I sat down with my great weight of happiness. Oh, the change that had passed over me! He was not married; he was true and honourable, and he loved me! Hickens came in to remove the wine, and I chattered to him like a merry schoolgirl. Everything else went out of my head, even the letter I held, still unopened; and when I should have thought of it I cannot say, but that some time later I heard the voice of Mrs. Penn in the hall, speaking in covert tones.

It came to my memory then fast enough. Was she going to steal out, as she had previously essayed to do? I went to the door and opened it about an inch. Lizzy Dene stood there.

"How early you are home!" Mrs. Penn was saying.

"Thanks to Madam Hill!" grumbled Lizzy. "She wouldn't give me leave to go unless I'd be in by seven, or a bit later: with illness in the house, she said, there was no knowing what might be wanted."

"Did you deliver the letter?" resumed Mrs. Penn, in the faintest possible whisper.

"Yes, ma'am," was the ready answer. "A young man came to the door, and I asked if Mr. Barley was at home, and he said, 'Yes, all alone,' so I gave him the note, and he took it in."

"Thank you, Lizzy," answered Mrs. Penn, complacently. "There's the five shillings I promised you."

"Many thanks all the same to you, ma'am, but I'd rather not take it," replied Lizzy, to my great astonishment, and no doubt to Mrs. Penn's. "I'm well paid here, and I don't care to be rewarded for any little extra service. It's all in the way of the day's work."

They parted, Mrs. Penn going up the stairs again. But a startling doubt had come over me at Lizzy Dene's words: could I have taken the wrong letter from the basket? I hastened back to the light and drew it forth. No, it was all right: it was directed to Mr. Edwin Barley. What could Lizzy Dene mean by saying she had delivered it? I wondered, as I tore it open.

"I am overwhelmed with astonishment. I was coming round to your house, in spite of your prohibition, to tell you what I have discovered, but was prevented by Mrs. Chandos. He is here! I am as certain of it as that I am writing these words: and it sets clear the mystery of that closely-guarded west wing, which has been as a closed book to me. Anne Hereford went surreptitiously in there just now, and saw what she describes as a tall, emaciated object, reclining in an invalid chair, whose face bore a striking resemblance to that of Harry Chandos. There can be no doubt that it is he, not the slightest in the world; you can therefore take immediate steps, if you choose, to have him apprehended. My part is now over.

"C. D. P."

The contents of the letter frightened me. What mischief had I not caused by that incautious revelation to Mrs. Penn! Mrs. Penn the treacherous—as she undoubtedly was. "Take immediate steps to have him apprehended." Who was he? what had he done? and how did it concern Mr. Edwin Barley? Surely I ought to acquaint Mr. Chandos, and show him the note without loss of time.

The tea waited on the table, when Hickens came in with a message sent down from the west wing—that Mr. Chandos and Madame de Mellissie were taking tea there. I put out a cup, and sent the things away again, debating whether I might venture on the unheard-of proceeding of sending to the west wing for Mr. Chandos.

Yes. It was a matter of necessity, and I ought to do it. I sought for Hill. Hill was in the west wing, waiting on the tea party. Should I send Hickens to knock at the west wing door, or go myself? Better go myself, instinct told me.

I ran lightly up the stairs. Peeping out at the east wing door, listening and prying, was the head of Mrs. Penn.

"They have quite a soirÉe in the west wing to-night," she said to me, as I passed; "family gathering: all of them at it, save Sir Thomas. Whither are you off to so fast?"

"I have a message for the west wing," I answered, as I brushed on, and knocked at the door.

Hill came to unfasten the door. She turned desperately savage when she saw me.

"I am not come to intrude, Hill. Mr. Chandos is here, is he not?"

"What's that to anybody?" retorted Hill.

"He is wanted, that is all. Be so good as ask him to step down to the oak-parlour. At once, please; it is very pressing."

Hill banged the door in my face, and bolted it. Mrs. Penn, whose soft steps had come stealing near, seized hold of me by the gathers of my dress as I would have passed her.

"Anne, who wants Mr. Chandos? Have the police come?"

"I want him; I have a message for him," I boldly answered, the remembrance of her treachery giving me courage to say it. "Why should the police come? What do you mean?"

"As they made a night invasion of the house once before, I did not know but they might have done it again. How tart you are this evening!"

I broke from her and ran down to the parlour. Mr. Chandos was in it nearly as soon.

"Hill said I was wanted. Who is it, Anne? Do you know?"

"You must forgive me for having ventured to call you Mr. Chandos. I have been the cause of some unhappy mischief, and how I shall make the confession to you I hardly know. But, made it must be, and there's no time to be lost."

"Sit down and don't excite yourself," he returned. "I daresay it is nothing very formidable."

"When we were speaking of the gentleman I saw before dinner in the west wing, you warned me that his being there was a secret which I must take care not to betray."

"Well?"

"I ought to have told you then—but I had not the courage—that I had already betrayed it. In the surprise of the moment, as I left the west wing after seeing him, I mentioned it to Mrs. Penn. It was done thoughtlessly; not intentionally; and I am very sorry for it."

"I am sorry also," he said, after a pause. "Mrs. Penn?" he slowly continued, as if deliberating whether she were a safe person or not. "Well, it might possibly have been imparted to a worse."

"Oh, but you have not heard all," I feverishly returned. "I do not think it could have been imparted to a worse than Mrs. Penn; but I did not know it then. I believe she has been writing to Mr. Edwin Barley."

My fingers were trembling, my face I know was flushed. Mr. Chandos laid his cool hand upon me.

"Take breath, Anne; and calmness. I shall understand it better."

I strove to do as he said, and tell what I had to tell in as few words as possible. That I had said it must be Sir Thomas Chandos: that Mrs. Penn, wildly excited, said it was not Sir Thomas; and so on to the note she gave Lizzy Dene. Mr. Chandos grew a little excited himself as he read the note.

"Nothing could have been more unfortunate than this. Nothing; nothing."

"The most curious thing is, that when Lizzy Dene came back she affirmed to Mrs. Penn that she had delivered the note," I resumed. "I cannot make that out."

Mr. Chandos sat thinking, his pale face full of trouble and perplexity.

"Could Mrs. Penn have written two notes, think you, Anne?"

"I fear to think so: but it is not impossible. I only saw one in the basket; but I scarcely noticed in my hurry."

"If she did not write two, the mischief as yet is confined to the house, and I must take care that for this night at least it is not carried beyond it. After that——"

He concluded his sentence in too low a tone to be heard, and rang for Hickens. The man came immediately, and his master spoke.

"Hickens, will you lock the entrance doors of the house, back and front, and put the keys into your pocket. No one must pass out of it again to-night."

Hickens stared as if stupefied. It was the most extraordinary order ever given to him at Chandos. "Why, sir?" he cried. "Whatever for?"

"It is my pleasure, Hickens," replied Mr. Chandos, in his quiet tone of command. "Lock the doors and keep the keys; and suffer no person to go out on any pretence whatsoever. No person that the house contains, you understand, myself excepted. Neither Mrs. Chandos nor Mrs. Penn; Miss Hereford"—turning to me with a half smile—"or the servants. Should any one of them present themselves at the door, and, finding it fast, ask to be let out, say you have my orders not to do it."

"Very well, sir," replied the amazed Hickens. "There's two of the maids out on an errand now, sir; are they to be let in?"

"Certainly. But take care that you fasten the door afterwards again. Go at once and do this; and then send Lizzy Dene to me."

Away went Hickens. Mr. Chandos paced the room until Lizzy Dene appeared.

"Did you want me, sir?"

"I do. Come in and shut the door. What I want from you, Lizzy, is a little bit of information. If, as I believe, you are true to the house you serve, and its interests, you will give it me truthfully."

Lizzy burst into tears, without any occasion, that I could see, and hung her head. Evidently there was something or other on which she feared to be questioned.

"It's what I always have been, sir, and what I hope I shall be. What have I done?"

"Did Mrs. Penn give you a letter, some two or three hours ago, to deliver at Mr. Edwin Barley's?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply, spoken without hesitation or embarrassment. Apparently that was not Lizzy Dene's sore point.

"Did you deliver it?"

Lizzy hesitated now, and Mr. Chandos repeated his question.

"Now only to think that one can't meet with an accident without its being known all round as soon as done!" she exclaimed. "If I had thought you had anything to do with the matter, sir, I'd have told the truth when I came back; but I was afraid Mrs. Penn would be angry with me."

"I shall be pleased to hear that the letter was not delivered," said Mr. Chandos. "So tell the truth now."

"Where I could have lost it, master, I know no more than the dead," she resumed. "I know I put it safe in my basket; and though I did run, it could not have shaken out, because the lid was shut down; but when I got to Mr. Barley's, and went to take it out, it was gone. Sleighted off right away; just like that letter you lost from the hall-table, sir. What to do I didn't know, for I had given a good pull at their bell before I found out the loss. But I had got another letter in my basket——"

"Another letter?" interrupted Mr. Chandos, thinking his fears were verified.

"Leastways, as good as a letter, sir. As luck would have it, when I was running down the avenue, I met the young man from the fancy-draper's shop in the village, and he thrust a folded letter in my hands. 'For Lady Chandos, and mind you give it her,' says he, 'for it's a list of our new fashions.' So, what should I do, sir, when I found the other was gone, but give in the fashions to Mr. Barley's young man. 'And mind you take it in to your master without no delay,' says I, 'for it's particular.' He'll wonder what they want, sending him the fashions," concluded Lizzy.

"You said nothing to Mrs. Penn of this?"

"Well—no, I didn't. I meant, when she found it out, to let her think I had given in the wrong letter by mistake. I don't suppose hers was of much consequence, for it was only writ in pencil. I didn't take the money she offered me, though; I thought that wouldn't be fair, as had not done the service."

"And my desire is, that you say nothing to her," said Mr. Chandos. "Let the matter rest as it is."

Mr. Chandos looked very grave after Lizzy Dene withdrew, as though he were debating something in his mind. Suddenly he spoke—

"Anne, cast your thoughts back a few years. Was there any one in Mr. Edwin Barley's house, at the time Philip King was killed, at all answering to the description of Mrs. Penn?"

I looked at him in simple astonishment.

"It has struck me once or twice that Mrs. Penn must have been in the house, or very near it, by the knowledge she has of the details, great and small. And it would almost seem now, Anne, as though she were in league with Edwin Barley, acting as his spy."

"No one whatever was there except the servants and Charlotte Delves?"

"Stop a bit. Charlotte Delves—C. D. P.; C. D. would stand for that name. Is Mrs. Penn Charlotte Delves?" The question nearly took my breath away.

"But, Mr. Chandos, look at Mrs. Penn's hair! Charlotte Delves had pretty hair—very light; quite different from this."

He smiled sadly.

"You must be inexperienced in the world's fashions, my dear, if you have believed the present colour of Mrs. Penn's hair to be natural. She must have dyed her hair, intending, no doubt, to change it to golden: instead of which it has come out of the ordeal a blazing vermilion. I think Mrs. Penn is Charlotte Delves."

Little by little, as I compared the past Charlotte Delves with the present Mrs. Penn, the truth dawned upon me. All that was obscure, that had puzzled me in the likeness I could not trace, became clear. She had grown older; she had grown much stouter; shape of both figure and face had changed. Mrs. Penn, with a plump face and glowing red hair taken back, was quite another person from Miss Delves with a thin face and long fair ringlets shading it.

"You are right," I said, in a low, earnest tone. "It is Charlotte Delves."

"And has been here trying to find out what she can of George Heneage. I see it all."

"But, Mr. Chandos, what is George Heneage to you?"

"He is my brother, Anne. He is George Heneage," he added, pointing in the direction of the west wing.

He George Heneage! I sat in greater and greater amazement. But, as I had traced the likeness in Charlotte Delves, so, now that the clue was given me, did I see that the resemblance which had so haunted me in Mr. Chandos, was to the George Heneage of that unhappy time.

"You were but a child, you know, then. And a child's remembrance does not retain faces very long."

"But, Mr. Chandos, how can George Heneage be your brother?"

"Is it perplexing you? Soon after the sad time of which we know too much, my father, Sir Thomas Heneage, had a large estate—this—bequeathed to him by Mr. Chandos, my mother's brother, on condition that he assumed the name. You may be sure we lost no time in doing so,—too thankful to drop our own, which George had disgraced."

"Then—his name is no longer George Heneage, but George Chandos?" I said, unable to take the facts in quickly.

"Strictly speaking, our name is Heneage-Chandos; and Heneage-Chandos we should have been always styled. But we preferred to drop the name of Heneage completely. It may be—I don't know—that we shall take it up again hereafter."

"And where has he been all this while?"

"Ah, where! You may well ask. Leading the life of a miserable, exiled man, conscious that Edwin Barley was ever on the watch for him, seeking to bring him to trial for the murder of Philip King."

"Did your brother really do it?" I asked, in a low tone.

"In one sense, yes. He killed Philip King, but not intentionally. So much as this he said to me for the first time only two days ago. Were he brought to trial, there could be no doubt of his condemnation and execution—and only think of the awful fear that has been ours! You can now understand why I and my brother, Sir Thomas, have felt ourselves bound in honour not to marry while that possible disgrace was hanging over us. Ill-fated George!"

"Has he been concealed here always?"

"That would have been next to impossible," replied Mr. Chandos, with a half smile at my simplicity. "He has been here a short time: and no end of stratagems have we had to resort to, to conceal the fact. My mother has been compelled to feign illness, and remain in the west wing, that an excuse might be afforded for provisions and things being carried up. I have assumed to you the unenviable character of a sleepwalker; we have suffered the report that my dead father, Sir Thomas, haunted the pine-walk, without contradicting it——"

"And are you not a sleepwalker? and is there no ghost?" I breathlessly interrupted.

"The only ghost, the only sleepwalker, has been poor George," he sadly answered. "You saw him arrive, Anne."

"I!"

"Have you forgotten the night when you saw me—as you thought—dodging in and out of the trees, as if I wished to escape observation, and finally disappearing within the west wing? It was George. The next morning you accused me of having been there; I knew I had not, and positively denied it. Later I found that George had come: and then I amused you with a fable of my being addicted to sleepwalking. I knew not what else to invent; anything to cast off suspicion from the right quarter; and I feared you would be seeing him there again."

"But is it not highly dangerous for him to have ventured here?"

"Ay. After the misfortune happened he lay a short while concealed at Heneage Grange, where we then lived, and eventually escaped to the Prussian dominions. We heard nothing of him for some time, though we were in the habit of remitting him funds periodically for his support. But one night he made his appearance here; it was not long after we had settled at Chandos; startling my mother and Hill nearly out of their senses. They concealed him in the west wing, and Lady Chandos feigned illness and remained in it with him; as she has done this time. He did not stay long; but henceforth we could be at no certainty, and took to leaving the lower entrance door of the west wing unfastened at night, so that he might enter at once, should he arrive a second time. Three or four times in all has he come, including this."

"But it must surely be hazardous?"

"Nothing can be more so; not to speak of the constant state of suspense and anxiety it keeps us all in. He declares he is obliged to come, or die; that he is attacked with the mal du pays, the yearning for home, to such an extent that when the fit comes on him, he is forced to come and risk it. More dangerous, too, than his actually being here, is his walking out at night in the grounds; and he will do it in spite of remonstrance. George was always given to self-will."

"Does he walk out?"

"Does he? Why, Anne, need you ask the question? Sometimes at dusk, sometimes not until midnight, at any hour just as the whim takes him, out he will go. He has led so restless a life that walking once or twice in the twenty-four hours is essential, or he could not exist. Have you not seen the 'ghost' yourself more than once? Were you not terrified at him in the corridor? Do you forget when I gathered your face to me in the dark walk, while some one passed? I feared that you should see him—should detect that it was a living man, real flesh and blood, not a harmless ghost. Very glad were we when the servants at his first visit, took up the theory of a ghost, in place of any more dangerous notion. From them it spread outside, so that the Chandos ghost has become public rumour and public property."

"Do the servants know that you have this brother?"

"Hickens and some of the elder ones of course know it: know all he was accused of, and why he went into exile; but so many years have elapsed since, that I feel sure the remembrance of him has nearly died out. This visit has been worse for us than any, owing to the proximity of Edwin Barley."

"You think Edwin Barley has been looking out for him?"

"Think! I know it. Something must have arisen to give him the notion that George had returned to England, and was in hiding: though he could not have suspected Chandos, or he would have had it searched. Many things, that we were obliged to say and do, appear to have been very foolish, looking back, and they will seem still more so in after years; but they were done in dread fear. The singular thing is that Mrs. Penn—being here to find out what she could—should not have hit upon the truth before."

"Would Mr. Edwin Barley cause him to be apprehended, do you think?"

"He will apprehend him the very moment that the news shall reach his ears," spoke Mr. Chandos, lifting his hands in agitation. "Living or—dead, I had all but said—at any rate, living or dying, Edwin Barley will seize upon George Heneage. I do not say but he would be justified."

"Oh, Mr. Chandos! Can you not take him somewhere for escape?"

He sadly shook his head. "No. George is past being taken. He has grown worse with rapid quickness. Yesterday I should have said his hours were numbered: to-day he is so much better that I can only think he has entered on a renewed lease of life. At least of some days."

"What is it that is the matter with him?"

"In my opinion it is a broken heart. He has fretted himself away. Think what existence has been for him. In exile under a false name; no home, no comfort, an innocent man's death upon his conscience; and living, whether at home or abroad, in the ever-perpetual dread of being called upon to answer publicly for what has been called murder. The doctors call it decline. He is a living shadow."

"And Mrs. Chandos is his wife! Oh, poor thing, what a life of sadness hers must be!"

"Mrs. Chandos was his wife; in one sense of the word is his wife still, for she bears his name," he gravely answered. "But I have a word to say to you, Anne, respecting Mrs. Chandos. Mrs. Penn—I shall begin to doubt whether every word and action of that woman be not false, put forth with a covert motive—informed you Mrs. Chandos was my wife,flashing. knowing perfectly well the contrary. Mrs. Chandos was never my wife, Anne, but she was once my love."

A chill stole over my heart.

"I met with her when she was Ethel Wynne, a lovely, soft-mannered girl, and I learned to love her with impassioned fervour. We became engaged, and were to be married later: I was only two-and-twenty then, she seventeen. She came to Heneage Grange on a visit, she and her elder sister, since dead. Little thought I that my sweet, soft-mannered girl was eaten up with ambition. One morning at breakfast a letter was brought in to my father. It was from India, and contained news of the death of my brother Tom; which, I need not tell you, who know that he is alive yet, was premature. Captain Heneage had been in action, the letter stated, was desperately wounded, and taken up for dead. Tom wrote us word afterwards that it was only when they went to bury him that they discovered he was alive. But he is given to joking. Well, we mourned him as dead; and George, in his free, careless manner, told Ethel she had better have engaged herself to him than to me, for that he could make her Lady Heneage being the heir now, which Harry never could. That George had always admired her, was certain. He had a weakness for pretty women. But for that weakness, and Mrs. Edwin Barley's being pretty, Philip King might be alive now."

Mr. Chandos paused a moment, and then went on in a lower tone, bending rather nearer to me: "Anne, will you believe that in less than two weeks' time they had gone away together?"

"Who had?"

"George Heneage and Ethel Wynne. They had gone to be married. When they returned, man and wife, my mother, Lady Heneage, would have refused to receive them, but Sir Thomas, ever lenient to us all, persuaded her. A marriage entered into as theirs had been would bring plenty of punishment in its wake, he observed. The punishment—for Ethel, at any rate—had already begun. She liked me best, far best, but ambition had temporarily blinded her. She married George on the strength of his being heir apparent to the title, and news had now arrived that my brother Thomas was alive, and progressing steadily towards health."

"And you—what did you do?" I interrupted.

"I hid my bruised feelings, and rode the high horse of mocking indifference; letting none suppose false Ethel had left a wound. The wound was there, and a pretty sharp one; five fathom deep, though I strove to bury it." He paused an instant, and then went on. "In six months' time she and George were tired of each other—if appearances might be trusted—and he spent a great deal of his time abroad. Ethel resented it: she said he had no right to go out taking pleasure without her: but George laughed off the complaints in his light way. They made their home at Heneage Grange, and had been married nearly a year when George went on that fatal visit to Mr. Edwin Barley's."

"Then—when that calamity took place he had a wife!" I exclaimed in surprise: I suppose because I had never heard it at the time.

"Certainly. The shock to Ethel was dreadful. She believed him guilty. Brain fever attacked her, and she has never been quite bright in intellect since, but is worse at times than others. Hers is a disappointed life. She had married George in the supposition that he was heir to the baronetcy; she found herself the wife of an exiled man, an accused murderer."

"Has she been aware of the secret visits of her husband?"

"They could not be kept entirely from her. Since the calamity, she has never been cordial with him: acquaintances they have been, but no more: it almost seems as though Ethel had forgotten that other ties once existed between them. She is most anxious to guard his secret; our only fear has been that she might inadvertently betray it. For this we would have concealed from her his presence here as long as might be, but she has always found it out and resented it loudly, reproaching me and my mother with having no confidence in her. You must remember the scene in the corridor when I locked the door of your room; Ethel had just burst into the west wing with reproaches, and they, George and my mother, were bringing her back to her own apartments. She goes there daily now, and reads the Bible to him."

How the things came out—one after the other!

"And now, Anne, I think you know all; and will understand how, with this terrible sword—George's apprehension—ever unsheathed, I could not tell you of my love."

And what if it did? Strike or not strike, it would be all the same to my simple heart, beating now with its weight of happiness. I believe Mr. Chandos could read this in my downcast face, for a smile was parting his lips.

"Is it to be yes in any case, Anne?"

"I—— Perhaps," I stammered. "And then you will tell me the truth about yourself. What is it that is really the matter with you?" I took courage to ask, speaking at length of the fear that always lay upon me so heavily, and which I had been forbidden to speak about.

"The matter with me?"

"The illness that Dr. Amos said you would never get well from."

Mr. Chandos laughed. "Why, Anne, don't you see?—it was my brother George he spoke of, not me. I never had anything serious the matter with me in my life; we wiry-built fellows never have."

Was it so? Could this great dread be, like the other, a myth? In the revulsion of feeling, my wits momentarily deserted me. Pulses were bounding, cheeks were blushing, eyes were thrilling; and I looked up at him asking, was it true?—was it true!

And got my answer for my pains. Mr. Chandos snatched my face to his, and kissed it as if he could never leave off again. Hot, sweet, perfumed kisses, that seemed to be of heaven.

"But I do not quite understand yet," I said, when I could get away. "You have looked ill; especially about the time Dr. Amos came."

"And in one sense I was ill; ill with anxiety. We have lived, you see, Anne, with a perpetual terror upon us; never free from it a moment, by night or by day. When George was not here, there was the ever constant dread of his coming, the watching for him as it were; and now that he is here the dread is awful. When George grew worse, and it became necessary that some medical man should see him, Dr. Amos was summoned to 'Mr. Harry Chandos;' and I had a bed made up in the west wing, and secluded myself for four-and-twenty hours."

"Did Dr. Amos think he came to you?"

"He thought so. Thought that the sickly, worn-out man he saw lying on the sofa in my mother's sitting-room was Mr. Harry Chandos. I being all the while closely shut up from sight in my temporary chamber. Laken, who has been our medical attendant for a great many years, and in our entire confidence, was unfortunately away from home, and we had to resort to a stratagem. It would not do to let the world or the household know that George Heneage was lying concealed at Chandos."

"Then—when Dr. Laken said Lady Chandos was emaciated and obstinate, he really spoke of him?"

"He did: because you were within hearing. The obstinacy related to George's persistency in taking his night walks in the grounds. It has been a grievous confinement for my mother: she went out a night or two ago for a stroll at dusk, and was unfortunately seen by Mrs. Penn. Hill was so cross that Mrs. Penn should have gone near the pine-walk."

"How much does Madame de Mellissie know of this?" I asked.

"She was cognizant of the crime George was accused of having committed, and that he was in exile. She also knew that we always lived in dread of his coming to Chandos; and for that reason did not welcome strangers here."

"And yet she brought, and left, me!"

"But you have not proved a dangerous inmate, my dear one."

It was kind of him to say that, but I feared I had. That Mrs. Penn had contrived to give notice to Edwin Barley, or would contrive it, was only too probable. Once the house should be opened in the morning nothing could hinder her. Troubled and fearful, I had not spoken for some minutes, neither had he, when Madame de Mellissie's voice was heard in the hall, and he left the room.

She came into it, crossing him on the threshold. Just casting an angry and contemptuous glance on me, she withdrew, and shut the door with a heavy bang, coming back again in a short while.

"Closeted with my brother as usual!" she began, as if not one minute instead of ten had elapsed since seeing me with Mr. Chandos. "Why do you put yourself continuously in his way?"

"Did you speak to me, Madame de Mellissie?" I asked, really doubting if the attack could be meant for me.

"To whom else should I speak?" she returned, in a passionate and abrupt tone. "How dare you presume to seek to entangle Mr. Harry Chandos?"

"I do not understand you, Madame de Mellissie. I have never yet sought to entangle any one."

"You have; you know you have," she answered, giving the reins to her temper. "The letter I received warned me you were doing it, and that brought me over. You and he have dined alone, sat alone, walked alone; together always. Is it seemly that you, a dependent governess-girl, should cast a covetous eye upon a Chandos?"

My heart was beginning to beat painfully. What defence had I to make?

"Why did you leave me here, madam?"

"Leave you here! Because it suited my convenience. But I left you here as a dependent: a servant, so to say. I did not expect you to make yourself to into yourself into my brother's companion."

"Stay, Madame de Mellissie. I beg you to reflect a little before you reproach me. How could I help being your brother's companion, when he chose to make himself mine. This, the oak-parlour, was the general sitting-room; no other was shown to me for my use; was it my fault that Mr. Chandos also made it his? Could I ask to have my breakfast and dinner served in my bed-chamber?"

"I don't care," she intemperately rejoined. "I say that had you not been lost to all sense of propriety, of the fitness of things, you would have kept yourself beyond the notice of Mr. Harry Chandos. To-morrow morning you will leave."

"To whom are you speaking, Emily?" demanded a quiet voice behind us.

It was his; it was his. I drew back with a sort of gasping sob.

"I am speaking to Anne Hereford," she defiantly answered. "Giving her a warning of summary ejectment. She has been in the house rather too long!"

"You might have moderated your tone, at any rate, Emily: and perhaps would, had you known to whom you were offering a gratuitous insult," he said, with admirable calmness.

"I spoke to Anne Hereford."

"Yes. And to my future wife."

The crimson colour flashed into her beautiful face. "Harry!"

"Therefore I must beg of you to treat Miss Hereford accordingly."

"Are you mad, Harry?"

"Perfectly sane, I hope."

"It cannot be your attention to marry her? How can you think of so degrading yourself?"

"You are mistaking the case altogether, Emily. I, and my family with me, will be honoured by the alliance."

"What on earth do you mean?"

A half smile crossed his face at her wondering look, but he gave no explanation: perhaps the time had not come. I escaped from the room, and he came after me.

"Anne, I want you to go with me to the west wing. George says he should like to see you."

I went up with him at once. George Heneage—I shall never call him Chandos, and indeed he had never assumed the name—sat in the same easy-chair with the pillows at his back. Mr. Chandos put me a seat near, and he took my hands within his wasted ones. They called him better. Better! He, with the white, drawn face, the glassy eyes, the laboured breath!

"My little friend Anne! Have you quite forgotten me?"

"No; I have remembered you always, Mr. Heneage. I am sorry to see you look so ill."

"Better that I should look so. My life is a burden to me and to others. I have prayed to God a long while to take it, and I think He has at last heard me. Leave us, Harry, for a few minutes."

I felt half frightened as Mr. Chandos went out. What could he want with me?—and he looked so near death!

"You have retained a remembrance of those evil days?" he abruptly began, turning on the pillow to face me.

"Every remembrance, I think. I have forgotten nothing."

"Just so: they could but strike forcibly on a child's heart. Well, ever since Harry told me that it was you who were in this house, a day or two back now, I have thought I must see you at the last. I should not like to die leaving you to a wrong impression. You have assumed, with the rest of the world, that I murdered Philip King?"

I hesitated, really not knowing what to say.

"But I did not murder him. The shot from my gun killed him, but not intentionally. As Heaven, soon to be my judge, hears me, I tell you the truth. Philip King had angered me very much. As I saw him in the distance smoking a cigar, his back against the tree's trunk, I pointed my gun at him and put my finger on the trigger, saying, 'How I should like to put a shot into you!' Without meaning it—without meaning it, the gun went off; Anne: my elbow caught against the branch of a tree, and it went off and shot him. I had rather—yes, even then—that it had shot myself."

"But why did you not come forward and say so, Mr. Heneage?"

"Because the fact paralysed me, making me both a fool and a coward, and the moment for avowals went by, passed for ever. I would have give my own life to undo my work and restore that of Philip King. It was too late. All was too late. So I have lived on as I best could, hiding myself from the law, an exile from my country, my wife a stranger; regarded by the world as a murderer, liable to be called upon at any moment to expiate it, and with a man's death upon my soul. Over and over again would I have given myself up, but for the disgrace it would bring to my family."

"I thought it might be an accident, Mr. Heneage—have always thought it," I said, with a sigh of relief.

"Thank God, yes! But the wicked wish had been there, though uttered in reckless sport. Oh, child, don't you see how glad I shall be to go? Christ has washed away sins as red as mine. Not of my sins, comparatively speaking, has the care lain heavily upon me night and day; but of another's."

Did he mean Selina's? "Of whose, sir?"

"Philip King's. I gave him no time to pray for them. There's a verse in the Bible, Anne, that has brought me comfort at times," he whispered, with feverish eagerness, gazing at me with his earnest, yearning eyes. "When the disciples asked of the Redeemer who then can be saved, there came in answer the loving words, 'With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'"

He might not have said more; I don't know; but Hill came in to announce Dr. Laken. Her face of astonishment when she saw me sitting there was ludicrous to behold. George Heneage wrung my hand as I left him.

"You see, Hill, they ask me in here of themselves," I could not help saying, in a sort of triumph, as she held the green-baize door open for me.

Hill returned a defiant grunt by way of answer, and I brushed past Dr. Laken as he came along the gallery with another gentleman, who was dressed in the garb of a clergyman.