The time passed monotonously. Always looking upon myself as an intruder, an unwelcome interloper, I could not feel at home at Chandos. A letter arrived in course of post from Emily de Mellissie, saying she had found her husband certainly ill, but not as much so as "la mÈre" had been willing to lead them to expect. In a few days she should write and fix the date of her return. I was at a loss what to do in more senses than one. Not liking to sit down to the piano uninvited—and no one did invite me—it remained closed. Now and then, when I knew that neither Lady Chandos nor her son was at home, I would play quietly for a few minutes—stealthily might be the best term. Twice Lady Chandos took me for a drive; she went herself every day; generally taking Mrs. Chandos. The latter I very rarely saw at any time.

And so I was reduced to walking and reading. Newspapers, books, and reviews lay about the room. Had I been anything of a dressmaker, I should have made up the dresses bought in Paris, failing the money to give them out; as it was, they lay in my large trunk, unmade. Mr. Chandos had told me the books in the library were at my service, and I chose some of them.

One morning, when I had gone in to get a book, Lady Chandos, passing the door, saw me and came in. I was standing before a book-case in the darkest part of the room; before which the inner curtains had always been drawn. They were undrawn now, but the doors were locked as usual.

"Are you searching for a book, Miss Hereford?"

"Yes, madam. Amidst so many——"

The sight of Lady Chandos's face caused my sentence to fail. The evident astonishment with which she gazed on the book-case; the displeased, nay, the dismayed, expression of her countenance, was something curious. In my timidity, I feared she might think I had undrawn the curtains. There appeared to be books of all kinds, shapes, and sizes, inside; pamphlets and loose papers. Mr. Chandos happened to come out of his room, and she called him.

"Harry," she began, in a sharp, authoritative tone, "who has been at this book-case, and left the curtains undrawn?"

"It must have been Mrs. Chandos," he replied, advancing to his mother's side. "The doors are locked, I see; there's no great harm done."

"No harm!" repeated Lady Chandos; "look here."

She pointed to a name written on the white paper cover of one of the books. Mr. Chandos knitted his brow as he bent closer.

"Very thoughtless of her; very negligent," murmured Lady Chandos. "I have said before the keys ought not to be entrusted to Ethel."

As I quitted the room quietly, not liking to stay in it, I saw Mr. Chandos take a bunch of keys from his pocket; and, subsequently, heard the silk curtains drawn close, and the doors relocked. Never should I feel free to go to the book-case again. I had one volume of Shakespeare out, and must make the most of it.

We were having lovely days, and this was one of them. I strolled out, the book in my hand. But, before settling to read, I went to the gates to see how they were getting on with the opposite house. They had been busy furnishing it for two or three days, and I—for want of something better to do—had taken an interest in it, and watched the things going in. It appeared all in order this morning; there was no bustle, no litter; curtains were up, blinds were half-drawn, and smoke was ascending from more than one chimney. The tenant or tenants must have arrived and taken possession.

As I stood leaning over the small side-gate, there came out of that house a man; a gentleman, to appearance; short, and with a dark face. But of the latter I caught but a passing glimpse, for he turned his back immediately to look up at the front of the house. Calling to a manservant, he appeared to be pointing out something that he wished done, or finding fault with something that had been left undone. I could not hear the words but I could the tones; they were authoritative, as was his manner. He was evidently the master.

I thought I had seen him before, for there was something in his figure, and even in the passing sight of his face, which struck upon me as being familiar. I waited for him to turn again, that I might obtain a better view; but he did not, and soon went in. I walked back to a shady bench, and began reading. It was underneath the trees that shaded the side of the broad open walk. Presently the sound of two people, apparently encountering each other, reached me from behind the shrubs.

"Are you here alone, Ethel?" was asked by Mr. Chandos.

"Yes, I took a fancy to come; I and my kitten. Mrs. Freeman said wait an hour or two, and perhaps she could come with me. She is ill."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. She often complains now; pains come in her head."

"Did you unlock the book-case in the library and leave the curtains undrawn?"

"What book-case?" returned Mrs. Chandos.

"That book-case."

"What next, Harry! As if I should do anything of the sort!"

"You had the keys last night. And no one opens that book-case but yourself."

"I did open that book-case, I remember, and undraw the curtains; I thought they were dusty, but I'm sure I thought I drew them again. I'm very sorry."

"Be more cautious for the future, Ethel. Lady Chandos is vexed. You see, while this young lady is in the house——"

"But I cannot see what business she has in the library," interrupted Mrs. Chandos, in a quick complaining tone. "A stranger has no right to the run of the house. I think you must be all out of your minds to have her here at all."

"In regard to the library, Ethel, I told her——"

They were the last words that reached me. Mrs. Chandos, ever changeable, was walking rapidly to the house again. Presently Mr. Chandos came down the broad walk, saw me, and approached.

"Are you fond of Shakespeare's works?" he asked, when he knew what I was reading.

"I have never read them, sir."

"Never read them!" he cried, in surprise. "You cannot mean that, Miss Hereford."

"But, sir, I have always been at school. And schoolgirls have no opportunity of obtaining such works. At my English school, Miss Fenton's, there were some volumes of Shakespeare in the governess's private parlour; but I never saw anything of them but their backs."

"Have you never read Byron?"

"Oh no."

"Nor any novels?"

"Not any books of that kind."

He looked at me with a half smile, standing with his back against a tree. "I think I understood from my sister that you are an orphan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you no home?"

"I have neither home nor relatives. The place that seems more like a home to me than any other is Mademoiselle Barlieu's, at Nulle. I was there four years."

"Did you never get any French novels there?"

"Indeed no."

"My sister told me she did."

"I don't see how that could have been, sir, unless she read them when she was out. Miss Chandos visited a great deal."

"Yes, to her cost."

He drew in his lips when he spoke, like one in pain, and his blue eyes—they were so dark as to be purple in some lights—went out far away, as if looking into the past.

"We were too closely superintended to admit of our reading any books, unless by permission; as to novels, the Miss Barlieus would have been in fits at the thought. And since I left them I have been too fully occupied to read for recreation. This is the first leisure time I have had for nearly as long as I can remember."

"Indeed! It must seem strange to you."

"So strange, sir, that I am not sure whether I like it or not."

Mr. Chandos laughed. "Did you visit much, when you were at Nulle?"

"No sir. I had not a friend in the town. Towards the last, Miss Annette would sometimes take me when she went out to spend the evening."

"Will you allow me to direct your reading, Miss Hereford?" he returned, after a pause.

"Oh, sir, if you would!" I answered eagerly. "For in truth that library seems to me like a wild sea, with its multitude of books."

"Yes; and a young lady might get amidst shoals; for all the books are not equally worthy!"

"Perhaps, sir, you will look out a few and give to me."

"I will, with pleasure."

"Thank you. Meanwhile, may I go on with this, as I have begun it?"

He left the tree, took the book from my hand and looked at it. "'Othello;' yes, you may read that."

As he returned the book to me and resumed his position against the tree, some one approached from the outer gate. I thought it was a visitor. He came strolling on in the very middle of the broad avenue, his arms underneath his coat-tails; and soon I perceived it was the gentleman I had seen at the newly-occupied house, giving his directions to the servant. But ah! as he neared us, remembrance, with its cold chill of terror, struck upon my heart. I knew him instantly. It was Mr. Edwin Barley. Mr. Edwin Barley, and not in the least altered.

"Do you want anything, sir?" demanded Mr. Chandos. For the intruder was passing us without ceremony, and turning his head about from side to side as curiously and freely as he might have done on the public road.

"I don't want anything," was the independent answer, and Mr. Edwin Barley stood and faced Mr. Chandos as he spoke it, looking at him keenly. "The open air is free to walk in, I believe."

"Quite so—when you are without these boundaries. But these are private property."

"I am aware that they are the grounds belonging to Chandos House; but I did not know a stranger might not be permitted to walk in them."

"Lady Chandos prefers privacy. Strangers are not in the habit of entering here; nor can their doing so be sanctioned."

"I presume that I am speaking to Mr. Harry Chandos?" Mr. Chandos bowed his head, very coldly. Mr. Edwin Barley bowed in his turn; it might have been called an introduction.

"I will retreat," he said, "and I suppose I must beg your pardon for intruding. It did not occur to me that my strolling in might be unwelcome."

Mr. Chandos said nothing to detain him, and Mr. Edwin Barley raised his hat and departed. Mr. Chandos returned the courtesy, and looked after him.

"Who can he be, I wonder? I don't much like his face."

"I think it is the new tenant, sir. I saw him at the house just now."

"He the tenant!" returned Mr. Chandos. "Miss Hereford, what is the matter with you? You are as white as that statue."

I turned it off, giving no explanation; and Mr. Chandos walked towards the gate. I daresay I did look white, for the sight of Mr. Edwin Barley brought back all the old horror of the events that had occurred during my sojourn in his house. Not that it was so much the recollection that drove the colour from my cheeks, as the dread fear that he should recognise me though why I should have feared it, I did not know. Little chance was there of that—had I been calm enough to judge the matter sensibly. While Mr. Edwin Barley had remained stationary in appearance, I had changed from a child into a woman.

But what had brought Mr. Edwin Barley entering as the tenant of that small and inferior house? he, with his fine fortune and his fine estates! There seemed to be mystery enough at Chandos! was this going to be another mystery?

"I believe you must be right, Miss Hereford; he has entered the house," said Mr. Chandos, returning. "If he is really the new tenant—as I suppose he is—he appears by no means a prepossessing one. I wonder what his name may be?"

I could not, for the whole world, have told Mr. Chandos that I knew his name; I could not have told that I knew him. All my hope was that it would never be betrayed that I had known him, that he was any connexion of mine, or that he would ever recognise me. What, what could have brought Edwin Barley to Chandos?