THE LAST FRIGHT OF ALL.
I saw none of them all the afternoon. After the departure of Mr. Edwin
Barley, Sir Harry Chandos went out with Dr. Laken. Mrs. Chandos and
Madame de Mellissie were in the east wing, and, I fancied, Lady Chandos
with them. Emily had offered to take Mrs. Penn's place for a short
while, so far as sitting with Mrs. Chandos went; it was one of the
best-natured things I had known her do.
Oh, but it seemed to me ominous, the suffering me to sit there all the
afternoon alone, no companion but myself and the oak-parlour, and with
death in the house! The few words dropped by Emily to her brother about
his changed position were beating their sad refrain on my brain. His
position was indeed changed: and I was but a poor governess, although I
might be the descendant of the Keppe-Carews. I quite thought that the
neglect now cast upon me was an earnest of proof that the family at
least would not countenance my entrance into it. Well, I would do what
was right, and gave him back his fealty: I could but act honourably,
though my heart broke over the separation that might ensue.
It was quite dusk when Mr. Chandos came back—the old name will slip
out. Dr. Laken went upstairs at once; he turned into the oak-parlour.
"All alone in the dark, Anne?" he said, drawing up the blind a few
inches.
It gave a little more light, and I could see his features. He looked
preoccupied; but I thought the occasion had come to speak and ought to
be seized upon.
What should I say? How frame the words necessary for my task? With my
hands and lips trembling, brain and heart alike beating, I was about to
speak incoherently, when some one came into the room.
Emily, as I thought at first; but when she came nearer the window I saw
that it was Mrs. Chandos. Being left alone for an instant, she had
taken the opportunity to come in search of Sir Harry.
"I have not seen you since the Indian mail came in this morning," she
said to him. "Why have you not been near me?"
"The day has been a busy one for me," he answered, speaking with the
gentleness that one uses to a child. "Many things have had to be seen
to."
"It is sad news."
"Very." And the ring of pain in his voice no one could mistake. "Thomas
would have come home now."
"Instead of that, we shall never see him again; and you, they tell me,
are Sir Harry Chandos. Who would have thought once that you would ever
inherit!"
"Strange changes take place," was his reply, spoken altogether in a
different tone, as if he did not care to encourage in her any
reminiscence of the past.
"It is so singular that they should both die together. At least, die to
us. That when we were mourning for the one, news should arrive of the
death of the other."
"Very singular. But it enables us to mourn openly, Ethel."
"Shall you live at Chandos?" she resumed, after a pause.
"Certainly."
"But mamma says she shall leave it and take me." She sometimes called
Lady Chandos mother. "Would you stay on alone?"
"I shall not be alone for long."
She looked at him questioningly. I could see her lovely blue eyes
raised to his in the dim light.
"Perhaps you will be marrying, Sir Harry?"
"Yes. In a short time."
The faint pink on her delicate cheeks deepened to crimson. Could it be
that she had ever suffered the old hopes to arise should certain
contingencies occur? Surely not! And yet—poor thing!—her intellect was
not quite as ours is.
"Have you fixed upon your wife?" she inquired, drawing a deep breath.
"I have asked this young lady to be my wife."
He indicated me, standing as I did back against the window. Mrs.
Chandos looked at me, her bright colour varying. The same thought
evidently crossed her that I had thought might cross them—my unfitness
in point of rank. She spoke to him proudly and coldly.
"Your wife will be Lady Chandos now, you must remember."
"I do not forget it, Ethel."
She sighed imperceptibly, and turned to the door. He went to open it
for her.
"Emily and mamma have gone to the west wing. I should not like to go
there: I never saw anybody dead. I was almost afraid to come down the
stairs, and now I am afraid to go up them."
"Do you wish to go up?" asked Sir Harry.
"Yes. I wish to be in my own rooms."
He held out his arm to her, and she took it. I stayed alone, wishing
the explanation had been made before he went away. But ere the lapse of
a minute Mrs. Chandos was in the east wing, and he back in the room
with me.
"Would you please let me speak to you a moment," I said—for he had only
returned to take up a small parcel left on the table: and he came up to
me, putting it down again.
But I could not speak. No, I could not. Now that the moment was come,
every word went out of my mind, power of utterance from my mouth. He
stood looking at me—at my evident agitation and whitening lips.
"It is only right that I should speak; I have been waiting all the
afternoon to do so, Mr. Chandos—I beg your pardon; I mean Sir Harry," I
brought out at last, and the very fact of speaking gave me courage. "I
wish—I wish——"
"Why, Anne what is the matter?" he asked, for a great breath like a sob
stopped me, momentarily. "What is it that you wish?"
"To tell you that I quite absolve you from anything you have said to
me:" and the shame I felt at having betrayed emotion brought to me a
sudden and satisfactory coldness of manner. "Please not to think any
more about me. It is not your fault, and I shall not think it is. Let
it all be forgotten."
A perception of my meaning flashed upon him, badly though I had
expressed it. He looked at me steadily.
"Do you mean, not think further of making you my wife?"
"Yes."
"Very well. But now will you tell me why you say this?"
I hesitated. I think I was becoming agitated again: all because I knew
I was getting through my task so stupidly.
"Circumstances have altered with you."
"Well, yes, in a measure. I am a trifle richer; and my wife—as Ethel
remarked just now—will be Lady instead of Mrs. Chandos. Why should you
object to that?"
"Oh, Mr. Chandos, you know. It is not I who would object; but your
family. And—perhaps—yourself."
"Anne, I vow I have a great mind to punish you for that last word. Oh,
you silly child!" he continued, putting his arms round my waist and
holding me close before him. "But that it would punish me as well as
you, I'd not speak to you for three days: I'd let you think I took you
at your word."
"Please don't joke. Don't laugh at me."
"Joke! laugh! I suppose you think that under the 'altered
circumstances,' as you call them, I ought to renew my vows. And, by the
way, I don't know that I ever did make you a formal offer; one that you
could use against me in a suit of breach of promise. Miss Hereford, I
lay my heart and hand at your disposal. Will you condescend to be my
future wife, Lady Chandos?"
Partly from vexation, partly from a great tumult of bliss, I gave no
answer. Sir Harry took one for himself. Ay, and was welcome to take it.
With my face in a burning heat,—with my heart in a glow of love, as if
filled with the strains of some delightful melody,—with my whole being
thrilling with rapture,—I ran upstairs, barely in time to change my
dress for dinner, and nearly ran against Lady Chandos, who was coming
out of the east wing.
"There are twin genii, who, strong and mighty,
Under their guidance mankind retain;
And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure,
And the name of the loathly one is Pain.
Never divided, where one can enter
Ever the other comes close behind;
And he who in pleasure his thoughts would centre,
Surely pain in the search shall find."
The good old words (and I don't at this present moment of writing
recollect whose they are) came forcibly to my mind in their impressive
truth. The sight of Lady Chandos changed my pleasure to pain: for I had
had no warranty from _him_ that she would approve of what he had been
doing. Bounding into my bedroom, I stood there at the open door until
she should pass: it would not do to shut it in her face, as though I
had not seen her.
But instead of passing, she turned to me. While my head was bowed in
silent salutation, she halted, and put her hand upon my shoulder,
causing my face to meet hers. With time consciousness of whose it had
just met, and very closely, with the consciousness of feeling like a
miserable interloping girl who was to be exalted into the place of her
predecessor against her approving will, no wonder I trembled and bent
my shrinking face.
"And so you are to be my daughter-in-law?"
The words were not spoken in angry pride, but in gentle kindness. I
looked up and saw love in her eyes; and she might see the gratitude
that shone in every line of mine.
"Harry told me last night in the midst of our great sadness; after you
had been into our poor George's room. My dear, I have heard a great
deal of you since I have been upstairs in confinement, and I feel sure
you will make him a good wife."
In my revulsion of feeling I clasped her hands in mine, thanking
her—oh, so earnestly. "There's only one thing," I said, with the tears
running down my face.
"What's that?"
"I am not good enough for him. And oh, Lady Chandos, I was so afraid
you would not think me so. I have been a governess, you know. I would
have given him up, I have just told him so, now he is Sir Harry
Chandos."
She smiled a little. "One objection arose to me when he first
spoke—that you were the niece of Mrs. Edwin Barley. But I have grown
to-day to think it may be well to overcome the prejudice. Do you know
what Harry says?"
I only shook my head.
"He says, as Mrs. Edwin Barley brought (I must speak freely) a curse
into our house, you may be destined to bring to it a blessing as the
recompense. My dear child, I think it will be so."
She inclined her head, and gave me a fervent kiss. I could have knelt
to receive it. I pressed her hand as if I could not let it go. I
watched her along the gallery to the west wing amid my blinding tears.
I could hardly help lifting my voice aloft in thanks to Heaven for its
great love to me. Hill came up the stairs and broke the charm.
"Why, Miss Hereford, you have no light," she said and indeed my chamber
was in darkness. "Allow me to light the branches, Miss."
By the unusual attention—a solitary candle would have been good enough
for me before—by the sound of her voice as she offered it, I saw she
had heard the news. I could not help putting my hand into hers as she
turned round from the lighted branches.
"Hill, I hope you will forget that I used to cross you about that west
wing. I did not know what it was, you see. But oh, if you had only told
me! I would have been so true to you all."
Old Hill put her candle down, that she might have her other hand at
liberty; and she laid it upon mine, making it a prisoner.
"Miss, it is I who have got to ask pardon of you for my crossness. We
were all living in so much dread, that a stranger in the house brought
nothing but extra fear and trouble. But I liked you through it all; I
liked your face that morning years ago on the Nulle steamer at London
Bridge. Miss, it is the same nice face still. And, Miss Hereford, I am
not sorry to hear that you are to be for good at Chandos."
"We shall be friends always, Hill."
"I hope so, Miss. I shan't be here; I go with my lady."
She went away with her candle. It gave me a shy feeling to think the
news should be known to the household. But I soon found it was not
known. Hill, the confidential attendant, it may be said friend, was
made acquainted with all things, but she did not carry them forth to
the servants under her.
Emily and Dr. Laken dined with us in the oak-parlour. Lady and Mrs.
Chandos dined in the east wing. Except that a subdued air pervaded all,
even to the tone of our voices and the servants' tread, the meal and
evening were just as usual.
"Why did you never tell me you were a Keppe-Carew?" Emily suddenly
asked me when we were alone together.
"But I am not a Keppe-Carew."
"Nonsense. Your mother was: it's all the same."
"As a governess, I did not care to say that my family was good."
"You were a little idiot, then, Anne Hereford. The Keppe-Carews are as
good as we are—better, some might say; and so I suppose I must
reconcile myself to the idea of your becoming my brother's wife."
"Oh, Madame de Mellissie, if you only could!"
"And forget that you were a governess. Well, child, I never disliked
you; and there's the truth. It wont seem right, though, for you to take
precedence of us all—as you will when you are Sir Harry's wife."
"I never will; indeed I never will."
She burst out laughing. At my being so simple-minded, she told Dr.
Laken, who then came in.
It was chilly that night; and when I got into my room at bedtime, I
found a fire blazing in the grate—by Hill's orders, I was sure. Ah me,
with all my natural propensity to be simple-minded, my earnest wish to
remain so for ever, I did feel a glow of pride at being tacitly
recognised as the future mistress of Chandos.
Over this fire—a bright, beautiful fire, as befitted a dull house—I sat
late, reading, musing, half dreaming. The clock struck twelve, and
still I sat on.
For half an hour, or so. It was so delightful to realize my happiness;
and I was in no mood for sleep. But of course sleep had to be prepared
for, and I took my feet from the fender, wondering what sort of a night
it was. There had been indications of frost in the evening, and I drew
the heavy window-curtains back to take a view outside. "No fear of
seeing a ghost now," I too boastfully whispered.
I thought I should have fainted; I nearly dropped on the floor with
startled alarm. Not at a ghost: there was none to be seen; but at
something that in that startling moment seemed to me far worse.
Emerging from its progress up the avenue, at a snail's pace, as if it
cared not to alarm sleepers with its echoes—advancing, as it seemed,
upon me—came a great, black, dismal thing, savouring of the dead. A
hearse. A hearse without its plumes, driven by a man in a long black
cloak.
For a moment I believed I saw a phantom. I rubbed my eyes, and looked,
and rubbed again, doubting what spectral vision was obscuring them. But
no, it was too real, too palpable. On it came, on and on; turned round,
and halted before the entrance door.
I sat down to hold my beating heart: sure never were enacted night
alarms like those I had encountered at Chandos. And, while I sat,
muffled sounds as of measured footsteps bearing a burden, smote upon my
ear from the corridor.
I listened till they had passed my door, and then silently drew it an
inch open. Do not attribute it to an unjustifiable curiosity: I declare
that I was impelled to it by fear. Strange though the assertion may
seem, it is true; the real cause of all this did not occur to me. Had I
been so absorbed in my own happiness as to forget all else?—or had I
grown stupid? I know not—only that it was as I say.
They had gained the head of the stairs, and were stopping there,
apparently hesitating how best to get down. Four of them besides Sir
Henry Chandos, and they bore a coffin on their shoulders covered with
black cloth—Dr. Laken, Hickens, and two men who looked like carpenters.
So! that was it!—the unhappy George Heneage was being removed by
night!—and the stairs of the west wing, as I knew later, were too
narrow.
I could not see, for the hearse was right underneath my window, but I
heard the sounds as they put in the coffin, after they had got it
safely down. And then the great black thing drove away again, with its
slow and covert steps, some of them following it. It was going to the
railway station.
Sir Harry and Dr. Laken were away for two or three days. The funeral
had taken place from the doctor's house. There was no real reason why
he might not have been buried from Chandos, except that it would have
created so much noise, and put the place up in arms.
And so ended the life and history of the ill-fated. George Heneage
Chandos.