we must meet at the daily repasts when he chose to sit down to
them. In that I could not help myself. I was very silent that morning,
and he was busy with his newspapers.
He rode out after breakfast; to attend some county meeting, it was
said; and returned at four o'clock. I remained in my own room until
dinner-time; but I had to go down then.
He appeared inclined to be thoroughly sociable; talked and laughed; and
told me of a ludicrous scene which had occurred at the meeting; but I
was cold and reserved, scarcely answering him. He regarded me keenly,
as if debating with himself what it could be that had so changed my
manner. When the servants had withdrawn, I quitted my place at table,
and sat down in a low chair near the fire.
"Why do you go there?" said Mr. Chandos. "You will take some dessert?"
"Not this evening."
"But why?"
"My head aches."
He quitted the table, came up, and stood before me. "Anne, what is the
matter with you?"
My breath was coming quickly, my swelling heart seemed as if it must
burst. All the past rose up forcibly before me; he, a married man, had
mocked me with his love; had—oh, worse than all!—gained mine. It was a
crying insult; and it was wringing bitterly every sense of feeling I
possessed. Anything else I could have borne. Mrs. Penn had hinted at
some great crime; words of his own had confirmed it. Had he committed
every crime known to man, I could have better forgiven it. But for this
deliberate deceit upon me, there could be no forgiveness: and there
could be no cure, no comfort for my lacerated heart.
"Are you angry with me for any cause? Have I offended you?"
The question unnerved me worse than I was already unnerved. It did
more, it raised all the ire of my spirit. A choice between two evils
only seemed to be left to me; either to burst into hysterical tears, or
to openly reproach Mr. Chandos. The latter course came first.
"Why did you deceive me, Mr. Chandos?"
"Deceive you!"
"Yes, deceive me, and wretchedly deceive me," I answered in my
desperation; neither caring nor quite knowing what it was I said. "How
came you to speak to me at all of love knowing _why_ it is that you
cannot marry?"
He bit his lip as he looked at me. "Do _you_ know why it is?"
"I do now. I did not yesterday, as you may be very sure!"
"It is impossible you can know it," he rejoined, in some agitation.
"Mr. Chandos, I _do_. Spare me from saying more. It is not a subject on
which either you or I should enlarge."
"And pray, Anne, who was it that enlightened you?"
"_That_ is of no consequence," I passionately answered, aroused more
and more by the cool manner of his taking the reproach. "I know now
what the barrier is you have more than once hinted at, and that is
quite enough."
"You consider that barrier an insuperable one—that I ought not to have
avowed my love?"
I burst into hysterical tears. It was the last insult: and the last
feather, you know, breaks the camel's back. Alas! we were at
cross-purposes.
"Forgive me, Anne," he sadly cried. "Before I remembered that there
might be danger in your companionship; before I was aware that love
could ever dawn for me, it had come, and was filling every crevice of
my heart. It is stirring within me now as I speak to you. My pulses are
thrilling with the bliss of your presence; my whole being tells of the
gladness of heaven."
In spite of the cruel wrong; in spite of my own bitter misery; in spite
of the ties to which he was bound, to hear the avowal of this deep
tenderness, stirred with a rapture akin to his every fibre of my
rebellious love. I know how terribly wrong it must seem; I know how
worse than wrong is the confession of it; but _so it was_. I was but
human.
"I am aware that I have acted unwisely," he pursued, his tone very
subdued and repentant. "Still—you must not blame me too greatly.
Circumstances are at least as much in fault. We were thrown together,
unavoidably; I could not, for reasons, absent myself from home; you
were located in it. Of course I ought to have remembered that I was not
free to love: but then you see, the danger did not occur to my mind. If
it had, I should have been cold as an icicle."
To hear him defend himself seemed worse than all. I had thought, if
there lived one man on the face of the earth who was the soul of
nobility, uprightness, honour, it was Harry Chandos.
"It was the cruelest insult to me possible to be offered, Mr. Chandos."
"What was?"
"What was! The telling me of your love."
"Anne, I told it you because—forgive my boldness!—I saw that you loved
me."
Heaven help me! Yes, it was so; I did love him. My face grew burning
hot; I beat my foot upon the carpet.
"I did the best that could be done: at least I strove to do it. It was
my intention to lay before you the unhappy case without disguise, its
whole facts and deterrent circumstances, and then to say—'Now marry me
or reject me?'"
"How can you so speak to me, sir? Marry me! with—with—that barrier?"
"But that barrier may be removed."
Oh! I saw now, or fancied I saw, the far-off thought he was driving at.
Staying seemed to make matters worse; and I got up from my seat to
leave him.
"Your turning out to be who you are of course made the difficulty
greater. I said so last night——"
"No, it does not," I interrupted, with an impassioned sob, partly of
love, partly of anger. "Whether I am regarded as a poor strange
governess, or the daughter of Colonel Hereford, there could never,
never be any excuse for you."
"Is that your final, calm opinion?" he asked, standing before me to ask
the question.
"It is, Mr. Chandos. It will never change. You ought to despise me if
it could."
"Forgive, forgive me, Miss Hereford! Nothing remains for me now but to
ask it."
I could not forgive him; but I was spared saying it, for Hill opened
the parlour-door in haste.
"Mr. Harry, will you please go up to the west wing? At once, sir."
"Any change, Hill?"
"No, sir; it's not that. A little trouble."
"Oh! Mrs. Chandos is there, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
_Need_ he have asked that question, have mentioned her name in my
presence? It struck me that it was a gratuitous insult. Mr. Chandos
followed Hill from the room, and as soon as I thought he was safe
within the west wing, I flew up to my own chamber.
Flew up with a breaking heart: a heart that felt its need of solitude,
of being where it could indulge its own grief unseen, unmolested. I was
not, however, to gain my chamber; for, at the entrance to the east wing
stood Mrs. Penn, and she arrested me.
"Come into my sitting-room," she said. "Mrs. Chandos will not be back
for an hour. She is paying a visit to the west wing."
"Mr. Chandos also," I replied, as indifferently as I could well speak.
"Mr. Chandos also," she assented, having paused to look in my face
before speaking. "They meet there more frequently than the house
suspects."
"But why may they not meet? Why is it that they live estranged—or
appear to do so?"
"Sit you down," she said, drawing me along the passage and into a small
sitting-room. "Here is a warm seat by the fire. There is estrangement
between Mr. and Mrs. Chandos, but how far it precisely extends I cannot
tell you."
"I did not ask you how far the estrangement extended; I asked you its
cause."
"Be content with knowing what you do know, Miss Hereford, without
inquiring into causes. The advice is offered you in kindness. I can
tell you one thing, that never was more impassioned love given to woman
than he at one time felt for Mrs. Chandos."
Ashamed I am to confess that the words caused my heart to chill and my
face to burn. I turned the latter where it could not be seen. Mrs. Penn
continued.
"He says he loves you, but, compared with the passion he once bore for
Mrs. Chandos, his love for you is as _nothing_. Contrast the pale cold
beams of the moon with the burning rays of the tropical sun, and you
have a type of that passion, and of this one."
"Why do you say this to me? Is it well?"
"I deem it well. I say it because I think it right that you should know
it: were you my own child I should say more. You have one course only
before you, my dear, a plain and simple one."
"What is it?"
"To quit Chandos."
"I shall not do that."
"Not do it?"
"No."
"Miss Hereford, you _must_. There lives not a more attractive man than
Harry Chandos: and you are already three parts in his toils."
"In his toils? I do not understand you, Mrs. Penn."
"My dear, I only alluded to toils of the heart. I don't suppose he
would so far forget himself as to attempt positive ones."
I would not answer her: I felt too indignant, and sat holding my
throbbing temples. How dared she so speak to me?
"Your own good sense might to show you the necessity of leaving him. By
this time to-morrow evening you must have put miles between yourself
and Chandos," she eagerly continued, as though she had a personal
interest in my going. Hot, angry, flushed, I resented both the words
and the advice.
"Mrs. Penn, you are making too much of this. I think you have taken a
wrong view of things. My heart is all right, thank you."
"Is it!" she retorted. "You cannot stay on here, his companion. You
_cannot_, Anne Hereford."
"I will! Whether with him as a companion or without him is not of any
moment—he will not eat me. But I do not quit Chandos until my
legitimate plans call me away."
In point of fact I had nowhere to go to; but I did not say that. All
this, and her assumption of reading my love, drove me into a perfect
fit of anger.
Mrs. Penn paused, seemingly in deliberation, and when she next spoke it
was in a whisper.
"Has he given you any hint of what the dark cloud is that hangs over
Chandos? Of the—the crime that was committed?"
"No."
"It was a very fearful crime: the greatest social crime forbidden in
the Decalogue. When the police rode up here the other night I thought
they had come for him. I know Mr. Chandos thought it."
"For whom?"
"For Mrs. Chandos's husband," she answered, in a sharp, irascible tone.
"Why do you make me repeat it?"
At least I thought she need not repeat the word "husband" in my ears.
"It was murder," she continued, "if you wish to hear the plain English
of it."
"Was there a trial?"
"No. That has to come. Certain"—she seemed to hesitate—"proofs are
being waited for. Poor Mrs. Chandos has not been quite right since:
when the moon is at the change and full they think her worse; but at
all times it is well that she should be under surveillance. That is why
I am here."
I did not speak; I was thinking. No doubt it was all true.
"Poor thing! the blow was enough to turn her brain," observed Mrs.
Penn, musingly. "But I fancy she could never have been of strong
intellect. A light, frivolous, butterfly girl, her only recommendation
her beauty and soft manner."
"What you told me before was, that she had used Mr. Chandos ill."
"And so she did; very. But that was altogether a different matter,
quite unconnected with what followed."
"How did you become acquainted with these things, Mrs. Penn?"
"In a perfectly legitimate manner. Believe me, Anne, this house is no
proper home for you; Harry Chandos is an unfit companion. Quit both
to-morrow."
The pertinacity vexed me nearly beyond bearing. "I'll think of it," I
said, sharply; and getting up quickly made my escape from the room and
the east wing.
Not any too soon. To go to the east wing was against the law, and as I
turned into my own room, Mrs. Chandos was coming down the gallery, Mr.
Chandos by her side.
"When will you get it for me, Harry?" she was saying as they passed my
door.
"Shortly, I hope. The booksellers here may have to send to London for
it, but I'll see that you have it as soon as possible."
He held open the door of the east wing for her to enter, and then took
his way downstairs. I followed presently. Tea would be waiting and I
expected to preside at it. How could I absent myself from the routine
of the house and the oak-parlour—I, who was but there on sufferance, an
interloper? Were the circumstances that had passed such as that I—a
lady born, and reared to goodness and modesty and all right
instincts—ought to make a commotion over? No. And I felt as if I could
bite my tongue to pieces for having said what I did to Mr. Chandos just
now. Henceforth, I would hold on my course in calm self-respect;
meeting him civilly, forgetting and believing that he forgot anything
undesirable that had passed. As to the "crime" spoken of by Mrs.
Penn—well, I thought it _could not be_: crime of any sort seemed so
entirely incompatible with Mr. Chandos.
And my love? Oh, don't make me speak of it. I could only resolve to
beat it down, down, whenever it rose in my heart. Others had suffered,
so must I.
He did not appear at tea. I drank mine with what relish I might, and
Joseph came for the things. Ah, what passion is like unto love! None
can control it. I had resolved to put it away from me and that whole
evening it was uppermost! Fifty times I caught myself yearning for his
presence, and saying to myself unbidden that life was a blank without
him. Very shortly after taking away the tea-tray, Joseph came in again.
"I am going to close the shutters, Miss."
"Very well. Who ordered it to be done?"
"The master."
"The master" meant Mr. Chandos. As Joseph put aside the white curtains
to get to the shutters, I looked out. Pacing the lawn in the moonlight,
with his arms folded and his head bent, was Mr. Chandos; pacing it as
one in pain. And yet he had thought of me in the midst of it; of my
possible timidity, and desired that the shutters should be closed.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he came into the parlour for some
papers. I concluded he was going to his own sitting-room.
"Good-night!" he said, holding out his hand as usual.
Should I take it? A momentary debate with myself, and then I shook
hands coldly with him. Had I not decided to let the past be as though
it had never been? And all the display of resentment possible would not
convert bad into good.
Days went on: days of an unsatisfactory life. The physician, Dr. Laken,
came over, and stayed two of them. Of Mr. Chandos I saw but little: he
was out and about, and more than usual in the west wing. I seemed
estranged from everybody. Mrs. Penn I shunned; Mr. Chandos was just
courteous to me, nothing more, and I had never been intimate with any
one else in the house.
And now I resolved to leave. It would not look _now_ as though I
hurried away in passion, or because I feared my own love. Heaven knows
I wished to do right, whatever it cost me; and reason pointed out that
to remain longer was not only inexpedient but might be looked upon as
such: The life for me was beginning to be intolerable. He was with me
at times, the very fact of his presence feeding the love that held
possession of me; and the image of Mrs. Chandos upstairs began to haunt
me as a spectre. It was not possible longer to deceive myself with fine
resolutions; my eyes were opened to the fact that I could not begin to
forget him or to love him less so long as I stayed at Chandos.
I wrote to Madame de Mellissie, telling her that I felt obliged to
cancel my engagement with her, and should quit Chandos. Then I wrote to
the Misses Barlieu, asking them to receive me while I looked out for
another situation, and begging them not to refuse me on the score of
the fever: I was not afraid of it; I said, I need not go near the
infirmary. But I truly hoped and expected it had by that time passed.
It was a fine afternoon, and a fancy came over to take the letters to
the village post-office instead of leaving them on the hall-table, so I
put my things on. In going out at the portico I met Mrs. Penn.
"Do you know that you are looking ill—that this struggle is telling
upon you?" she abruptly exclaimed, but in a tone full of kindness. "Why
don't you make an effort, and quit it?"
"The effort is made," I answered, half in anger, half in despair, as I
held to her view the letters in my hand. "Here is the announcement to
those who will, I hope, receive me. I must wait for an answer, and then
I bid adieu to Chandos."
"My dear, you have done well," she answered, as she passed into the
house, and I out of the portico.
Leaning against the wall, on the far side, was Mr. Chandos, who must
have heard what had been said. That she was unconscious of his
vicinity, I was certain, and, for myself, I started when I saw him. He
said something, but I made as if I did not hear, and went quickly on.
The post-office was farther than I thought. I picked some ferns and
blackberries; and I lingered on my road in miserable musing. By the
time I turned to go home again, it had grown dusk. There was a lane
near to Chandos, which led to a small entrance-gate at an obscure part
of the grounds: the laurel-gate it was called, because many laurels
grew near it. By taking this way I should cut off a good portion of the
road, and down the lane I turned. Very much to my surprise, I came
by-and-by to a cottage. A cottage I had never seen before; and was very
sorry to see it now, for it showed me that I had turned down the wrong
lane.
It was the waste of time that vexed me; but all I could do was to
retrace my steps and take the right lane. It was nearly dark night when
I at length got to the laurel-gate; some of the stars were shining.
The gate was unlatched, as if the last person who passed through had
omitted to close it. A narrow path led to other narrow paths, which
branched off through the trees; I hesitated which to take, not being
certain which would lead me soonest to the house; and as I stood
thinking, a dark form came following me down the lane. It was Mr. Edwin
Barley's.
The dark night, the superstition attaching to the place, the proximity
of the man I so dreaded, brought enough of terror. He might be coming
to seize me and claim me then! The fear lent me wings. Flying up a path
at hazard, I never ceased the speed until I was in the broad walk, and
close—it was rather curious that it should be so,—to Mr. Chandos. He
was coming in from an errand to the lodge.
With a sense of protection that was as a very balm to my spirit, I
rested my hand on his arm. All considerations were merged in the
moment's terror. I forgot his great offence; I forgot my own
self-esteem: standing there, he appeared to me only as a great and
powerful protector, one in whom I might find safety and shelter.
"Oh, Mr. Chandos! In mercy take care of me!"
Once more, as if nothing wrong had stepped between us, he held me
against his side. He must have felt the throbs of my beating heart.
"What has alarmed you?" he asked, in a tone a great deal too full of
tenderness.
My only answer was to draw back amid the side trees, that I might be
hidden from Edwin Barley. Mr. Chandos came and stood there also.
"What is it, Anne? The ghost? Or Edwin Barley again?"
My senses were in a degree returning to me and I told him what had
occurred; turning my head to listen still.
"He will not follow you here. As to the lane, usage has made it public
property, and he has a right to walk in it if he chooses."
I turned to the house. He quietly put my arm within his. "Suffer it to
be so for an instant, Anne; you are trembling still."
And so we went on thus.
"What was it I heard you say to Mrs. Penn about quitting Chandos?"
"I think the time has come for me to quit it. If the Misses Barlieu can
receive me, I shall go to them. I have written to ask."
"That's the letter you have been so far to post! Were you afraid I
should intercept it?—as mine was intercepted!"
"Not that. I thought the walk would be pleasant."
"Rather too late a one, nevertheless!"
I did not tell him I had wasted my time in it, picking ferns, eating
blackberries, thinking, and finally losing my way. "What's this?" said
Mr. Chandos.
He alluded to the handful of ferns I carried, and without ceremony took
one of the best sprays and put it in his coat "as a keepsake."
"If you are to leave, Anne, I must have something to remind me of
you—you know!"
There was a light sound in his voice, which seemed to say he treated
the notion of my leaving as a jest; as if he knew I should not go.
"I _shall_ leave, Mr. Chandos!"
"Not just yet, at any rate. Madame de Mellissie left you with us, and
to her only can we resign you!"
"I have written to Madame de Mellissie also, telling her I now take my
plans upon myself."
"Oh, been posting that letter also, I suppose! Go you must not, Anne; I
cannot part with you."
Every right feeling within me rose in rebellion against the avowal, and
I strove to withdraw my arm, but my strength was as nothing in his firm
grasp.
"I cannot part with you, I say; it would be like parting with life.
These last few days—when we have been living in estrangement—have
sufficed to show me what it would be were you to be away entirely. And
so——"
"But you know you ought not to say this to me, Mr. Chandos!" I
interrupted, speaking passionately and through my blinding tears. "It
is unworthy of you. What have I done that you should so insult me?"
"Listen to me for a minute, Anne. I have been weighing things calmly
and dispassionately; it has been my employment since the night of the
explanation, when you told me you had become cognizant of preventing
circumstances. I have endeavoured to judge unselfishly, as though the
interest lay with another—not with myself; and I confess I cannot see
any good reason why you should not become my wife. I mean, of course,
later; when difficulties that exist now shall be removed from my path."
It was strangely unaccountable to hear him speak in this manner. I had
always deemed him to be of a most honourable nature, one to whom the
bare allusion of anything not good and perfect and upright, would be
distasteful. Before I knew of existing circumstances, it had been bad
enough to speak to me of love; but now——
Whether he had taken my silence for acquiescence I know not; I suppose
there can be no doubt of it; but he suddenly bent his head and left
some kisses on my face. Was he insane, or only a bad man?
"I _could_ not help it," he hastily murmured in agitation. "I know it
is wrong and foolish, but a man has not always his actions under cold
control. Forgive me Anne! Stay here to gladden me: and hope, with me,
that things will work round. I should not bid you do so without good
reason."
A variety of emotions nearly choked me. His words told upon me worse
than his kisses. How could things work round so that he might be free,
save by one event, the death of his wife?—and she was young and
healthy! How dared he during this, her life, urge me to remain there to
gladden him? But for the strongest control, I should have burst into
hysterical tears born of indignation and of excitement; and little
recked what I said in my passion, as I wrenched my arm away from him.
"Things work round, Mr. Chandos! Are your thoughts glancing to a second
murder?"
I borrowed the word from Mrs. Penn's mysterious communication—winch I
had not believed. It was very bad of me to say it; I know that; but
when in a passion of confusion one does not wait to choose words.
"Anne, you might have spared me that reproach," he rejoined, in a
subdued tone of pain.
"How have you spared me?"
"It may end brightly yet; it may indeed. What's that?"
A rustling amidst the dense shrubs on the right caused the question.
Possibly with an idea that it might be Edwin Barley, Mr. Chandos
quitted me to look. I darted across the road, and plunged amidst the
trees, intending to get on by a bye-path, and so escape him. Suddenly I
came upon Lizzy Dene, talking to a man. She started back, with a faint
cry.
"I am going right for the house, am I not, Lizzy?"
"Quite so, Miss. Take the path on the right when you come to the
weeping elm-tree."
I had nearly gained the tree, when Lizzy Dene came up with me. The
woman seemed to be in agitation as great as mine.
"Miss," she began, "will you do me a favour, and not mention who you
saw me talking to?"
"I should be clever to mention it, Lizzy. I don't know him."
"But, please Miss, not to say you saw me talking to any one. The young
man is not a sweetheart, I do assure you; he is a relation; but those
servants are dreadful scandalmongers."
"You need not fear; it is no affair of mine. And I am not in the habit
of telling tales to servants."
She continued to walk a little behind me. It seemed I was to have
nothing but encounters. There, on a garden-chair, as we turned on to
the lawn, sat Mrs. Penn.
"I am sitting here to recover breath," she said, in answer to my word
of exclamation. "It has been taken away by surprise. I don't quite know
whether I am awake or dreaming."
"Have you seen the ghost, ma'am?" asked Lizzy, breathlessly, putting
her own comment on the words.
"Well, I don't know; I should just as soon have expected to see one as
Lady Chandos. She was in the pine-walk.
"Impossible, Mrs. Penn," I exclaimed.
"Impossible or possible, Miss Hereford, Lady Chandos it was," she
answered, in a resolute tone. "I can tell you I rubbed my eyes when I
caught sight of her, believing they must see things that were not. She
wore a black silk cloak, and had a black hood over her head. It was
certainly Lady Chandos; she seemed to be walking to take the air."
To hear that any lady, bed-ridden, as may be said, was suddenly walking
abroad in a damp, dark night to take the air, was nearly unbelievable.
It was quite so to Lizzy Dene. Her eyes grew round with wonder as they
were turned on Mrs. Penn.
"Then I say with Miss here that it's just impossible. My lady's no more
capable of walking out, ma'am, than——"
"I tell you I saw her," conclusively interrupted Mrs. Penn. "It was
twenty minutes ago, at the turn from dusk to dark. I came and sat down
here, waiting for her to pass me: which she has not done. But I suppose
there are other paths by which she could gain the house. Lizzy, how
obstinate you look over it!"
"And enough to make me, ma'am; when I know that my lady it _could not
be_."
"Do you see much of her?" asked Mrs. Penn.
"Me! Neither me nor nobody else, ma'am. If ever Hill calls me to help
with a room in the west wing, my lady has first been moved out of it.
Since her illness, Hill does the work there herself. No, no; it never
was my lady. Unless—unless—oh, goodness, grant it may not be!—unless
she's dead!"
"Why, what does the girl mean?" cried Mrs. Penn, tartly.
Lizzy Dene had suddenly flown into one of her rather frequent phases of
superstition, and began to explain with a shivering sob.
"It is just this," she whispered, glancing timidly over her shoulder.
"Hill was in some distress at mid-day; we servants asked her what was
the matter, and she said my lady was worse; as ill as she could be.
Now, it is well known, in the moment of death people have appeared to
others at a distance. I think my lady must have died, and it was her
spirit that Mrs. Penn has just seen in the pine-walk. Oh! ah! oh!"
Lizzy Dene wound up with three shrieks. In some curiosity—to say the
least of it—we crossed the lawn. It _was_ curious that Lady Chandos, if
worse, should be abroad. Hickens was at the hall-door, looking out
probably for me. It was past dinner-time.
"How is Lady Chandos?" I impulsively asked.
"I have not thought to inquire this evening, Miss. I suppose, much as
usual."
"Isn't she dead?" put in Lizzy.
"Dead!" he echoed, staring at the girl. "Anyway there's a basin of
arrowroot just gone up for her, and I never heard that dead people
could eat. What crotchet have you got in your head now, Lizzy Dene?"
I think we all looked a little foolish. Mrs. Penn laughed as she ran
in; Lizzy Dene went round to the servants' entrance.
"Hickens," I said, in a low tone, passing him to go upstairs, "I have
the headache, and shall not take any dinner. Perhaps Harriet will
kindly light a bit of fire in my room, and bring me up some tea."
For I had caught a glimpse of Mr. Chandos and the dinner, both waiting
for me in the oak-parlour.