GETTING INTO THE WEST WING.
Sitting by the fire in the pretty bedroom with the candles on the
table, and the chintz curtains drawn before the window, shutting out
the pine-walk and any unearthly sight that might be in it, I thought
and resolved. To remain at Chandos with its ostensible master in his
present mood was excessively undesirable, almost an impossibility; and
I began to think I might quit it without waiting for an answer from
Miss Barlieu. The chief difficulty would be the getting away; the
actual departure; for Mr. Chandos was certain to oppose it. Another
difficulty was money.
It struck me that the only feasible plan would be to see Lady Chandos.
I would tell her that I _must_ go, not mentioning why; ask her to
sanction it, and to lend me enough money to take me to Nulle. I did not
see that I could leave without seeing her; certainly not without making
her acquainted with the proposed fact, and thanking her for her
hospitality and kindness. Heroines of romance, read of in fiction,
might take abrupt flight from dwellings by night, or else; but I was
nothing of the sort; only a rational girl of sober, everyday life, and
must act accordingly.
"Do you happen to know how Lady Chandos is to-night, Harriet?" I asked,
when the maid came in to inquire whether I wanted anything more.
"Her ladyship's a trifle better, Miss. I have just heard Hill say so."
Harriet left the room; and I sat thinking as before. That my seeing
Lady Chandos could only be accomplished by stratagem I knew, for Hill
was a very dragon, guarding that west wing. If it was really Lady
Chandos who had been pacing the grounds—and Mrs. Penn was positive in
her assertion and belief—she must undoubtedly be well enough to speak
to me. It was but a few words I had to say to her; a few minutes' time
that I should detain her. "Circumstances have called me away, but I
could not leave without personally acquainting you, madam, and thanking
you for your hospitality and kindness." Something to that effect: and
then I would borrow the money—about forty, or fifty francs; which Miss
Barlieu would give me to remit, as soon as I got to Nulle. With Lady
Chandos's sanction to my departure, Mr. Chandos could not put forth any
plea to detain me.
Never were plans better laid than mine—as I thought. Rehearsing them
over and over again in my mind after I, lay down in bed, the usual
sleeplessness followed. I tossed and turned from side to side; I began
to repeat verses; all in vain. Sleep had gone away from me, and I heard
the clock strike two.
I heard something else: a stir in the gallery. It seemed as if some one
burst out at the doors of the west wing, and came swiftly to the
chamber of Mr. Chandos. In the stillness of night, sounds are plainly
distinct that would be inaudible in the day. The footsteps were like
Hill's, as if she had only stockings on. There was a brief whispering
in Mr. Chandos's chamber, and the same footsteps ran back to the west
wing.
What could be the matter? Was Lady Chandos worse? Almost as I asked
myself the question, I heard Mr. Chandos come out of his room, go
downstairs, and out at the hall-door. Curiosity led me to look from the
window. The stars were shining; I suppose it was a frost; and the tops
of the dark pine-trees rose clear and defined against the sky. All was
quiet.
A very few minutes and other sounds broke the silence: those of a
horse's footsteps. Mr. Chandos—as I supposed it to be—came riding forth
at a canter from the direction of the stables: the pace increasing to a
gallop as he turned into the broad walk.
There seemed less sleep for me than ever. In about an hour's time I
heard Mr. Chandos ride in again. I heard him ride round to the stables,
and come back thence on foot. He let himself in at the hall-door, came
softly upstairs, and went into the west wing. It was in that wing that
something must be amiss.
I was three-parts dressed in the morning when Mrs. Penn knocked at my
door and entered. I did wish she would not thus interrupt me! Once she
had come when I was reading my chapter; once during my prayers.
"Did you hear any disturbance in the night?" she began. "Mr. Chandos
went out at two o'clock. Do you know what for?"
"Mrs. Penn! How should I be likely to know?"
"I happened to be up, looking from the end window——"
"At that time of night?" I interrupted.
"Yes, at that time of night," she repeated. "I was watching for—for—the
ghost if you will" (but I thought somehow she said the ghost to mystify
me), "and so I may as well confess it. I often do watch from my window
at night. Quite on a sudden a figure appeared making its way swiftly
towards the stables; my heart stood still for a moment; I thought the
ghost had come at last. I did, Anne Hereford: and you need not gaze at
me with your searching eyes, as if you questioned my veracity. But soon
I recognised Mr. Chandos, and presently saw him come back on horseback.
Where did he go? For what purpose?"
"You put the questions as though you thought I could answer them," I
said to her; and so she did, speaking in a demanding sort of way. "I
cannot tell where Mr. Chandos has gone."
"He is back now: he was home again in about hour. I would give the
whole world to know!"
"But why? What business is it of yours or mine? Mr. Chandos's movements
are nothing to us."
"They are so much to us—to me—that I would forfeit this to be able to
follow him about and see where he goes and what he does," she said,
holding up her right hand.
I looked at her in wonder.
"I would. Is it not a singular sort of thing that a gentleman should
rise from his bed at two o'clock in the morning, saddle his horse by
stealth, and ride forth on a mysterious journey?"
"It is singular. But he may not have saddled his horse by stealth."
"How now?" she tartly answered. "He did saddle it; saddled it himself."
"Yes: but that may have been only from a wish not to disturb the grooms
from their rest. To do a thing oneself with a view of sparing others,
and to do it stealthily are two things."
"So your spirit must rise up to defend him still! Take care of
yourself, Anne Hereford!"
"Nay, there was no _defence_. What does it signify whether Mr. Chandos
saddles a horse for himself or gets a man to saddle it?"
"Not much, perhaps; looking at it in the light you do."
"Mrs. Penn, I wish you would please to go, and let me finish dressing.
I am afraid of being late."
Rather to my surprise, she moved to the door without another word, and
shut it behind her.
I went down to breakfast: I could not help myself. It would not do to
plead illness or the sulks, and ask to have my meals sent upstairs. But
we had a third at table, I found; and that was Dr. Laken. I am not sure
how I and Mr. Chandos should have got on without him; with him all went
smoothly.
But not merrily. For both he and Mr. Chandos spoke and looked as if
under the influence of some great care. Listening to their
conversation, I discovered a rather singular circumstance. Mr.
Chandos's errand in the night had been to the telegraph office at
Warsall, to send an imperative message for Dr. Laken. That gentleman
(almost as though a prevision had been upon him that he would be
wanted) had started for Chandos the previous evening by a night train,
and was at Chandos at seven in the morning. So that he and the message
crossed each other. His visit was of course—though I was not told it—to
Lady Chandos; and I feared there must be some dangerous change in her.
They talked together, without reference to me.
"I wish you could have remained," Mr. Chandos suddenly said to the
doctor.
"I wish I could. I have told you why I am obliged to go, and where.
I'll be back to-night, if I can; if not, early to-morrow. Remember one
thing, Mr. Harry—that my staying here could be of no possible benefit.
It is a satisfaction to you, of course, that I should be at hand, but I
can do nothing."
"Mr. Dexter is here, sir, and wishes to see you," said Hickens,
entering the parlour at this juncture. "He says he is sorry to disturb
you so early, sir, but he is off to that sale of stock, and must speak
to you first. I have shown him into your private room, sir."
Mr. Chandos rose from his seat and went out. And now came my turn. I
was alone with Dr. Laken, and seized on the opportunity to inquire
about Lady Chandos. See her I must, and would.
"Is Lady Chandos alarmingly ill, Dr. Laken?"
He was eating an egg at the time, and he did not speak immediately: his
attention seemed almost equally divided between regarding me and
finishing the egg.
"What you young ladies might call alarmingly ill, we old doctors might
not," were his words, when he at length spoke.
"Can she speak?"
"Oh, yes."
"And is sufficiently well to understand, if any one speaks to her?"
"Quite so. Don't trouble yourself, my dear, about Lady Chandos. I trust
she will be all right with time."
Not another word did I get from him. He began talking of the weather;
and then took up a newspaper until Mr. Chandos came back. As I was
leaving them alone after breakfast, Mr. Chandos spoke to me in a
half-grave, half-jesting tone.
"You are one of the family, you know, Miss Hereford, and may be asked
to keep its affairs close, just as Emily would be were she here. Don't
mention that I went to Warsall in the night—as you have now heard I did
go. It is of no use to make the household uneasy."
And, as if to enforce the words, Dr. Laken gave three or four emphatic
nods. I bowed and withdrew.
To see lady Chandos? How was it to be done? And, in spite of Dr.
Laken's reassuring answer, I scarcely knew what to believe. Hill went
about with a solemn face, silent as the grave; and an impression
pervaded the household that something was very much amiss in the west
wing. _My_ impression was, that there was a great deal of unaccountable
mystery somewhere.
"Harriet," I said, as the girl came to my room in thin course of her
duties, "how _is_ Lady Chandos?"
"Well, Miss, we can't quite make out," was the answer. "Hill is in
dreadful trouble, and the doctor is here again; but Lizzy Dene saw my
lady for a minute this morning, and she looked much as usual."
So far well. To Lady Chandos I determined to penetrate ere the day
should close. And I am sure, had anybody seen me that morning, dodging
into the gallery from my room and back again, they would have deemed me
haunted by a restless spirit. I was watching for my opportunity. It did
not come for nearly all day. In the morning Dr. Laken and Mr. Chandos
were there; in the afternoon Hill was shut up in it. It was getting
dusk when I, still on the watch, saw Hill come forth. She left the door
ajar, as if she intended to return instantly, and whisked into a large
linen-closet close by. Now was my time. I glided past the closet, quiet
as a mouse, and inside the green-baize door of the west wing.
But which was the room of Lady Chandos? No time was to be lost, for if
Hill returned, she was sure to eject me summarily, as she had done once
before. I softly opened two doors, taking no notice of what the rooms
might contain, looking only whether Lady Chandos was inside. Next I
came to one, and opened it, as I had the others; and saw—what? Who—who
was it sitting there? Not Lady Chandos.
In a large arm-chair at the fire, propped up with pillows, sat an
emaciated object, white, thin, cadaverous. A tall man evidently,
bearing in features a great resemblance to Mr. Chandos, a strange
likeness to that ghostly vision—if it had been one—I had once seen in
the gallery. Was he the ghost?—sitting there and staring at me with his
large eyes, but never speaking? If not a ghost, it must be a living
skeleton.
My pulses stood still; my heart leaped into my mouth. The figure raised
his arm, and pointed peremptorily to the door with his long, lanky,
white fingers. A sign that I must quit his presence.
I was glad to do so. Startled, terrified, bewildered, I thought no more
of Lady Chandos, but went back through the passage, and out at the
green-baize door. There, face to face, I encountered Mr. Chandos.
I shall not readily forget _his_ face when he looked at me. Never had
greater hauteur, rarely greater anger, appeared in the countenance of
any living man.
"Have you been in _there?_" he demanded.
"Yes. I——" More I could not say. The words stuck in my throat.
"Listen, Miss Hereford," he said, his lips working with emotion. "I am
grieved to be compelled to say anything discourteous to a lady, more
especially to you, but I must _forbid_ you to approach these rooms,
however powerfully your curiosity may urge you to visit them. I act as
the master of Chandos, and demand it as a right. Your business lies at
the other end of the gallery; this end is sacred, and must be kept so
from intrusion."
I stole away with my crimsoned face, with a crimsoned brain, I think,
wishing the gallery floor would open and admit me. Hill came out of the
closet with wondering eyes; Mr. Chandos went on, and shut the door of
the west wing after him. I felt ashamed to sickness. My "curiosity!"
But who could it be, he whom I had just seen, thus closeted in the
apartments of Lady Chandos? Could it be Sir Thomas, arrived from
abroad? But when did he arrive? and why this concealment in his
mother's rooms? for concealment it appeared to be. Whoever it was, he
was fearfully ill and wasted: of that there could be no doubt; ill, as
it seemed to me, almost unto death; and a conviction came over me that
Dr. Laken's visits were paid to him, not to Lady Chandos.
"My dear child, how flushed and strange you look!"
The speaker was Mrs. Penn, interrupting my chain of thought. She was
standing at the door of the east wing, came forward, and turned with me
into my room.
"Anne," she continued, her tone full of kind, gentle compassion, "was
Mr. Chandos speaking in that manner to _you?_"
"I deserved it," I sighed, "for I really had no right to enter the west
wing clandestinely. I went there in search of Lady Chandos. I want to
leave, but I cannot go without first seeking her, and I thought I would
try to do so, in spite of Hill."
"And did you see her?" questioned Mrs. Penn.
"No; I could not see her anywhere; I suppose I did not go into all the
rooms. But I saw some one else."
"Who was it?"
"The strangest being," I answered, too absorbed in the subject, too
surprised and bewildered, to observe my usual custom of telling nothing
to Mrs. Penn. "He was sitting in an easy-chair, supported by pillows; a
tall, emaciated man, looking—oh, so ill! His face was the thinnest and
whitest I ever saw; but it had a likeness to Mr. Chandos."
Had I been more collected, I might have seen how the revelation
affected Mrs. Penn. Just then my eyes and senses were, so to say,
blinded. She put her hand on my arm, listening for more.
"He startled me terribly; I declare, at first sight, I did think it was
a ghost. Why should he be hidden there?—if he is hidden. Unless it is
Sir Thomas Chandos come home from India—Mrs. Penn! what's the matter?"
The expression of her countenance at length arrested me. Her face had
turned white, her lips were working with excitement.
"For the love of Heaven, wait!" she uttered. "A tall man, bearing a
family likeness to Mr. Chandos—was that what you said?"
"A striking likeness: allowing for the fact that Mr. Chandos is in
health, and that the other looks as though he were dying. The eyes are
not alike: his are large and dark, Mr. Chandos's blue. Why? Perhaps it
is Sir Thomas Chandos."
"It is not Sir Thomas; he is a short, plain man, resembling his mother.
No, no; I know too well who it is; and it explains the mystery of that
west wing. All that has been so unaccountable to me since I have dwelt
at Chandos is plain now. Dolt that I was, never to have suspected it!
Oh! but they were clever dissemblers, with their sicknesses of my Lady
Chandos!"
She went out, and darted into the east wing. So astonished was I, that
I stood looking after her, and saw her come quietly forth again after a
minute or two, attired to go out. She was gliding down the stairs, when
Mrs. Chandos likewise came from the east wing and called to her.
"Mrs. Penn, where are you going? I want you."
Mrs. Penn thus arrested, turned round, a vexed expression on her face.
"I wish to do a very slight errand for myself, madam. I shall not be
long."
"I cannot spare you now; I cannot, indeed. You must defer it until
to-morrow. I will not stay by myself now it is getting dusk. I am as
nervous as I can be this evening. You are not half so attentive as Mrs.
Freeman was: you are always away, or wanting to be."
Mrs. Penn came slowly up the stairs again, untying her bonnet-strings.
But I saw she had a great mind to rebel, and depart on her errand in
defiance of her mistress.
What could it be that she was so anxious for? what was she going to do?
As she had passed to the stairs before being called back, the words
"Down now with the Chandoses!" had reached my ears from her lips,
softly spoken. I felt sick and frightened. What mischief might I not
have caused by my incautious revelation? Oh! it seemed as though _I_
had been treacherous to Chandos.
Restless and uncomfortable, I was going into the oak-parlour a little
later, when Lizzy Dene, in a smart new bonnet and plaid shawl, a small
basket on her arm, came into the hall to say something to Hickens, who
was there.
"I suppose I may go out at this door, now I'm here?" said she,
afterwards; and Hickens grunted out "Yes" as he withdrew. At that
self-same moment Mrs. Penn came softly and swiftly down the stairs, and
called to her. Neither of them saw me, just inside the parlour.
"You are going out, I see, Lizzy. Will you do a little errand for me?"
"If it won't take long," was the girl's free answer. "But I have got
leave to go out to tea, and am an hour later than I thought to be."
"It will not take you a minute out of your way. You know where Mr.
Edwin Barley lives—the new tenant. Go to his house with this note, and
desire that it may be given to him: should he not be at home, say that
it must be handed to him the instant he comes in. If you do this
promptly, and keep it to yourself, mind!—I will give you a crown
piece!"
"I'll do it, and say 'thank ye,' too, ma'am," laughed Lizzy, in glee.
She opened the lid of her basket, popped in the note, and went out at
the hall-door. Mrs. Penn disappeared upstairs.
But Lizzy Dene had halted in the portico, and had her face turned
towards the skies.
"Now, is it going to rain?—or is it only the dark of the evening?" she
deliberated aloud. "Better take an umbrella. I should not like my new
shawl to be spoilt; and they didn't warrant the blue in it, if it got a
soaking."
She put down the basket, and ran back to the kitchen. Now was my
opportunity. I stole to the basket, lifted the lid, and took out the
letter, trusting to good luck, and to Lizzy's not looking into the
basket on her return.
She did not. She came back with the umbrella, snatched up the basket by
its two handles, and went down the broad walk, at a run.
With the letter grasped in my hand, I was hastening to my own room to
read it in peace—
"Read it!" interposes the reader, aghast at the dishonour. "_Read_ it?"
Yes; read it. I believed that that letter was full of treachery to
Chandos, and that I had unwittingly contributed to raise it, through my
incautious revelation. Surely it was my duty now to do what I could to
avert it, even though it involved the opening of Mrs. Penn's letter. A
sudden light of suspicion seemed to have opened upon her—whispering a
doubt that _she_ was treacherous.
But in the hall I met the dinner coming in, and Mr. Chandos with it.
Putting the note inside my dress, I sat down to table.
It was a silent dinner, save for the most ordinary courtesies; Mr.
Chandos was grave, preoccupied, and sorrowful; I was as grave and
preoccupied as he. When the servants left, he drew a dish of walnuts
towards him, peeled some, and passed them to me; then he began to peel
for himself. It was upon my tongue to say No; not to accept them from
him: but somehow words failed.
"Anne, I have not understood you these last few days."
The address took me by surprise, for there had been a long silence. He
did not raise his eyes to mine as he spoke, but kept them on the
walnuts.
"Have you not, sir?"
"What could have induced you to intrude into the west wing, to-day?
Pardon the word, if it grates upon your ear; that part of Chandos House
is _private_; private and sacred; known to be so by all inmates; and,
for any one to enter unsolicited, is an intrusion."
"I am sorry that I went in—very sorry; no one can repent of it now more
than I do; but I had an urgent motive for wishing to see Lady Chandos.
I wish to see her still, if possible; I do not like to quit Chandos
without it."
"You are not going to quit Chandos?"
"I leave to-morrow, if it be practicable. If not, the next day."
"No," he said; "it must not be. I act for my mother, and refuse her
sanction."
Too vexed to answer, too vexed to remain at table, I rose and went to
the fire, standing with my back to him.
"What has changed you?" he abruptly asked.
"Changed me?"
"For some days now you have been unlike yourself. Why visit upon me the
sins of another? I suffer sufficiently as it is; I suffer always."
I could not understand the speech any more than if it had been Greek,
and glanced to him for explanation.
"I look back on my past conduct, and cannot see that I am to blame. We
were thrown together by circumstances; and if love stole unconsciously
over us, it was neither my fault nor yours. I was wrong, you will say,
to avow this love; I believe I was; it might have been better that I
had held my tongue. But——"
"It would be better that you should hold it now, sir. I do not wish to
enter upon any explanation. Quit your house, I will. Lady Chandos, were
she made acquainted with what has passed, would be the first to send me
from it."
Mr. Chandos rose and stood up by me. "Am I to understand that you wish
to quit it because I have spoken of this love?"
"Yes; and because—because it is no longer a fit residence for me."
"Do you wish to imply that under no circumstances—that is, with any
barrier that may exist now against my marrying removed—would you accept
my love?"
The hot tears came into my eyes. Scarcely could I keep them from
raining down.
"I wish to imply—to say—that not under any alteration of circumstances
that the world can bring about, would I accept your love, Mr. Chandos.
The very fact of your naming it to me is an insult."
Ah, me! and how passionately was I loving him in my heart all the time,
even as I spoke it.
"Very well. In that case it may be better that you quit Chandos. Should
Miss Barlieu's answer prove favourable—I mean, if she assures you that
danger from the fever is past—you shall be conveyed thither under
proper escort."
"Thank you," I interrupted, feeling, I do believe, not half as grateful
as I ought.
"A moment yet. In case the danger is not past, you must remain here a
little longer. There is no help for it. I will promise not to speak
another unwelcome word to you, and to give you as little of my company
as possible. We will both ignore the past as a pleasant dream, just as
though it had not existed. Will this content you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I give you my honour that after this evening it shall be so. But
we must have a few words together first. I have already intimated that
I should not have spoken so soon but for perceiving that love had
arisen on your side as well as mine. Now don't fly off at a tangent: I
intend to have an explanation from you this night: an explanation that
shall set things straight between us, or sever us for ever. We are not
boy and girl that we should shrink from it. At least, if you are but a
girl in years, you have sense and prudence and right feeling that
belong rather to double your age."
Standing there before me, calm and resolute, I knew there could be no
avoidance of the explanation he sought. His was the master-spirit. But
it was cruel to wish me to put it into words. And so entirely needless!
"If I allude to your love for me, it is not needlessly to pain, or, as
you may think, insult you: believe me, when I say it; but only to call
to your notice the inconsistency of your conduct. It is _this_ that I
require an explanation of. Child, you _know_ you loved me,"——and his
hand slightly trembled as he laid it on my shoulder. "Whence, then, the
sudden change?"
"I did not know your position then," I answered, meeting the words as I
supposed he wished to force me to meet them, and taking a step
backwards on the hearth-rug.
"I cannot but think you must in some way be mistaking my position.
Circumstances, very sad and grievous circumstances, are rendering it of
brighter prospect. I am aware of the misfortune that attaches to my
family, the disgrace that is reflected upon me: but you should not
treat me as though the disgrace or the fault were mine. Surely there is
no justice in resenting it on me! You might have rejected me with
civility."
"I do not know what you are saying," I interrupted, passionately angry.
"What is it to me, the disgrace attaching to your family? That could
not sway _me_. It is unknown to me."
"Unknown to you?" he repeated in accents of surprise.
"Entirely unknown, save for vague rumours that I have not wished to
attend to. The disgrace lies with you, sir, not with your family."
"With me? What have I done? Do you mean in having spoken to you of
love?" he added, finding I did not answer. "At least, I do not see that
_disgrace_ could be charged on me for that. I intended to lay the case
openly before you, and it would have been at your option to accept or
reject me."
"Do you call deceit and dishonour no disgrace, Mr. Chandos?"
"Great disgrace. But I have not been guilty of either."
"You have been guilty of both."
"When? and how?"
"To me. You know it. You know it, sir. Had my father been alive; had I
any friend in the world to protect me, I do not think you would have
dared to speak to me of love."
"Were your father, Colonel Hereford, alive, Anne, I should lay the
whole case before him, and say—'Judge for yourself; shall, or shall not
your daughter be mine?' I fancy he would find the objection less
insuperable than you appear to do."
I believe I simply stared in answer to this. Calm, good, and noble he
looked, standing there with his truthful eyes, speaking his apparently
truthful words. It seemed that we must be at cross-purposes.
"When you spoke of the bar that existed to your marrying, you put it
upon the hinted-at misfortunes, the disgrace attaching to your family,
Mr. Chandos. But you never alluded to the real bar."
"There is no other bar. But for that, I would like to make you my wife
to-morrow. What have you got in your head?"
I knew what I was beginning to have in my temper. "If you continue to
detain me here, sir, and to say these things, I will go straight with
my complaint to Mrs. Chandos."
"To Mrs. Chandos! What good would that do?" he coolly questioned.
"Oh, sir, spare me! I did not think you would behave so. Don't you see,
putting me and my feelings out of the question, how all this wrongs
_her?_"
He looked at me strangely, his countenance a puzzle. "What has Mrs.
Chandos to do with it? She is nothing to you or to me."
"She is your wife, sir."
His elbow displaced some ornament on the mantelpiece; he had to turn
and save it from falling. Then he faced me again.
"My wife, did you say?"
And very much ashamed I had felt to say it: with my hot face and my
eyes bent on the carpet.
"Mrs. Chandos is no wife of mine. I never was married yet. Did you go
to sleep and dream it?"
Ah, how that poor foolish heart of mine stood still! Was it possible
that Mrs. Penn had been mistaken?—that my misery had been without
foundation; my supposed offered insults only fancied ones. No condemned
criminal, called forth from his cell to hear the reprieve read that
will restore to him the life he has forfeited, could experience a more
intense revulsion of joy than I did then.
I put my hands up in front of him: it was no moment for affectation or
reticence.
"Tell me the truth," I gasped; "the truth as before heaven? Is, or is
not, Mrs. Chandos your wife?"
He bent his head a little forward, speaking clearly and distinctly,
with an emphasis on every word.
"Mrs. Chandos is my sister-in-law. She is my brother's wife. It is the
truth, in the presence of heaven."
I covered my face with my hands to hide the blinding tears that fell on
my cheeks of shame. To have made so dreadful a mistake!—and to have
spoken of it!
Mr. Chandos took the hands away, holding them and me before him.
"Having said so much, Anne, you must say more. Has this been the cause
of your changed conduct? Whence could the strange notion have arisen?"
I spoke a few words as well as I could; just the heads of what I had
heard, and from whom.
"Mrs. Penn! Why she of all people must know better. She knows who Mrs.
Chandos's husband is. Surely she cannot be mistaking me for my
brother!"
"I thought, sir, you had no brother, except Sir Thomas."
"Yes, I have another brother," he answered, in a whisper. "You saw him
to-day, Anne."
"That poor sick gentleman, who looks so near the grave?"
"Even so. It is he who is the husband of Mrs. Chandos. The fact of his
being at Chandos is unknown, not to be spoken of," he said, sinking his
voice still lower, and glancing round the walls of the room, as though
he feared they might contain eavesdroppers. "Take care that it does not
escape your lips."
Alas! it had escaped them. I bent my head and my troubled face,
wondering whether I ought to confess it to him. But he spoke again.
"And so—this is the silly dream you have been losing yourself in! Anne!
could you not have trusted me better?"
"You must please forgive me," I said, looking piteously at him through
my tears.
Forgive me! He suddenly put out his arms, and gathered me to his
breast.
"Will you recall your vow, child; never—under any circumstances that
the world can bring forth—to accept my love?" he whispered. "Oh, Anne,
my darling! it would be cruel of you to part us."
Never more would I doubt him, never more. True, kind, good, his face
was bent, waiting for the answer. My whole heart, my trust went out to
him, then and for ever. I lifted my eyes with all their love, and stole
my hand into his. Down came his kisses upon my lips by way of sealing
the compact.
"And so you are willing to trust me without the explanation?"
How willing, none save myself could tell.
"Quite willing," I whispered. "I am certain you have not been guilty of
any crime."
"Never; so help me heaven," he fervently answered. "But disgrace
reflects upon me, for all that, and you must give your final decision
when you have heard it."
Oh, but he knew; the smile on his face betrayed it; that I should never
go back from him again.
I sat down in my chair: he put his elbow on the mantelpiece as before.
"Anne, you will not run away from Chandos now?"
"Not to-morrow, sir."
"Am I to be 'sir' always, you shy child? But about this fable of yours
connecting me with Mrs. Chandos? It could scarcely have been Mrs. Penn
who imparted it to you?"
"Indeed it was. She said a great deal more than that."
"It is not possible she can be mistaking me for my brother," he
repeated, in deliberation with himself. "That cannot be, for she
believes him to be a fugitive. This is very strange, Anne."
Perhaps Mrs. Penn is false? I thought in my inmost heart. Perhaps she
has a motive in wishing me to quit Chandos? She had certainly done her
best to forward it—and to prejudice me against him.
"Do you _know_ Mrs. Penn to be true to your interests, Mr. Chandos? I
mean to those of the family?"
"I know nothing about her. Of course but for being supposed to be true
and honourable, she would not have been admitted here. My mother——
Hark! What's that?"
A sound of wheels was heard, as of a carriage being driven to the door.
Mr. Chandos turned to listen. It struck me that a sort of dread rose to
his countenance.
"What troubles you?" I whispered, approaching him. "You look as if
there were cause for fear."
He touched me to be quiet, listening while he answered—
"There is every cause for fear in this unhappy house. Do you remember
the night that the police rode up, Anne. I thought surely the blow had
come. I know not whom this carriage may have brought: I am not
expecting anybody."
We heard the door opened by one of the servants. Mr. Chandos took his
hand off me and sat down again.
"It may be Dr. Laken, sir."
"No he could not be back yet."
In bustled Hickens, faster than was usual with that solemn personage.
"It's Miss Emily, sir," said he, addressing Mr. Chandos. "That is,
Madame de Mellissie. Her foreign French name never comes pat to me."
Miss Emily was in the room ere Hickens had done speaking—bright,
handsome, gay as ever.
"There's plenty of luggage, Hickens, mind; you must see to it with
Pauline," were the first words she spoke. "And how are you, Harry?" she
continued, putting up her mouth to be kissed.
"This is an unexpected visit, Emily," he said, as he took the kiss.
"You should have written us word; and I would have met you at the
station with the carriage. How did you come from thence?"
"Oh, I got a conveyance of some sort; a fly, or a chaise; I hardly know
what it was, except that I believe it had no springs, for it shook me
to pieces. How is mamma?"
"Wont you speak to me, Madame de Mellissie?" I asked, holding out my
hand. I had stood there waiting for her to notice me which she did not
appear to have the least intention of doing; waiting and waiting.
"I hope you are well, Anne Hereford," was her reply, but she pointedly
and rudely neglected my offered hand.
"Did you leave your husband well?" Mr. Chandos hastily asked, as a sort
of covering to her ill manners.
"Well neither in health nor in temper, but as cranky as can be. I ran
away."
"Ran away!"
"Of course I did. There came to me a letter, some days past——"
"Yes, I wrote to you," I interrupted.
"You!" she rudely said, in a condemning tone of voice; "I am not
alluding to your letter. When this other letter came, I told Alfred I
must go at once to Chandos. 'Very well,' said he, 'I shall be able to
take you in a day or so.' But the days went on, and still he was too
ill; or said he was. 'I _must_ go,' I said to him yesterday morning. 'I
must and I will,' and that put him up. 'Listen, ma chère,' cried he, in
his cool way, 'I am too ill to travel, and there's nobody else to take
you, so you _can't_ go; therefore let us hear no more about it.' Merci,
monsieur! I thought to myself; and I forthwith told Pauline to pack up,
and get the boxes out of the house en cachette. Which she did: and I
followed them, Alfred and Madame in Mère believing I had gone for a
drive in the Bois de Boulogne. A pretty long drive they must think it
by this time."
"Emily, how can you act so?" exclaimed her brother, in a tone of stern
reproval.
"Now, Harry, I don't want any of your morality. Look at home, before
you preach to me. What have _you_ been doing the last few weeks? I have
heard."
"Shall I pay for the chaise, ma'am?" inquired Hickens, putting in his
head.
"Pay for anything and everything, Hickens," was her answer. "I have
brought no money with me, to speak of. I ran away."
"Emily, how _can_ you?" exclaimed Mr. Chandos, as the man withdrew.
"Rubbish! Who's Hickens? Pauline's sure to tell him all about it. I
repeat to you, Harry, that you need not preach to me: you have more
need to reform your own acts and doings. The letter I received was
about you; and, from what it said, I began to think it high time that I
should be at Chandos."
"Indeed!" he quietly answered. "Pray who may have taken the trouble to
write it?"
"That is what I cannot tell you. It was anonymous."
Mr. Chandos curled his lip. "There is only one thing to do with an
anonymous letter, Emily—put it in the fire, with a thought of pity for
its miserable writer, and then forget it for ever. We have been dealing
in anonymous letters here, lately. I received one; and the inspector of
police at Warsall received one, falsely purporting to be from me. The
result was that a descent of mounted police came swooping upon us one
night with sabres, drawn or undrawn, frightening sober Chandos out of
its propriety."
"I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed Madame de Mellissie, her
interest momentarily diverted from her own grievances. "What did they
want?"
"The inspector was led to believe I required them to take somebody into
custody for theft. I assure you anonymous letters have been the fashion
here lately. But they are not the less despicable."
"Shall I tell you what was in mine?"
"I do not wish to hear it."
"Ah, you are afraid," she answered, with a ringing laugh. "Conscience
makes cowards of all of us."
Mr. Chandos looked anything but afraid: he stood very calm, his head
raised. Emily began taking off her things, throwing a bonnet on one
chair, gloves on another, a shawl on the floor. I went forward to
assist her.
"Don't touch anything of mine," she haughtily interrupted, putting
herself before the shawl with a slight stamp. "Harry, how long has
mamma kept her room?"
"Ever since you left," replied Mr. Chandos.
"Oh. And you and Anne Hereford have had the sole benefit of each
other's company!"
"And a very pleasant benefit, too," boldly retorted Mr. Chandos. But my
cheeks were in a flame, and they both saw it.
"You wrote me word that you wished to leave," she said, turning to me.
"You are no longer in my service, and are at liberty to do so. When can
you be ready?"
"My preparations will not take me long," was my reply.
Little cause was there to ask what had been the purport of her
anonymous letter. Who could have written it? Who could be concerning
themselves about me and Mr. Chandos? Was it Mrs. Penn?
"I should like some tea," she said, as she poured out a glass of wine
and drank it. "Ring the bell and order it in, Anne Hereford. While they
bring it I will run up to mamma's rooms, Harry. Wont she pull a long
face when she hears that I decamped without the cognizance of le mari
et la vieille mère!"
"Emily," said Mr. Chandos, gravely, "you cannot go into your mamma's
rooms at present."
"But I will go."
"My dear, you must not; at least until I have spoken to you. There are
urgent reasons against it."
"What are the reasons?"
"I will tell you later. You had better have some tea first. Shall I
ring for Hill to show you a chamber?"
"I will be shown to a chamber when I have been in to mamma," she
defiantly responded. "Take yourself out of the way, Harry."
For Mr. Chandos was standing between her and the door. "Emily, did I
ever advise you but for your good—your comfort? Pray attend to me."
"For my good, no doubt," she said, with a gay laugh. "I don't know
about my comfort. Harry, we shall come to a battle royal, if you don't
move from that door. I am quite determined to go into the west wing,
and I will not be stopped. Goodness me! you are trying to control me as
though I were a child."
Mr. Chandos opened the door and followed her out. In the hall they
stood for a moment talking together in a whisper, and I heard a cry of
pain and dismay escape her lips.