I saw none of them all the afternoon. After the departure of Mr. Edwin Barley, Sir Harry Chandos went out with Dr. Laken. Mrs. Chandos and Madame de Mellissie were in the east wing, and, I fancied, Lady Chandos with them. Emily had offered to take Mrs. Penn's place for a short while, so far as sitting with Mrs. Chandos went; it was one of the best-natured things I had known her do.

Oh, but it seemed to me ominous, the suffering me to sit there all the afternoon alone, no companion but myself and the oak-parlour, and with death in the house! The few words dropped by Emily to her brother about his changed position were beating their sad refrain on my brain. His position was indeed changed: and I was but a poor governess, although I might be the descendant of the Keppe-Carews. I quite thought that the neglect now cast upon me was an earnest of proof that the family at least would not countenance my entrance into it. Well, I would do what was right, and gave him back his fealty: I could but act honourably, though my heart broke over the separation that might ensue.

It was quite dusk when Mr. Chandos came back—the old name will slip out. Dr. Laken went upstairs at once; he turned into the oak-parlour.

"All alone in the dark, Anne?" he said, drawing up the blind a few inches.

It gave a little more light, and I could see his features. He looked preoccupied; but I thought the occasion had come to speak and ought to be seized upon.

What should I say? How frame the words necessary for my task? With my hands and lips trembling, brain and heart alike beating, I was about to speak incoherently, when some one came into the room.

Emily, as I thought at first; but when she came nearer the window I saw that it was Mrs. Chandos. Being left alone for an instant, she had taken the opportunity to come in search of Sir Harry.

"I have not seen you since the Indian mail came in this morning," she said to him. "Why have you not been near me?"

"The day has been a busy one for me," he answered, speaking with the gentleness that one uses to a child. "Many things have had to be seen to."

"It is sad news."

"Very." And the ring of pain in his voice no one could mistake. "Thomas would have come home now."

"Instead of that, we shall never see him again; and you, they tell me, are Sir Harry Chandos. Who would have thought once that you would ever inherit!"

"Strange changes take place," was his reply, spoken altogether in a different tone, as if he did not care to encourage in her any reminiscence of the past.

"It is so singular that they should both die together. At least, die to us. That when we were mourning for the one, news should arrive of the death of the other."

"Very singular. But it enables us to mourn openly, Ethel."

"Shall you live at Chandos?" she resumed, after a pause.

"Certainly."

"But mamma says she shall leave it and take me." She sometimes called Lady Chandos mother. "Would you stay on alone?"

"I shall not be alone for long."

She looked at him questioningly. I could see her lovely blue eyes raised to his in the dim light.

"Perhaps you will be marrying, Sir Harry?"

"Yes. In a short time."

The faint pink on her delicate cheeks deepened to crimson. Could it be that she had ever suffered the old hopes to arise should certain contingencies occur? Surely not! And yet—poor thing!—her intellect was not quite as ours is.

"Have you fixed upon your wife?" she inquired, drawing a deep breath.

"I have asked this young lady to be my wife."

He indicated me, standing as I did back against the window. Mrs. Chandos looked at me, her bright colour varying. The same thought evidently crossed her that I had thought might cross them—my unfitness in point of rank. She spoke to him proudly and coldly.

"Your wife will be Lady Chandos now, you must remember."

"I do not forget it, Ethel."

She sighed imperceptibly, and turned to the door. He went to open it for her.

"Emily and mamma have gone to the west wing. I should not like to go there: I never saw anybody dead. I was almost afraid to come down the stairs, and now I am afraid to go up them."

"Do you wish to go up?" asked Sir Harry.

"Yes. I wish to be in my own rooms."

He held out his arm to her, and she took it. I stayed alone, wishing the explanation had been made before he went away. But ere the lapse of a minute Mrs. Chandos was in the east wing, and he back in the room with me.

"Would you please let me speak to you a moment," I said—for he had only returned to take up a small parcel left on the table: and he came up to me, putting it down again.

But I could not speak. No, I could not. Now that the moment was come, every word went out of my mind, power of utterance from my mouth. He stood looking at me—at my evident agitation and whitening lips.

"It is only right that I should speak; I have been waiting all the afternoon to do so, Mr. Chandos—I beg your pardon; I mean Sir Harry," I brought out at last, and the very fact of speaking gave me courage. "I wish—I wish——"

"Why, Anne what is the matter?" he asked, for a great breath like a sob stopped me, momentarily. "What is it that you wish?"

"To tell you that I quite absolve you from anything you have said to me:" and the shame I felt at having betrayed emotion brought to me a sudden and satisfactory coldness of manner. "Please not to think any more about me. It is not your fault, and I shall not think it is. Let it all be forgotten."

A perception of my meaning flashed upon him, badly though I had expressed it. He looked at me steadily.

"Do you mean, not think further of making you my wife?"

"Yes."

"Very well. But now will you tell me why you say this?"

I hesitated. I think I was becoming agitated again: all because I knew I was getting through my task so stupidly.

"Circumstances have altered with you."

"Well, yes, in a measure. I am a trifle richer; and my wife—as Ethel remarked just now—will be Lady instead of Mrs. Chandos. Why should you object to that?"

"Oh, Mr. Chandos, you know. It is not I who would object; but your family. And—perhaps—yourself."

"Anne, I vow I have a great mind to punish you for that last word. Oh, you silly child!" he continued, putting his arms round my waist and holding me close before him. "But that it would punish me as well as you, I'd not speak to you for three days: I'd let you think I took you at your word."

"Please don't joke. Don't laugh at me."

"Joke! laugh! I suppose you think that under the 'altered circumstances,' as you call them, I ought to renew my vows. And, by the way, I don't know that I ever did make you a formal offer; one that you could use against me in a suit of breach of promise. Miss Hereford, I lay my heart and hand at your disposal. Will you condescend to be my future wife, Lady Chandos?"

Partly from vexation, partly from a great tumult of bliss, I gave no answer. Sir Harry took one for himself. Ay, and was welcome to take it.

With my face in a burning heat,—with my heart in a glow of love, as if filled with the strains of some delightful melody,—with my whole being thrilling with rapture,—I ran upstairs, barely in time to change my dress for dinner, and nearly ran against Lady Chandos, who was coming out of the east wing.

The good old words (and I don't at this present moment of writing recollect whose they are) came forcibly to my mind in their impressive truth. The sight of Lady Chandos changed my pleasure to pain: for I had had no warranty from him that she would approve of what he had been doing. Bounding into my bedroom, I stood there at the open door until she should pass: it would not do to shut it in her face, as though I had not seen her.

But instead of passing, she turned to me. While my head was bowed in silent salutation, she halted, and put her hand upon my shoulder, causing my face to meet hers. With time consciousness of whose it had just met, and very closely, with the consciousness of feeling like a miserable interloping girl who was to be exalted into the place of her predecessor against her approving will, no wonder I trembled and bent my shrinking face.

"And so you are to be my daughter-in-law?"

The words were not spoken in angry pride, but in gentle kindness. I looked up and saw love in her eyes; and she might see the gratitude that shone in every line of mine.

"Harry told me last night in the midst of our great sadness; after you had been into our poor George's room. My dear, I have heard a great deal of you since I have been upstairs in confinement, and I feel sure you will make him a good wife."

In my revulsion of feeling I clasped her hands in mine, thanking her—oh, so earnestly. "There's only one thing," I said, with the tears running down my face.

"What's that?"

"I am not good enough for him. And oh, Lady Chandos, I was so afraid you would not think me so. I have been a governess, you know. I would have given him up, I have just told him so, now he is Sir Harry Chandos."

She smiled a little. "One objection arose to me when he first spoke—that you were the niece of Mrs. Edwin Barley. But I have grown to-day to think it may be well to overcome the prejudice. Do you know what Harry says?"

I only shook my head.

"He says, as Mrs. Edwin Barley brought (I must speak freely) a curse into our house, you may be destined to bring to it a blessing as the recompense. My dear child, I think it will be so."

She inclined her head, and gave me a fervent kiss. I could have knelt to receive it. I pressed her hand as if I could not let it go. I watched her along the gallery to the west wing amid my blinding tears. I could hardly help lifting my voice aloft in thanks to Heaven for its great love to me. Hill came up the stairs and broke the charm.

"Why, Miss Hereford, you have no light," she said and indeed my chamber was in darkness. "Allow me to light the branches, Miss."

By the unusual attention—a solitary candle would have been good enough for me before—by the sound of her voice as she offered it, I saw she had heard the news. I could not help putting my hand into hers as she turned round from the lighted branches.

"Hill, I hope you will forget that I used to cross you about that west wing. I did not know what it was, you see. But oh, if you had only told me! I would have been so true to you all."

Old Hill put her candle down, that she might have her other hand at liberty; and she laid it upon mine, making it a prisoner.

"Miss, it is I who have got to ask pardon of you for my crossness. We were all living in so much dread, that a stranger in the house brought nothing but extra fear and trouble. But I liked you through it all; I liked your face that morning years ago on the Nulle steamer at London Bridge. Miss, it is the same nice face still. And, Miss Hereford, I am not sorry to hear that you are to be for good at Chandos."

"We shall be friends always, Hill."

"I hope so, Miss. I shan't be here; I go with my lady."

She went away with her candle. It gave me a shy feeling to think the news should be known to the household. But I soon found it was not known. Hill, the confidential attendant, it may be said friend, was made acquainted with all things, but she did not carry them forth to the servants under her.

Emily and Dr. Laken dined with us in the oak-parlour. Lady and Mrs. Chandos dined in the east wing. Except that a subdued air pervaded all, even to the tone of our voices and the servants' tread, the meal and evening were just as usual.

"Why did you never tell me you were a Keppe-Carew?" Emily suddenly asked me when we were alone together.

"But I am not a Keppe-Carew."

"Nonsense. Your mother was: it's all the same."

"As a governess, I did not care to say that my family was good."

"You were a little idiot, then, Anne Hereford. The Keppe-Carews are as good as we are—better, some might say; and so I suppose I must reconcile myself to the idea of your becoming my brother's wife."

"Oh, Madame de Mellissie, if you only could!"

"And forget that you were a governess. Well, child, I never disliked you; and there's the truth. It wont seem right, though, for you to take precedence of us all—as you will when you are Sir Harry's wife."

"I never will; indeed I never will."

She burst out laughing. At my being so simple-minded, she told Dr. Laken, who then came in.

It was chilly that night; and when I got into my room at bedtime, I found a fire blazing in the grate—by Hill's orders, I was sure. Ah me, with all my natural propensity to be simple-minded, my earnest wish to remain so for ever, I did feel a glow of pride at being tacitly recognised as the future mistress of Chandos.

Over this fire—a bright, beautiful fire, as befitted a dull house—I sat late, reading, musing, half dreaming. The clock struck twelve, and still I sat on.

For half an hour, or so. It was so delightful to realize my happiness; and I was in no mood for sleep. But of course sleep had to be prepared for, and I took my feet from the fender, wondering what sort of a night it was. There had been indications of frost in the evening, and I drew the heavy window-curtains back to take a view outside. "No fear of seeing a ghost now," I too boastfully whispered.

I thought I should have fainted; I nearly dropped on the floor with startled alarm. Not at a ghost: there was none to be seen; but at something that in that startling moment seemed to me far worse.

Emerging from its progress up the avenue, at a snail's pace, as if it cared not to alarm sleepers with its echoes—advancing, as it seemed, upon me—came a great, black, dismal thing, savouring of the dead. A hearse. A hearse without its plumes, driven by a man in a long black cloak.

For a moment I believed I saw a phantom. I rubbed my eyes, and looked, and rubbed again, doubting what spectral vision was obscuring them. But no, it was too real, too palpable. On it came, on and on; turned round, and halted before the entrance door.

I sat down to hold my beating heart: sure never were enacted night alarms like those I had encountered at Chandos. And, while I sat, muffled sounds as of measured footsteps bearing a burden, smote upon my ear from the corridor.

I listened till they had passed my door, and then silently drew it an inch open. Do not attribute it to an unjustifiable curiosity: I declare that I was impelled to it by fear. Strange though the assertion may seem, it is true; the real cause of all this did not occur to me. Had I been so absorbed in my own happiness as to forget all else?—or had I grown stupid? I know not—only that it was as I say.

They had gained the head of the stairs, and were stopping there, apparently hesitating how best to get down. Four of them besides Sir Henry Chandos, and they bore a coffin on their shoulders covered with black cloth—Dr. Laken, Hickens, and two men who looked like carpenters. So! that was it!—the unhappy George Heneage was being removed by night!—and the stairs of the west wing, as I knew later, were too narrow.

I could not see, for the hearse was right underneath my window, but I heard the sounds as they put in the coffin, after they had got it safely down. And then the great black thing drove away again, with its slow and covert steps, some of them following it. It was going to the railway station.

Sir Harry and Dr. Laken were away for two or three days. The funeral had taken place from the doctor's house. There was no real reason why he might not have been buried from Chandos, except that it would have created so much noise, and put the place up in arms.

And so ended the life and history of the ill-fated. George Heneage Chandos.