BACK FOR AYE AT CHANDOS.
Once more there was a light in the gloomy house of Chandos. The blinds
were drawn up; the sunlight was allowed to shine in. He who had been
the destroyer of its tranquillity and its fair name—through whom, and
for whom, they had lived in dread for so many years, having, as Mrs.
Penn aptly expressed it, a sword hanging perpetually over their heads,
which might fall at any minute—he, the erring man, was laid to rest;
and had left rest for them. With him, the fear and the dread were
gone—almost the disgrace; there was no further need of secrecy, of
retirement, of ghosts, of sleepwalking; there was no longer dread of a
night invasion by the police. Chandos could hold up its head now in the
face of day.
The deep mourning was supposed, by all save a few, to be worn for Sir
Thomas Chandos. When Mrs. Chandos appeared in her widow's garb, people
at first treated it as one of her eccentricities, but the truth got to
be known in time. They put me into mourning too; and it was done in
this way.
"Would you not like to wear it?" Sir Harry said to me the day he came
home. "I think, as you are in the house, one of us, it might be well;
also as my future wife. What do you say, Anne? Would you object?"
"Indeed I would not object: I should like to wear it. I will order——"
and there the state of the case occurred to me, and I sat down in
consternation.
I had not a shilling in the world. I had no money, either for mourning
or for my wedding clothes. The exceeding incongruity of this order of
affairs with my position as the future Lady Chandos, struck on me with
shame and dismay. What would they all think of me? What reflections of
meanness might even the servants not cast upon me? Tears of
mortification filled my eyes, nearly dropped upon my burning cheeks.
"What's the matter, Anne?"
"I have no money."
Sir Harry laughed. "Don't cry over that, my darling. You'll have so
much soon, you wont know what to do with it. Tell my mother of your
dilemma."
_I_ did not. Perhaps he did. In the afternoon Hill came to my room with
Lady Chandos's dressmaker; and in two days my black things were home.
The first visitor we had at the house—and he arrived the day I put my
mourning on—was Monsieur de Mellissie, looking very ill. Of course he
had come after his wife, having started the instant he was able to
travel. A somewhat stormy interview ensued between them; but she spoke
like one accustomed to have things her own way, and he appeared rather
meek beside her. He had arrived with the view of taking her back to
France; she vowed and protested that she was not going home yet
awhile—that all the steamers plying between the two countries should
not drag her; her mamma was about to spend some time at Brighton or
Scarborough, as might be agreed up on, and she purposed accompanying
her: she wanted recruiting as well as other people.
Lady Chandos stepped forward to the rescue, her compassion awakened for
the poor, sick, evidently suffering man. The first thing, he must go to
bed and be nursed, she said; they would talk of plans afterwards.
Monsieur de Mellissie was really too ill to dispute the mandate;
neither did he feel inclined to do it: after his hurried journey from
Paris, bed seemed as a very haven of rest.
They left the room, followed by Lady Chandos, and the next to appear
was the agent, Mr. Dexter. He came in, rubbing his hot face as usual.
Not that the weather put him into a heat to-day, but the news he
brought.
Mr. Edwin Barley had gone away. Mr. Edwin Barley's servant had called
upon him with a cheque for a twelve-month's rent and taxes, and an
intimation that his master would not occupy the house again. Mr. Dexter
might make what use he pleased of it. If there were any dilapidations
for which Mr. Edwin Barley was legally responsible, they would be paid
for on the amount being sent to him at the Oaks.
"Gone away, has he?" cried Sir Harry.
"Gone clean away, sir, bag and baggage," replied Mr. Dexter, who seemed
not able to get over the surprising fact. "It's the oddest thing I ever
knew. The furniture—it was only hired, as you may remember, Sir
Harry—is already being removed out of the house. A strange whim, to be
red-hot for a place one month, and run away from it the next!"
"Very," said Sir Harry, quietly.
"I suppose the truth is, he found the house so different from his own
place, the Oaks, that he couldn't reconcile himself to stop in it,"
resumed Mr. Dexter, talking as fast as ever. "A magnificent place that,
his servant tells me. He has another, too, close by it, that he keeps
up as well. I pressed the question on the servant—a most respectable
man, quite superior, Sir Harry—what could be taking his master away;
but he said he didn't know, unless it might be that he was disappointed
at finding the shooting here so poor. The preserves at the Oaks are
hardly to be matched in the kingdom. Any way, Sir Harry, he's _gone_,
whatever may have taken him."
As Mr. Dexter went out of the room, disburdened of his news, Sir Harry
came to the window where I sat at work, laid his hand upon my head, and
made me look up at him.
"Is that little heart of yours relieved by the tidings?"
"Yes; oh, yes. I have not dreaded Mr. Edwin Barley so much the last few
days; but I am glad he is gone. I was always fearing that he might
apply for some power that would enable him legally to take me hence."
"In that case I must have got legal power on my side in the shape of a
special licence, and married you romantically in the great drawing-room
at twelve at night, and so made you secure in that way. I think even
now it may be safer, Anne, not to delay the ceremony long."
I looked up in consternation, believing he really thought there might
still be danger, and met the expression in his eyes. Mine fell on my
work again. I began sewing fast.
"Don't you think Monsieur de Mellissie looks very ill, Sir Harry?"
"I do; but low fever reduces a man greatly. When are you going to leave
off the 'Sir?' 'Sir Harry' is worse than 'Mr. Chandos' was."
"But what can I call you?"
"I was christened Harry."
"I shall learn it in time," I answered, shyly, "through hearing the
others say it."
"Anne, do you know what poor George said the last night of his life?"
he asked, after a pause.
"No. Was it about me?"
"It was about you: when you were the little thing he met at Hallam. He
said you were a sweet, loveable child: truthful, honest, and good. I
think you are the same still."
I bent my blushing face: praises were so sweet from him. Sir Harry
suddenly clasped me to him with a deep sound—quite a cry of love; and I
had to kneel down afterwards and hunt for my needle.
A few mornings subsequent to this, the post brought a packet addressed
to Sir Harry Chandos. When I saw it was Mr. Edwin Barley's handwriting,
my heart failed me. Sir Harry read it twice over; glanced at me, and
put it in his pocket. Monsieur de Mellissie was considerably better;
the change of air and scene had almost restored him. He did not yet get
up to breakfast. I, Emily, and her brother took it alone. Plans had
been under discussion for some days. Sir Harry's marriage was already
talked of openly.
"Mamma says it will be Scarborough," observed Emily, following out the
train of thought she had been pursuing while Sir Harry read his letter.
"She shall go there for a month, and get to Heneage Grange for
Christmas. Ethel goes with her of course, and so shall I. Alfred also;
she has been inviting him. And you, Anne—where do you go?"
I could not tell. I had neither money nor friends. Except the Miss
Barlieus.
"Where are you going, Anne? Don't you hear me?" she cried, with some
impatience. "Even if mamma remained at Chandos, _you_ could not, under
the same roof with Harry. It would be out of all precedent, you know.
The world _would_ talk."
"Wouldn't it?" put in Sir Harry. But I thought he was laughing at her.
"Where are you to be married? I mean, from whose house?" she asked,
looking straight at me.
"From—Miss Barlieu's," I suggested, humbly, feeling now very humble my
share of everything was altogether.
Emily gave a scream. "From Miss Barlieu's! Sir Harry Chandos take his
wife from _them?_ Well, you have notions of things, Anne Hereford. You
ought to be married from Keppe-Carew."
"There is no one at Keppe-Carew now. Arthur Carew is a boy at school."
"Oh well, I wash my hands of it," said Emily; "I suppose mamma will
have to arrange it all. Look here, Anne; I mean to be a frequent
visitor at Chandos, so I give you fair warning."
It was on my lips to say she would be always welcome, when Sir Harry
spoke: telling her she might probably find that mamma _had_ arranged
it; all that was necessary to be arranged. She flew upstairs to ask,
and Sir Harry turned to me.
Oh, what wonderful news he had to tell! That old saying I spoke of but
a few pages back was nothing to it. I sat and listened as one in a vast
maze—and when Sir Harry showed me the letter, I read it twice over, as
he had done, before knowing whether or not to believe it.
Mr. Edwin Barley had made over to me the amount of money left by
Selina, with the full interest thereon at five per cent, up to the
present date. He frankly stated that the mystery of the lost will had
now been cleared up: it had been (contrary to his own opinion)
abstracted, and, as he found, burnt. He did not give any hint as to the
culprit; with all his sins, he was too much of a gentleman to do that:
I could acknowledge it now that my prejudices were partially removed:
but we felt sure (and knew it later) that it was Charlotte Delves. This
money he had caused to be settled on me to my exclusive use and
benefit. He informed Sir Harry that the first instalment of the
half-yearly interest was waiting to be drawn by me.
"So you are an heiress, after all," said Sir Harry, laughing. "You can
buy your wedding dress."
But I did not laugh. I was thinking how I had misjudged Mr. Edwin
Barley. I had thought him so hard and unjust a man! Hard, he might be:
but strictly just.
"I should like to write and thank him."
"Certainly. Write when you like, and what you like. I shall answer his
letter. It contains something more, that I have not shown you."
"Am I not to see it?"
For answer Sir Harry folded the letter back, and placed a postscript
before me. It seemed to me more amazing than the other.
"Should my niece, Anne Hereford, find herself less happy as Lady
Chandos—your wife—than she expects to be, and wish for a refuge, my
house will be open to her. If she enters it, whether in the present
year or in those long to come, she will be treated in every way as my
own child; and be very amply provided for at my death."
"Do you expect you will require a refuge?"
His eyes were gleaming with merriment as he spoke it—a whole lifetime
of loving affection in their depths. If mine unconsciously looked back
their great and tender trust, it was not my fault. But a vision of
sometime meeting Edwin Barley and thanking him for this new kindness;
of making some little atonement for my past hatred, so far as words of
gratitude could atone, rose within me as a vision.
The following week we quitted Chandos for Scarborough—all of us, except
Sir Harry. There were many things to be done to the house, improvements
and alterations, and he remained to superintend them. He spent
Christmas with us at Heneage Grange: it was a smaller place than
Chandos, very open, very pretty, and belonged to Lady Chandos for life.
I was to remain and be married from thence; Lady Chandos so decided it.
The winter had passed, the spring had come, before I saw Chandos again.
I was then in Harry's carriage: alone with him; his dear wife, his wife
of only a day or two. Chandos was very far from Heneage Grange, and we
had taken the journey easily, travelling post.
I saw it as we turned round from the avenue; and did not know it: so
different was it now in its light and gay appearance from the gloomy
place of the previous autumn. The trees, some of them cut down, were
budding into the fresh green of spring; the flowers were opening in
their parterres; the birds sang joyously; the once closed and barred
windows were open cheerily to the warm sun. All things spoke of hope
for us, as if nature had arrayed herself expressly in her brightest
colours.
I saw the servants in their gala clothes, with their glad faces of
greeting, coming forth to welcome us, Hickens at their head, and Lizzy
Dene with her bunches of black curls. The tears rained over my eyes,
and Harry turned to me.
"My darling, what is grieving you?"
"Joy, I think. There is a promise of so much happiness that I cannot
realize it, can scarcely believe in it. My past life has been nothing
but loneliness; can you wonder at my almost doubting the great
blessings showered upon me now? Harry!"—and I looked down with a shy
whisper—"it seems that I never, never can be sufficiently grateful to
God."
"We will try to be so, Anne. Sufficiently, no; but just a little, as He
shall give us aid for. What has been your life, compared to the
suffering of mine?—and He has lifted it from me."
He bent his head, I know in prayer. Prayer never to forget the great
mercies given. The carriage stopped at the door, and he helped me out.
Once more in the old hall; but it had light now, and bright painted
windows, and all sorts of beautiful things. Hill came forward. It was a
surprise. Lady Chandos had despatched her there, to superintend for our
reception, lending her to Chandos for a week.
"Welcome, my Lady; welcome home."
My Lady! I think it was the first time I had been addressed so, and
glanced at Harry. He had me on his arm, and was leading me into the
oak-parlour! The dear oak-parlour! We might have to keep state at
times, but that would ever be his favourite room and mine.
"Harry, how beautiful it all is! Do you know who I should like to ask
to come and see us first of all?"
"Well!" he said, smiling.
"Miss Annette Barlieu."
"And so we will."
Harry came into my dressing-room that night, with an open Bible in his
hand. He made me sit down by him while he read a chapter aloud; and I
found it was to be his usual custom morning and evening. It was that
chapter in Deuteronomy where the following verses occur; and I knew why
he had chosen it:—
"And it shall be, when the Lord thy God shall have brought thee into
the land which he sware unto thy fathers, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to
Jacob, to give thee great and goodly cities which thou buildedst not,
"And houses full of all good things, which thou filledst not, and wells
digged, which thou diggedst not, vineyards and olive-trees which thou
plantedst not; when thou shalt have eaten and be full;
"Then beware lest thou forget the Lord, which brought thee forth out of
the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage.
"Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, and serve him . . . . And thou shalt
do that which is right and good in the sight of the Lord, that it may
be well with thee.
"And it shall be our righteousness, if we observe to do all these
commandments before the Lord thy God, as he hath commanded us."
"Amen!" said Harry, softly, as he closed the book, carrying it with him
from the room.
And I knelt down alone to say my prayers, my heart full to overflowing
with a sense of its great blessings, and lifted up in thankfulness to
Heaven.
THE END.