No candles yet in Lady Chandos's rooms, but a great flood of light in those of Mrs. Chandos. The commotion in the ironing-room, that followed on the discovered presence of Hill, had given me the opportunity to come away, and so exchange (not willingly) the gossiping cheerfulness of the back, for the dreary front of the house. I had nearly laughed aloud at those foolish servant-girls; nevertheless, in what they had said there was food for speculation. For when Harry Chandos was abed, sick with fever; when he was over in France, with the broad sea and many miles of land between him and his home; how could they have seen him, or fancied they saw him, in these dark walks, night after night, at Chandos?

Pacing the dark gravel-walk from wing to wing, glancing, as I passed each time, through the window-panes and the muslin curtains into the oak-parlour, where the solitary tea waited, I thought over it all, and came to the conclusion that, taking one curious thing with another, something was uncanny in the place. How long should I have to stay at it?—how long would it be before Emily de Mellissie came back to me?

The hall-door stood open, and the hall-lamp threw its light across the lawn in a straight line. It seemed like a ray of company amid the general dreariness. I took a fancy to walk along the pleasant stream, forgetting or unheeding the dew that might lie on the grass. On reaching the other side, I stood a moment at the top of the pine-walk, and then advanced a few steps down it.

Some one was there before me. A white figure—as it looked—was flitting about; and I gave a great start. What with the night-hour, the solitary loneliness of all around, the soft sighing sound from the branches of the trees, and the servant-girls' recent talk of the "ghost," I am not sure but I began to think of ghosts myself. Ghost, or no ghost, it came gliding up to me, with its slender form, its lovely face: Mrs. Chandos, in a white silk evening dress, with a small white opera-cloak on her shoulders. It was her pleasure, as I learnt later, to dress each day for her own lonely society just as she would for a state dinner-table.

"How you startled me!" she exclaimed. "With that great brown shawl on your head, you look as much like a man as a woman. But I saw by the height it was not he. Did you know that he came—that he was here last night?" she added, dropping her voice to the faintest whisper.

It was the first time Mrs. Chandos had voluntarily addressed me. Of course I guessed that she alluded to Mr. Harry Chandos: but I hesitated to answer, after the caution he had given me. Was there anything wild about her voice and manner as she spoke?—had her spirits run away with her to-night?—or did the fact of her flitting about in the white evening-dress in this wild way, like any schoolgirl, cause me to fancy it?

"Did you know it, I ask?" she impatiently rejoined. "Surely you may answer me."

"Yes!" There seemed no help for it. "I saw him madam, but I shall not mention it. The secret is safe with me."

"You saw him! Oh, heaven, what will be done?" she cried, in evident distress. "It was so once before: the servants saw him. You must not tell any one; you must not."

"Indeed I will not. I am quite trustworthy."

"What are you doing out here?" she sharply said. "Looking for him?"

"Indeed no. I was dull by myself, and came across unthinkingly. I am as true as you, Mrs. Chandos. I would not, for the world, say a word to harm him."

The assurance seemed to satisfy—to calm her; she grew quiet as a little child.

"To talk of it might cause grievous evil, you know; it might lead to—but I had better not say more to a stranger. How did you come to know of it?"

I made no answer. Some feeling, that I did not stay to sift, forbade me to say it was from himself.

"I know; it was from Madame de Mellissie. It was very foolish of her to tell you. It was wrong of her to bring you here at all."

As Mrs. Chandos spoke, there was something in her words, in her tone, in her manner altogether, that caused a worse idea to flash across me—that she was not quite herself. Not insane; it was not that thought; but a little wanting in intellect; as if the powers of mind were impaired. It startled me beyond measure, and I began to think that I ought to try and get her indoors.

"Shall you not take cold out her, Mrs. Chandos?"

"I never take cold. You see, I am my own mistress now: when Mrs. Freeman's here, she will never let me come out after dusk. Lady Chandos sent my maid to sit with me this evening, but I lay down on the sofa, and told her I was perhaps going to sleep and she could not stay with me. And I came out; I thought I might see him."

Every word she spoke added to the impression.

"And so you saw him last night! I did not; I never do. The windows looking this way are closed. And perhaps if I were to see him like that, and be taken by surprise, it might make me ill: Mrs. Freeman says it would. It is so sad, you know!"

"Very sad," I murmured, assuming still that she alluded to the infirmity of Mr. Chandos.

"They never told me. They are not aware that I know it. I found it out to-day. I was going about the gallery early this morning, before Hill came home, and I found it out. When Mrs. Freeman's here, I can only get out when she pleases. You cannot think what a long time it is since—since——"

"Since what?" I asked, as she came to a stop.

"Since the last time. Harry has not said a word to me all day; it is a shame of him. He ought to have told me."

"Yes, yes," I murmured, wishing to soothe her.

"You see, Harry's not friends with me. He tells me he is, but he is not in reality. It is through my having treated him badly: he has been the same as a stranger ever since. But he ought to have told me this. You must not tell them that I know it."

"Certainly not."

"They might lock me in, you know; they did once before: but that was not the last time, it was when Harry was in France. If Mrs. Freeman had been here to-day, I should not have known it so soon. It is very cruel: I think I shall tell Lady Chandos so. If Harry——"

During the last few words, Mrs. Chandos's eyes had been strained on a particular spot near to us. What she saw, or fancied she saw, I know not, but she broke into a low smothered cry of fear, and sped away swiftly to the house. Rather startled, I bent my eyes on the place, as if by some fascination, half expecting—how foolish it was!—to see Mr. Chandos perambulating in his sleep. And I believe, had I done so, I should have run away more terrified than from any ghost.

Something did appear to be there that ought not. It was between the trunks of two trees, in a line with them, as if it were another tree of never-yet-witnessed form and shape. A vast deal more like the figure of a man, thought I, as I gazed. Not a tall slender man like Mr. Chandos; more of the build of Mr. Edwin Barley.

Why the idea of the latter should have occurred to me, or whether the man (it certainly was one!) bore him any resemblance, I could not tell. The fancy was quite enough for me, and I sped away as quickly as Mrs. Chandos had done. She had whisked silently through the hall towards her rooms, and met her maid on the stairs; who had probably just discovered her absence.

"Are you ready to make tea, Miss Hereford? I have come to have some."

It was the greeting of Mr. Chandos, as I ran, scared and breathless, into the oak-parlour. He was sitting in the easy-chair near the table, a review in his hand, and looked up with surprise. No wonder—seeing me dart in as if pursued by a wild cat, an ugly shawl over my head. But, you see, I had not thought he would be there.

However, he said nothing. I sat down, as sedate as any old matron, and made the tea. Mr. Chandos read his paper, and spoke to me between whiles.

"Don't you think, sir, we ought to have heard to-day from Madame de Mellissie?"

"Why to-day?"

"It is getting time that I heard. Except the short note to Lady Chandos, written upon her arrival in Paris, she has not sent a syllable. It is very strange."

"Nothing is strange that Emily does. She may be intending to surprise us by arriving without notice. I fully expect it. On the other hand, we may not hear from her for weeks to come."

"But she has left me here, sir! She said she should be sure to come back the very first day she could."

Mr. Chandos slightly laughed. "You may have passed from her memory, Miss Hereford, as completely as though you never existed in it."

I paused in consternation, the suggestion bringing to me I know not what of perplexity. He looked excessively amused.

"What can I do, sir?"

"Not anything that I see, except make yourself contented here. At least until we hear from Emily."

With the tea-things, disappeared Mr. Chandos; and a sensation of loneliness fell upon me. At what? At his exit, or at my previous alarm in the pine-walk? I might have asked myself, but did not. He came back again shortly, remarking that it was a fine night.

"Have you been out, sir?"

"No. I have been to my mother's rooms."

"Is she better this evening?"

"Much the same."

He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand lifted to his head; evidently in deep thought, a strange look of anxiety, of pain, in the expression of his countenance. I went over to a side table to get something out of my workbox; and, not to disturb him by going back again, I softly pulled aside the muslin window-curtain to look out for a minute on the dusky, still night.

What was it made me spring back with a sudden movement of terror and a half-cry? Surely I could not be mistaken! That was a face close to the window, looking in; the dark face of a man; and, unless I was much mistaken, bearing a strong resemblance to that of Mr. Edwin Barley.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Chandos, coming forward. "Has anything alarmed you?"

"Oh, sir! I saw a face pressed close to the window-pane. A man's face."

Without the loss of a moment, Mr. Chandos threw up the window, and had his head out. All I felt good for was to sit down in a chair out of sight. He could see no one, as it appeared, and he shut the window again very quietly. Perhaps his thoughts only pointed to some one of the servants.

"Are you sure you saw any one, Miss Hereford?"

"I am very nearly sure, sir."

"Who was it?"

In truth I could not say, and I was not obliged to avow my suspicions. Mr. Chandos hastened outside, and I remained alone, as timid as could be.

A curious and most unpleasant suspicion was fixing itself upon my mind, dim glimpses of which had been haunting me during tea—that Mr. Edwin Barley's object was me. That it was himself who had been in the pine-walk, and again now at the window, I felt a positive conviction. He must have recognised me; this stealthy intrusion at odd times, seasonable and unseasonable, must be to watch me, to take note of my movements, not of those of the owners of Chandos. But for his motive I searched in vain.

"I cannot see or hear any one about," said Mr. Chandos, when he returned; "all seems to be quite free and still. I fancy you must have been mistaken, Miss Hereford."

I shook my head, but did not care to say much, after the notion that had taken possession of me. Words might lead to deeper questions, and I could not for the world have said that I knew Edwin Barley.

"Possibly you may be a little nervous to-night," he continued, ringing the bell; "and at such times the fancy considers itself at liberty to play us all sorts of tricks. My having told you what I did this morning relating to myself, may have taken hold of your imagination."

"Oh, no; it has not."

"I shall be very sorry to have mentioned it, if it has. Believe me, there's nothing in that to disturb you. When you ran in at tea-time I thought you looked scared. Close the shutters," he added, to the servant, who had appeared in answer to his ring. "And if you will pardon my leaving you alone, Miss Hereford, I will wish you good-night. I am very tired, and I have some writing to do yet."

He shook hands with me and departed. Joseph bolted and barred the shutters, and I was left alone. But I went up to my room before ten o'clock.

Would Mr. Chandos—or his ghost, as the servants had it—be out again that night in his somnambulant state? The subject had taken hold of my most vivid interest, and after undressing I undid the shutters and stood for a few minutes at the window in a warm wrapper, watching the grounds. Eyes and ears were alike strained, but to no purpose. No noise disturbed the house indoors, and all appeared still without. It might be too early yet for Mr. Chandos.

But the silence told upon me. There was not a voice to be heard, not a sound to break the intense stillness. I began to feel nervous, hurried into bed, and went to sleep.

Not to sleep for very long. I was awakened suddenly by a commotion in the gallery outside. A loud, angry cry; reproachful tones; all in the voice of Mrs. Chandos; they were followed by low, remonstrating words, as if somebody wished to soothe her. Were you ever aroused thus in the middle of the night in a strange, or comparatively strange, place? If so, you may divine what was my terror. I sat up in bed with parted lips, unable to hear anything distinctly for the violent beating of my heart; and then darted to the door, putting on my slippers and my large warm wrapper, before drawing it cautiously an inch open.

It was not possible to make out anything at first in the dim gallery. Three dusky forms were there, having apparently come from the west wing, which I took to be those of Lady, Mr., and Mrs. Chandos. She, the latter, had her hair hanging down over a white wrapper; and Mr. Chandos, his arm about her waist, was drawing her to her own apartments. It was by that I knew him; who else would have presumed so to touch her?—his coat was off, his slippers were noiseless. The moonlight, coming in faintly on the gallery from above, made things tolerably clear, as my eyes got used to them.

"You never would have told me," she sobbed, pushing back her hair with a petulant hand; "you know you never meant to tell me for ever so long. It is cruel—cruel! What am I here but a caged bird?"

"Oh, Ethel! Ethel! you will betray us all!" cried Lady Chandos, in a voice of dire, reproachful tribulation. "To think that you should make this disturbance at night! Did you forget that a stranger was sleeping here?—that the servants may hear you in their rooms? You will bring desolation on the house."

Scarcely had they disappeared within the doors of the east wing, when Mr. Chandos came swiftly and suddenly out of his own chamber. Only a moment seemed to have elapsed, yet he had found it sufficient time to finish dressing, for he was now fully attired. His appearing from his chamber, after disappearing within the east wing, established the fact that his room did communicate with it. Almost simultaneously Hickens ran up the stairs from the hall, a light in his hand. Mr. Chandos advanced upon him, and peremptorily waved him back.

"Go back to bed, sir. You are not wanted."

But as the light fell on Mr. Chandos's face, I saw that he was deadly pale, and his imperative manner seemed to proceed from fear, not anger.

"I heard a scream, Mr. Harry," responded poor Hickens, evidently taken to. "I'm sure I heard voices; and I—I—thought some thieves or villains of that sort had got in, sir."

"Nothing of the kind. There's nothing whatever the matter to call for your aid. Mrs. Chandos is nervous to-night, and cried out—it is not the first time it has happened, as you know. She is all right again now, and my mother is with her. Go back, and get your rest as usual."

"Shall I leave you the light, sir?" asked Hickens, perceiving that Mr. Chandos had none.

"Light? No. What do I want with a light? Mrs. Chandos's ailments have nothing to do with me."

He stood at the head of the stairs, watching Hickens down, and listening to his quiet closing of the doors dividing the hall from the kitchen-passages. Hickens slept downstairs, near his plate-pantry. He was late in going to rest, as it was explained afterwards, and had heard the noise overhead in the midst of undressing.

Mr. Chandos turned from the stairs, and I suppose the slender inch-stream of moonlight must have betrayed to him that my door was open. He came straight towards it with his stern, white face, and I had no time to draw back. He and ceremony were at variance that night.

"Miss Hereford, I beg your pardon, but I must request that you retire within your room and allow your door to be closed," came the peremptory injunction. "Mrs. Chandos is ill, and the sight of strangers would make her worse. I will close it for you; I should so act by my sister, were she here."

He shut it with his own hand, and turned the key upon me. Turned the key upon me! Well, I could only submit, feeling very much ashamed to have had my curiosity observed, and scuffled into bed. Nothing more was heard; not the faintest movement to tell that anything unusual had happened.

But how strangely mysterious it all appeared! One curious commotion, one unaccountable mystery succeeding to another: I had heard of haunted castles in romances, of ghostly abbeys; surely the events enacted in them could not be more startling than these at Chandos.

Morning came. I was up betimes; dressed, read; found my room unlocked, and went out of doors while waiting for breakfast. Mr. Chandos passed on his way from the house, and stopped.

"Did I offend you last night, Miss Hereford?"

"No, sir."

"Walk with me a few steps, then," he rejoined. "I assumed the liberty of treating you as a sister—as though you were Emily. I thought you would have the good sense to understood so, and feel no offence. What caused you to be looking from your door?"

"The commotion in the gallery awoke me, sir, and I felt frightened. It was only natural I should look to see what caused it."

"What did you see?"

"I saw Lady and Mrs. Chandos; and I saw you, sir. You were supporting Mrs. Chandos."

"Did you see any one else."

"No; not any one else."

For the space of a full minute Mr. Chandos never took his eyes from me. It looked as if he questioned my veracity.

"I forgot Hickens, sir; I saw him. At least, in point of fact, I did not see him; he did not come high enough; I only heard him."

"Suppose I were to tell you it was not Mrs. Chandos you saw?"

"But it was Mrs. Chandos, sir; I am sure of it. I recognised her in spite of her hanging hair, and I also recognised her voice."

"You are equally sure, I presume, that it was myself?"

"Of course I am, sir. Why, did you not speak to me at my door afterwards?"

Could I have been mistaken in thinking that a great relief came over his face?

"Ah, yes," he continued after a pause, while his gaze went out into the far distance, "Mrs. Chandos is one of our troubles. She is not in good health, and has disturbed us before in the same manner. The fact is, she is what is called nervous; meaning that she is not so collected at times as she ought to be. I am very sorry you were disturbed."

"Pray don't think anything of that, sir. She feels strange, perhaps, now Mrs. Freeman is gone."

"Yes, that is it. But it has very much upset my mother."

"I fancied yesterday evening that Mrs. Chandos was not quite right; though, perhaps, I ought not to repeat it. Her manner was a little wild."

"Yesterday evening! When did you see her yesterday evening?"

"I saw her out in the grounds, sir, in the pine walk."

"Alone?"

"Quite alone, sir, in her white silk evening-dress. It was at dusk; just before I ran in to the oak-parlour, if you remember. Mrs. Chandos and I came in together."

"What took you there?" he asked, abruptly.

I told him what—that I had stepped out, being alone, and crossed the grass.

"Well," he said, gravely, "allow me to caution you not to go out of doors after dusk, Miss Hereford; there are reasons against it. I will take care that Mrs. Chandos does not. We might have you both run away with," he added, in a lighter tone.

"There is no fear of that, sir."

"You do not know what there is fear of," he sharply answered. "Last night you looked as scared as could be. You will be fancying you see ghosts in the pine walk next, or me, perhaps, walking in my sleep."

"We thought we did, sir. At least, something was there that looked like a man."

"What kind of man?" he hastily asked.

"One short and thick. I suppose it was only the trunk of a tree."

"Stay indoors; don't go roaming about at dark," he emphatically said. "And now I have another request to make to you, Miss Hereford."

"What is it, sir?"

"That you will leave off calling me 'sir.' It does not sound well on your lips."

He smiled as he spoke. And I blushed until I was ashamed of myself.

"Have you any love for the appellation?"

"No, indeed! But Madame de Mellissie——"

"Just so," he interrupted. "I suspected as much. You would not have fallen into it yourself."

"I don't know that, sir."

"Sir?"

"It was a slip of the tongue. I used to say 'Sir' and 'Madam' to Mr. and Mrs. Paler. I was told to do so when I went there as governess."

"Well, you are not governess here, and we can dispense with it. Good morning!" he added, as we neared the gates. "It is too bad to bring you so far, and send you back alone."

"Are you not coming to breakfast, sir?" Another slip.

"My breakfast was taken an hour ago. I am going to see how Mrs. Freeman is. You will be condemned to make a solitary breakfast this morning. Good-bye!"

A very pleasant one, for all that. It is pleasant to live amidst the luxuries of life. The fare of a governess had been exchanged for the liberal table of Chandos. Not that I cared much what I ate and drank: I was young and healthy; but I did like the ease and refinement, the state and the innocent vanities pertaining to the order of the Chandos world.

Half sitting, half lying in one of the garden-chairs in the balmy sunshine, I partly read and partly dreamed away the morning. The house was within view; servants and comers passed to it within hail; cheery voices could be heard; snatches of laughter now and again. On that side all was busy life; on the other lay the silent mass of trees that surrounded Chandos. The sun was twinkling through their foliage; the glorious tints of ruddy autumn lighted them up. A charming tableau!

Uncertain though my stay was, unusual and perhaps undesirable as the position was for a young girl, I was beginning to feel strangely happy in it. Madame de Mellissie did not come; another post in, that day, and no letter from her. And there I sat on unconcerned, in my pretty lilac muslin, with the ribbons in my chestnut hair, watching the little birds as they flew about singing; watching the gardener sweeping up his leaves at a distance; and feeling more joyous than the morning. I ought not to have felt so, I daresay, but I did, and broke out into snatches of song as gay as the birds. Tra la la la; tra la la la!

Mr. Chandos passed to the house with a quick step, not seeing me. He was back, then; I followed, for it was the luncheon hour, and I was not on a sufficient footing at Chandos to keep meals waiting. Hill was in the oak-parlour, inquiring after the state of Mrs. Freeman.

"Her state is this, Hill—that it admits no probability whatever of her returning here," said Mr. Chandos, throwing back his velveteen coat, for he was in sporting clothes. And well he looked in them! as a tall, handsome man generally does.

"There's a bother!" was Hill's retort. "Then some one else must be seen about, Mr. Harry, without loss of time."

"I suppose so. Things seem to be going tolerably cross just now.

"Cross and contrary," groaned Hill. "As they always do, I've noticed, when it's specially necessary they should go smooth. My lady was speaking about Miss White, you know, sir."

"Yes. I'll go up and speak with my mother. But I must have something to eat, Hill."

"The luncheon ought to be in," was Hill's reply. And she crossed to the bell and gave it a sharp pull.

"Have you been walking to Mrs. Freeman's?" I asked of Mr. Chandos, as he was quitting the room.

"That would be more than a twenty-mile walk, there and back," he answered, turning to speak. "I honoured the omnibus with my company as far as the station, and then went on by train; coming back in the same way."

The luncheon was on the table when he descended from his mother's rooms, and he hastily sat down to it. He was dressed differently then.

"I will not invite you to take it with me," he observed, "for I must not sit five minutes, and can barely snatch a mouthful."

"Are you going far?"

"Not very far; but I wish to be home to dinner. That will do, Joseph; you need not wait."

"Let me wait upon you, Mr. Chandos," I said, springing up.

"Very well. How will you begin?"

"I don't know what to begin with. I don't know what you want first."

"Nor I. For I do not want anything at all just now. What have you been doing with yourself all the morning?"

"Working a little, and reading. Not Shakespeare, but a play of Goldsmith's; 'She Stoops to Conquer.'

"Why, where did you pick up that?" he interrupted. "I did not know the book was about."

"I saw it lying in the window-seat near the east wing, and dipped into it. After that, I could not put it down again—although it was not in the list of books you gave me."

"You thought you would enjoy the mischief first, as the children do, whether the scolding came afterwards or not."

"Ought I not to have read it?"

"You may read it again if you like. It is an excellent comedy; more entertaining, I fancy, to read than to witness, though. Did you fall in love with Tony Lumpkin?"

"Not irrevocably. Here comes your horse round, Mr. Chandos."

"My signal for departure. And I believe I am speeding on a useless errand."

"Is it an important one?"

"It is to inquire after a lady to replace Mrs. Freeman as companion to Mrs. Chandos. Some one my mother knows; a Miss White. Miss White was seeking for such a situation a few months ago; but the probabilities are that she has found one."

A strong impulse came over me to offer to supply the place—until I should be called away by Madame de Mellissie. Miss White! she might be only a young person. If I could but make myself useful, it would take away the compunction I felt at having been thrust upon them at Chandos. I spoke on the impulse of the moment, blushing and timid as a schoolgirl. Mr. Chandos smiled, and shook his head.

"It is not a situation that would suit you; or you it."

"Is Miss White older than I?"

"A little. She is about fifty-six."

"Oh! But as a temporary arrangement, sir?—Until we have news from Madame de Mellissie. I should like to repay a tithe of the obligation I am under to Lady Chandos."

"A great obligation, that! No, it could not be. We should have you and Mrs. Chandos running into the shrubberies after sleepwalkers and ghosts, as it seems you did last night. Besides," he added, taking up his gloves and riding-whip, "if you became Mrs. Chandos's companion, what should I do for mine?"

He nodded to me after he got on his horse; a spirited animal, Black Knave by name: and rode away at a brisk canter, followed by his groom.