Against the tree to which the powerful push had flung him, he stood quietly. There had been no blow. Mr. Chandos had but come between us, calmly put me behind him, laid his hand on Mr. Edwin Barley's chest, and pushed him backwards. These very slender, delicate-looking men sometimes possess unusual strength—as he did. Edwin Barley, in an encounter, would have been as a reed in his hand.

Neither of them seemed in a passion: at least their manner did not betray it. Mr. Chandos's face was a little paler than common; it was stern, haughty, and its nostrils were working; but otherwise he looked cool and collected. And Mr. Edwin Barley stood gazing at him, a strange look of conscious power in his eye and lip.

"How dare you presume to molest this young lady?" were the first words of Mr. Chandos. "What do you mean by it?"

"As to 'molesting,' I do not understand the term, as applied to Miss Hereford," returned Mr. Edwin Barley, with cool equanimity. "I possess the right to talk to her, and touch her; you don't. Neither possess you the right to protect her: I do. What relative may she be of yours?"

"None. But she is my mother's guest."

"None; just so. She is my niece."

Mr. Chandos, with a gesture of astonishment, looked in my face for confirmation or refutation. He got neither. I only clung to him for protection, the tears running down my cheeks.

"She has no protecting relative save myself; she has no other relative, so far as I know, or she knows, in the world, save a lad younger than she is," pursued Mr. Edwin Barley, no anger in his tone, only the firmness of conscious power. "My niece, I tell you, sir."

"Whatever she may be, she is residing under my mother's roof, and as such, is in my charge. If you ever dare to touch her against her will again, sir, I will horsewhip you."

Mr. Chandos held his riding-whip in his hand as he spoke (he had brought it out by chance), and it trembled ominously. Mr. Edwin Barley drew back his lips: not in laughter, in all he did he was in earnest, and his teeth were momentarily seen. Few could boast a set so white and beautiful.

"Harry Chandos, you know that you will one day have to pay for your incivility."

"I know nothing of the sort; and if I did, the Chandoses are not given to calculation. I can tell you what you shall be made to pay for, Mr. Edwin Barley—the trespassing upon my domains. I warned you off them once; I will not warn you again—the law shall do it for me."

"Your domains!" retorted Mr. Edwin Barley.

"Yes, sir, mine," was the haughty answer. "They are mine so long as I am the representative of Sir Thomas Chandos. Have the goodness to quit them now, or I will call my servants to escort you."

Whatever Mr. Edwin Barley might do privately, he knew he had no legal right to remain within the domains of Chandos, when ordered off them, and he was not one openly to defy usages. He moved away in the direction of the gates; turning his head to speak at about the third step, and halting as he did so.

"The law, so far, lies with you at present, Mr. Harry Chandos. A short while, and perhaps it will lie with me, in a matter far more weighty. As to you, Anne, I shall officially claim you."

Nothing else was said. Mr. Chandos watched him to the turning of the dark wall, then walked by my side to the house, flicking the shrubs with his whip.

"I happened to have it with me," he said, whether addressing the whip, or me, or the air, was not clear. "I was fastening the handle, which had got loose. Is that man your uncle?"

He turned to me full now, a look of stern pain on his pale, proud face. The tears gushed forth again at the question; I was wishing my heart could break.

"Oh no, no; indeed I am no blood-relation of his."

Mr. Chandos went on without another word. I thought he was despising me: would think that I had been in league with his enemy, Edwin Barley. I who had pretended not to know him!

The cloth was laid in the oak-parlour, but there were no lights yet. Mr. Chandos flung his whip into a corner, and stood in the shade of the curtain. I went up to him, feeling very hysterical.

"Do not misjudge me, Mr. Chandos. I will tell you all, if you please, after dinner. I should have told you before but that I have felt so frightened at Mr. Edwin Barley."

"Since when have you felt frightened?"

"Since I was a little girl. I had not seen him for a good many years until I saw him here at Chandos, and I was afraid to speak of him—afraid also that he would recognise me."

"He says he can claim you. Is that an idle boast?"

"I don't know; I don't understand English laws. Perhaps he might, but I would a great deal rather die."

The tears were falling down my face, lifted to his in its yearning for pity and forgiveness. Mr. Chandos bent towards me, a strange look of tenderness in his earnest eyes. I think he was going to lay his kind hand on my shoulder to assure me of his care, when at that moment some one passed the window, whom I took to be Edwin Barley. It was but the gardener—as I learned later—he had put on his coat to go home; a short, dark man walking past, and the dusk was deceptive. I thought Edwin Barley had come to take me there and then.

For the minute I was certainly not in my proper senses: terror alone reigned. I laid hold of Mr. Chandos in hysterical excitement, clinging to him as one clings for dear life.

"Oh, keep me, keep me! Do not let him take me! Mr. Chandos! Mr. Chandos! I know you are angry with me and despise me; but do not give me up to him!"

Before I had done speaking he had me in his arms, holding me closely to his breast. We stood there in the shade of the dark room, heart beating wildly against heart.

"I wish I could give myself the right to keep you from him, and from every other ill," he breathed. "Do you know, Anne, that I love you above all else in the world?"

I—I made no answer, save that I did turn my face a little bit towards his; but I should have liked to remain where I was for ever.

"But, my darling, it can only end here as it has begun; for I cannot marry. My brother, Sir Thomas, does not marry."

I looked at him. He saw that I would have asked why.

"Because we ought not: it would not be right. There are dark clouds hanging over Chandos: should they open, it would be to hurl down desolation and disgrace. How can either of us, he or I, think of exposing a wife to encounter this? Could I in honour do it?"

"It might be happier for you, if this sorrow should arrive, to have one with you to soothe your cares and share them."

"And there is one who would not shrink from it," he said, tenderly, the tears standing in his eyes. "Had I not seen that, Anne, I should have been as much knave as fool to confess to my own state of feeling. For some days past I have been thinking it might be better to speak; that I owed as much to you; to speak and have done with it. Before I knew my danger, love had stolen over me, and it was too late to guard against it. It has not been our fault: we were thrown together."

He took some impassioned kisses from my face. I let him take them. I'm afraid I did not think whether it was right or wrong; I'm not sure that I cared which it was: I only know that I felt as one in a blissful dream.

"I have been betrayed into this, Anne," he said, releasing me. "I ought to beg your pardon in all humility. It is not what I intended: though I might just tell you of my love, I never thought to give you tokens of it. Will you forgive me?"

He held out his hand. I put mine into it, the silent tears running down my blushing face. "Do not fear a similar transgression for the future. The fleeting moment over, it is over for good. I would give half my remaining existence, Anne, to be able to marry, to make you my wife; but it cannot be. Believe me, my darling, it cannot. No, though you are my darling, and will be for ever."

"Oh look! look at this! It is from your hand! What has happened to it?"

On my dress of white sprigged muslin there were two red stains, wet. The straps of his hand had become loosened, perhaps in the encounter with Mr. Edwin Barley, and it had burst out bleeding again. I ran upstairs to put on another dress, leaving Mr. Chandos to attend to his hand.

Oh, but I was in a glow of happiness! He had said he could not marry. What was marriage to me? Had there been no impediment on his side, there might have been one on mine: a poor friendless young governess was no match for Mr. Chandos of Chandos. He loved me: that was quite enough for present bliss; and, as it seemed to me, for future.

Mr. Chandos presided at dinner as usual, himself once more; calm, collected, courteous, and gentlemanly. The servants in waiting could never have suspected he had been making me a declaration of love, and pressing kisses on my lips not many minutes before.

"Did you get to see the letter at Warsall?" I asked, when the servants had left again, and silence was growing for me too self-conscious.

"Yes, but I don't know the handwriting. It looks like a lady's. They let me bring the note home; I'll show it you presently. Talking of that——"

"Without concluding, he rose, went to a side-table, and brought me a box, done up in paper.

"There! Don't say I forget you."

It contained gloves; a good many pairs. Beautiful French gloves of all colours; some dark and useful, others delicate and rare. But I thought it would not be right to accept them, and the tell-tale pink flushed my cheeks.

"Don't scruple; they are not from me. Look at the bit of writing paper."

I pulled it out of the box. A few words were on it, pencilled by Lady Chandos, asking me to wear the gloves.

"It happened that I was going to buy some for my mother to-day. When I went up to her after Black Knave was brought round, I told her Miss Hereford had no gloves left, and she asked me to get you some. There, Miss Hereford."

I supposed I might wear them now. The blushes changed to crimson, and I began putting on a glove to cover my confusion. Mr. Chandos ate his grapes with his usual equanimity.

"Six and a half. How did you guess my size?"

"By your hand. I had seen it, and felt it."

As if jealous of the interview—it seemed so to me at the moment—Hill came in to break it. Lady Chandos wanted him in the west wing.

He went up at once. I sat thinking of all that had occurred. Would Mr. Edwin Barley indeed claim me? Could he? Would the law allow him? A shiver took me at the thought.

The tea waited on the table when he came down again. It seems very monotonous, I feel sure, to be alluding so continually to the meals, but you see they were the chief times when I was alone with Mr. Chandos; so I can only crave pardon.

Mr. Chandos's countenance wore a sad and gloomy look: but that was nothing unusual after his visits to the west wing. I wondered very much that he did not have the shutters closed after what took place the previous night; but there they were open, and nothing between the room and the window but the thin lace curtains. The oak-brown silk curtains, with their golden flowers, were at the extreme corners of the windows, not made to draw. Long afterwards I found that he had the shutters left open because I was there. As the habit had been to leave them open previously, he did not choose to alter it now: people inclined to be censorious, might have remarked upon it. That aspect of the affair never occurred to me.

"What led to the scene with that man to-day?" he abruptly asked, after drinking his cup of tea in silence. "How came you to meet him?"

I briefly explained. Mentioning also that I had seen Mrs. Penn with him, and what she said to me of his inquiries. And I told him of Mr. Edwin Barley's questions to me about the visit of the police-officers.

"If Mrs. Penn is to make an acquaintance of Mr. Edwin Barley, she cannot remain at Chandos," he coldly remarked. "Have you finished tea? Then it shall go away."

He rose to ring the bell, did not resume his seat again, but stood with his back to the fire, and watched the servants take the things away. I got my work about as usual.

"Now then, Anne, I claim your promise. What are you to Edwin Barley? and what is he to you?"

A moment's pause. But I had made my mind up to tell him all, and would not flinch now the moment had come. Putting down the work, I sat with my hands on my lap.

"Did you know that there was once a Mrs. Edwin Barley?"

"Unfortunately, I had too good cause to know it."

I thought the answer a strange one, but went on.

"She was a Carew. Miss Selina Carew, of Keppe-Carew."

"I know she was."

"And my aunt."

"Your aunt!" he repeated, looking at me strangely. "Why, whose daughter are you?"

"My father was Colonel Hereford. A brave officer and gentleman."

"Thomas Hereford? Of the —th?"

"Yes."

"And your mother?"

"My mother was Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew. She was a good deal older than Selina. They were sisters."

The information appeared to surprise him beyond expression. He sat down in a chair in front of me, his eyes fixed on my face with an earnest gaze.

"The daughter of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew! And we have been thinking of you as only a governess! Je vous en fais mes compliments empressÉs, Miss Hereford! You are of better family than ours."

"That does me no good. I have still to be a governess."

"Does it not, young lady? Well—about Mrs. Edwin Barley. Did you see much of her?"

"Not much until the last. I was there when she died."

"There! At Edwin Barley's! She died at his place near Hallam."

"Yes." And I gave him the outline of what had taken me there: to spend the short interval between mamma's death and my being placed at school.

"You must have heard of a—a tragedy"—he spoke the words in a hesitating, unwilling manner—"that occurred there about the same time. A young man, a ward of Edwin Barley's, died."

"Philip King. Yes; he was killed. I saw it done, Mr. Chandos."

"Saw what done?"

"Saw Philip King murdered. That's not a nice word to repeat, but it is what they all called it at the time. I was in the wood. I saw the shot strike him, and watched him fall."

"Why, what a strange girl you are!" Mr. Chandos exclaimed, after a pause of astonishment. "What else have you seen?"

"Nothing like that. Nothing half so dreadful. I trust I never shall."

"I trust not, either. Anne," he continued, dropping his voice to a low, solemn tone, "you say you saw that shot strike him. Who fired it?"

"It was said to be—but perhaps I ought not to mention the name even to you, Mr. Chandos," I broke off. "Mrs. Hemson cautioned me never to repeat it under any circumstances."

"Who is Mrs. Hemson?"

"She was also once a Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew. Her father was John Carew; and my grandfather, Hubert Carew, succeeded him. She married Mr. Hemson; he was in trade, and the Carews did not like it: but oh, Mr. Chandos, he is one of the noblest of gentlemen in mind and manners."

"As I have heard my mother say. Go on, Anne."

"After Mrs. Edwin Barley died, I was sent to Mrs. Hemson's at Dashleigh; she had undertaken the charge of fixing on a school for me. It was she who told me not to mention the name."

"You may mention it to me. Was it George Heneage?"

"You know it, then, Mr. Chandos!"

"I know so much—as the public in general knew. They said it was George Heneage; a gentleman staying there at the time. Did you see who it was that fired the shot? Pray answer me."

"I did not see it fired: but I think it was George Heneage. Quite at first I doubted, because—but never mind that. I did not doubt afterwards, and I think it was certainly George Heneage."

"'Never mind' will not do for me, Anne. I mind it all; have too much cause; and from me you must conceal nothing. Why did you at first doubt that it was George Heneage?"

"I saw Mr. Edwin Barley coming from the direction where the shot was fired, with his gun in his hand, and wondered at the moment whether he had done it. I used to feel afraid of him; I did not like him; and he disliked George Heneage.

"Did you hear or know the cause of his dislike of George Heneage?"

"I gathered it," I answered, feeling my face flush.

"Mrs. Edwin Barley was beautiful, was she not?" he asked, after a pause.

"Very beautiful."

"Are you anything like her?"

I could not help laughing. I like Selina!

"Not one bit. She had a very fair, piquante face, light and careless, with blue eyes and a mass of light curling hair."

"Do you remember George Heneage?" he continued, stooping for something as he asked the question.

"No; not his face. When I try to recall it, it always seems to slip from me. I remember thinking him good-looking. He was very tall. Charlotte Delves called him a scarecrow; but I thought she disliked him because Mr. Edwin Barley did."

"Who was Charlotte Delves?"

"She lived there. She was distantly related to Mr. Edwin Barley. Jemima—one of the maids—once said that Charlotte Delves liked Mr. Edwin Barley too well to be just."

"I remember hearing of her—of some relation, at least, who was in the house at the time," he observed, in a dreamy sort of tone. "Delves? perhaps that was the name. A candid, pleasant-mannered, ladylike woman—as described to me."

"I don't recollect much about her, or what she was like, except that she was very kind to me after my Aunt Selina's death. It is a good while ago, and I was only a little girl."

"Ay. But now, Anne, I want you to relate to me all the particulars of that bygone miserable tragedy: anything and everything that you may remember as connected with it. Understand me: it is not curiosity that prompts me to ask it. Were I to consult my own wishes, I would bury the whole in a stream of Lethe; every word spoken of it is to me so much agony. Nevertheless, you may do me a service if you will relate what you know of it."

"I would tell you willingly, Mr. Chandos. But—I fear—I—should have to seem to cast blame on Selina."

"You cannot cast so much blame on her as has already been cast on her to me. Perhaps your account may tend to remove the impression it left on my mind."

I began at the beginning, and told him all, so far as I could recollect, giving my childish impressions of things. I told him also my own early history. When I came to the details of Philip King's death, Mr. Chandos sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, his face turned from me and buried in his hand.

"You saw George Heneage just afterwards?" he remarked.

"Yes. He was hiding in the wood, trembling all over, and his face very white."

"Had he the look of a guilty man?"

"I think he had. Had he not been guilty, why should he not have come openly forward to succour Philip King?"

"True. Did Mrs. Edwin Barley deem him guilty?"

"Not at first. I don't know what she might have done later. Mr. Edwin Barley did."

"As he took care to let the world know. Go on with your narrative, Anne. I ought not to have interrupted it."

I went on to the end. Mr. Chandos heard me without comment; and remained so long silent that I thought he was never going to speak again.

"Has George Heneage ever been heard of, do you happen to know, Mr. Chandos?"

"It is said not."

"Then I think he must be dead. Or perhaps he has kept out of the country. Mr. Edwin Barley said at the time that he would bring him to justice, were it years and years to come."

"Mr. Edwin Barley was excessively bitter against him. He, Barley, succeeded to Philip King's fine property. Were I on the jury when George Heneage was brought to trial, I should require strong proof—stronger than brought, Edwin Barley's word—ere I convicted him."

"Mr. Edwin Barley did not shoot him," I said, gravely.

"I do not accuse him; I feel sure he did not. But there were one or two private doubts entertained upon the matter; I can tell you that, Anne. He was suspiciously eager in his accusations of George Heneage!"

"Think of his provocation! Selina and George Heneage had both lived only to provoke him; and people said he was really attached to Philip King."

"Good arguments, Anne. I believe I am unjust in all that relates to Edwin Barley."

"But why should you be, Mr. Chandos? Don't you think it must have been George Heneage who did the murder?"

"I beg you will not use that ugly word, Anne. My full and firm belief is that it was an accident—nothing more."

"Then why should George Heneage stay away?"

"A natural question. Of course we cannot answer for what George Heneage does or does not do. Were he to appear in England, Mr. Edwin Barley would instantly cause him to be apprehended; there's no doubt of that; innocent or guilty, he must stand his trial; and to some men that ordeal would be just as bad as conviction. Besides, he might not be able to prove that it was but an accident; I think he would not be; and, failing that proof, he would be condemned. In saying this, I am not seeking to defend George Heneage."

"Did you ever see George Heneage, Mr. Chandos?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you knew him?"

He made no reply; but rose from his seat and began to pace the room.

"About that will of Mrs. Edwin Barley's, Anne?" he presently asked. "Did her husband destroy it?"

If I had thought so as a child, and thought so still, it was not possible for me to say it; but Mr. Chandos had acquired a habit of reading what I hesitated to speak.

"I see; you think it better not to avow dangerous doctrines."

"Indeed, I should be grieved to know that he really took it. Its disappearance was very strange."

"You don't think he took it; you only had an instinct that way. But, Anne, your instincts are generally true ones. Mr. Barley has the character of being a hard, grasping man, loving money better than anything else in the world, except the bringing to punishment of George Heneage. He could not bear for the little trifle to go beside him; compared to his large property, it was but what a drop of water is to the wide ocean. He did not want it, you did; you have but little."

"I have nothing, nothing but what I earn. Mamma sunk for my education the trifle of money she had saved."

"But—the daughter of Colonel Hereford ought to enjoy a pension," he debated, stopping short in his walk.

"Papa sold out previous to his death."

"Oh, I see," and he resumed his walk.

"Mr. Chandos, may I ask you a question?"

"You know you may. I will answer it if I can."

"What has Mr. Edwin Barley to do with you? Why should he be your enemy?"

"That is what I cannot answer," he quickly rejoined. "He is an implacable enemy to me and my family; and likely ever to remain so. I cannot divest myself of the idea that he was the author of that visit we were favoured with last night by the police. Between the two—him and his wife—we have suffered enough. I should be puzzled to say which of them did us most harm, Miss Hereford."

Miss Hereford! And I was the Barleys' relative! My heart felt sick and faint within me.

"Well, what now?" asked Mr. Chandos, who happened to be looking, and he came up and stood close before me.

"Nothing, sir, nothing; only I cannot help Selina's having been my aunt. Perhaps you will never care to be kind to me again."

His eyes, so grave before, quite danced with their pleasant light. He laid his hand gently on my shoulder.

"Anne, the only kind thought I have had of your aunt Selina is since I knew she was of your kindred. If——"

I pushed his hand away from me. I rose with a vivid blush. Inside the door, having come in so quietly as to be unheard, stood Mrs. Penn, Mr. Chandos turned, a haughty frown on his brow.

"I beg your pardon, madam; do you want anything?"

"I beg yours, sir, for my intrusion," she answered, civilly. "I only had a little errand with Miss Hereford. Will you"—turning to me—"kindly let me have my embroidery scissors, if you have done with them?"

I took them from my basket and gave them to her. "Thank you, Mrs. Penn, for the loan of them. They cut my strip of work nicely."

"It is a chilly evening," she remarked, moving to depart. "I fancy we are going to have rain."

Mr. Chandos opened the door for her, and when she left slipped the bolt. Ere he was half way across the room on his return, however, he went back and undid it, some reflection appearing to strike him. His brow was stern and displeased.

"That Mrs. Penn is a curious woman!"

"Curious! In what way, sir? Do you mean her hair?"

He slightly laughed. "I spoke the word literally, Anne. She came in, I fancy, just to see what was going on, the scissors being the excuse."

"She complains of its being so dull in the east wing. I think she is glad to escape from it for a moment when she can."

"Ay, no doubt; we must not be harsh upon her. She is a contrast to Mrs. Freeman, who never put herself into anybody's way. I wish I could discover the author of these losses in the house," he continued, passing to another subject. "Had it been alone the looking into letters or stealing them, I might have suspected Edwin Barley. That is, that some one was at work for him here. That he would like to get my private memoranda into his fingers, and peep at my letters, I know; but he could have no possible motive for causing lace and money to be stolen."

My head was full of Lizzy Dene, and I thought the time had come for me to speak. Ah, what would I not tell him in the bond of confidence that seemed to be established between us.

"But, Mr. Chandos—suppose, for argument's sake—that he has an agent in the house; suppose that it is a woman, that agent may be transacting a little business on her own account while she does his."

Mr. Chandos came and stood before me. "Have you a motive in saying this?"

"Yes. I think, I do think, if there is one, that it is Lizzy Dene."

Of course, having said so much, I told all. Of the interview that some one (I suspected Lizzy Dene) had held with Edwin Barley in the grounds; the chance meeting they had held that afternoon. Mr. Chandos was terribly displeased, but still he could not—I saw it—be brought to believe that it was Dene.

"You have great faith in her, Mr. Chandos?"

"I have, because I believe Lizzy Dene to be of true and honest nature; I do not think her capable of acting as a spy, or any other false part. She is an inveterate gossip; she is superstitious, and looks after ghosts; but I believe her to be faithful to the backbone."

It was no use to contend: he had his opinion, I had mine. To look at Lizzy's face, to listen to her voice, I should have thought her honest too; but I could not shut my eyes to facts and circumstances. Mr. Chandos rang for Hill.

"I want to say a word to Lizzy Dene, Hill; incidentally, you understand. Can you contrive to send her here on some ostensible errand?"

Hill nodded her head and withdrew. Presently Lizzy Dene came in with a knock and a curtsey; she went to the sideboard and began looking in it for something that appeared difficult to find. Mr. Chandos, standing with his back to the fire, suddenly accosted her; she had got her head nearly inside one of the sideboard cupboards.

"How long have you known Mr. Edwin Barley, Lizzy?"

"Known who, sir, did you ask?" she returned, standing up and looking round at him.

"Mr. Edwin Barley."

"I don't know him at all, sir," she replied, after a minute's pause given apparently to surprise and consideration. "Not but what I seem to have heard that name—lately, too."

"He is the new tenant at the house outside the gates."

"Dear! yes, to be sure! Two of the men were talking of him one day; that was the name, for I remember I said it put me in mind of the fields. I have seen him once or twice sir; a short, dark man."

"Where did you first see him?"

"It was coming home from church one Sunday, sir. We were crossing the road to the gates, me and Robin, and Harriet, when I noticed a swarthy gentleman standing stock-still and staring at us. 'I hope he'll know us again,' said I; 'he's ugly enough.' 'Hush!' says Robin, 'that's master's new tenant at the house there!'"

"Have you spoken to him?" inquired Mr. Chandos.

"Well, sir, if you can call it speaking, I have. This evening, as I was coming home, I met him in one of the walks. He wished me good evening, and asked how my lady was. I stood to answer him, saying my lady was still very ill. That's all, sir."

"Has he spoken to you at any other time?"

"No, sir, never. I had forgot his name, sir, till you mentioned it now."

She did seem to speak truthfully, and Mr. Chandos looked at me. Lizzy, finding nothing more was asked, turned to the sideboard again, and presently quitted the room.

"The traitor is not Lizzy Dene, Anne!"

Certainly it did not appear to be. I felt puzzled. Mr. Chandos continued his walk, and the clock struck ten. Putting up my work, I held out my hand to wish him good-night, and took courage to speak out the question lying so heavily on my heart.

"Do you think, sir, Mr. Edwin Barley can really claim me?"

"I cannot tell, Anne. At any rate he would have, I imagine, to make you first of all a ward in Chancery, and get himself appointed guardian; and that would take time."

"He could not come into your house and take me forcibly out of it?"

"Certainly not; and I—acting for Lady Chandos—will take very good care he does not do it."

"Good-night, sir!"

"It is to be 'sir' to the end—is it? Good-night, Anne," he went on, shaking me by the hand. "I wish I dare offer you a different good-night from this formal one! I wish I could feel justified in doing it."

I don't know what I stammered; something foolish and incoherent; and in tone, at any rate, full of my depth of love.

"No, it may not be," he answered, very decisively. "If a wavering crossed my mind before, when I thought you—forgive me, Anne—an unpretending governess-girl, as to whether I should lay the good and the ill before you and let you decide, it has passed now. The daughter of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew, must not be trifled with. Good-night, child!"

The tears were streaming down my cheeks when I entered my bedroom. Had Mr. Chandos cast me off for ever? Since that unlucky remark of his, that my family was better than his own, I know not what sweet visions of rose-colour had been floating in my mind. I was of good descent, with a lady's breeding and education; surely, if he could forgive my want of money and my having lived as a dependent at Mrs. Paler's, there had been no very great barrier between me and a younger brother of Chandos!

Dwelling upon this, my tears blinding me, it startled me to see Mrs. Penn quietly seated in my room. She pointed to the door.

"Shut it and bolt it, Miss Hereford. I have been waiting to talk to you!"

I shut it, but did not slip the bolt. Where was the necessity? Nobody ever came into my room at night—Mrs. Penn excepted.

"Come and sit down, and tell me why you are crying!"

"I am not crying. I have no cause to cry," I resentfully answered, vexed beyond everything. "I thought of something as I came upstairs, which brought the tears into my eyes: we often laugh until we cry, you know."

"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Penn, "perhaps yours are tears of joy?"

"I should be so very much obliged if you could put off what you wish to say until the morning. You don't know how sleepy I am."

"I know that you can tell a parcel of fibs, you wicked child," she returned, in a fond accent. "Anne,—I shall call you so to-night,—I have come to talk to you; and talk I shall. I want to save you."

"Save me from what?"

"From the—what shall I call it?—the machinations of Harry Chandos."

"Mr. Chandos is working no machinations against me."

"I know that he is. He has been making you a declaration of love."

The tell-tale crimson lighted up my face. Mrs. Penn continued, taking my hand.

"I felt uneasy, and made my scissors an excuse for coming to the oak-parlour. You should not have heard it from him. I warned you that any attachment between you and Mr. Chandos could not end happily; you cannot marry him!"

My nerves were completely unstrung, and I burst into tears; I could play a false part no longer. It was bitter enough to hear her confirm his own words. Mrs. Penn gently stroked my hair.

"Child, do you know why I thus interfere between you and Mr. Chandos? I will tell you. A few years ago I became attached to a young girl of eighteen—a connexion of mine. She was under my charge and under my eye; her name, Lottie Penn! A stranger came, fascinating as Mr. Chandos; and I, believing him to be upright and honourable, exercised little caution. He gained her love, just as Mr. Chandos is gaining yours——

"Mrs. Penn!"

"Hush! do you think I am blind? He gained the love of Lottie; and, when marriage came to be spoken of as a natural sequence, we found out that we had been entertaining a Jesuit in disguise. He could not marry."

"A Jesuit?"

"I am speaking metaphorically. The man called himself a Protestant, if he called himself anything. I heard him say he was a Christian. Very Christian work it was of him to gain Lottie's heart, and then confess that he had gained it for no end. Lottie died. The blow was too sharp for her. She was a timid, gentle flower, and could not stand the rough blast. Anne, believe me, there is no fate so cruel in the whole catalogue of the world's troubles as that of misplaced love."

"Why could he not marry?" I asked, growing interested in the tale.

"Ah! why, indeed!" she answered, curling her lips with mockery: "why cannot Harry Chandos? The cases are somewhat parallel. It is the remembrance of Lottie which causes me to feel this interest in you, for you put me very much in mind of her, and I must try to save you."

"There is nothing to save me from!" I answered, touched with her kindness, and feeling ashamed of myself not to be more touched with it than I was. "I am not likely to marry Mr. Chandos, or to be asked to marry him!"

"My dear, I don't think I can be deceived. There is love between you!"

"You did not finish about Lottie," I said, evading the question. "Why could he not marry her?"

"Because he had a wife living, from whom he was separated."

"At least, Mr. Chandos has not that."

She remained silent, only looked at me. I am not sure but an idea struck me that the silence was strange. I could never tell afterwards whether or not it so struck me then.

"I said the cases were somewhat parallel," she slowly observed.

"Scarcely, Mrs. Penn. Mr. Chandos at least does not deceive me. He says he cannot marry. His life is given up to sorrow."

"Given up to sorrow? He says that, does he? Anne, I have half a mind to tell you the truth. What is his sorrow, compared to that of poor Mrs. Chandos. I pity her."

"Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I interrupted, seizing on the opportunity to inquire on the subject that remained a puzzle, and thinking this kind woman might satisfy me. "They call her Lady Chandos's daughter-in-law, but I cannot see how she can be so."

"Mrs. Chandos was once Miss Ethel Wynne."

"But who is her husband?"

"Ah, you may well ask. It is curious though that you should."

Was it the stress on the word "you?"—was it that her face was so suggestive as it gazed into mine?—or was it that the previous vague idea was growing into life? I knew not; I never have known. I only felt that I turned sick with an undefined doubt and dread as I waited for Mrs. Penn's answer. She was a full minute, looking into my whitening face, before she gave it.

"My poor stricken lamb! Has it never struck you who it might be? Speak."

Speak! I put up my trembling hand as if to beat off her words. That unholy idea—yes, it did seem to me unholy in those first confused moments—was growing into a great monster of fear. Mrs. Penn looked as if she could not take in enough of the signs.

"What if her husband were Harry Chandos?"

With the strange noise surging in my ears—with my pulses standing cold and still, and then coursing on to fever heat,—with my temples beating to burning pain—no wonder I could not weigh my words.

"Oh, Mrs. Penn! Do not tell it me!"

"Think you that you need telling, Anne? I can add something more. Never will Harry Chandos love again in this world, you or any one else, as passionately as he once loved Ethel Wynne."

My senses were getting confused; as if I no longer understood things. She went on.

"Husband and wife live apart sometimes, although they may inhabit the same roof. She and Harry Chandos parted; it is years ago now; she used him very ill; and I don't suppose he has ever so much as touched her hand since, save in the very commonest courtesies of everyday life: and that only when he could not help himself. Passion has long been over between them; they are civil when they meet; nothing more. My poor child, you look ready to fall."

I did fall. But not until she left the room. I fell on the ground, and let my head lie there in my shock of misery. Much that had been obscure before seemed to shine out clearly now; things to which I had wanted a clue, appeared to be plain. I wished I could die, there as I lay, rather than have found him out in deceit so despicable.