mr. chandos advanced with suavity; the officers saluted him and took off their hats. he held his handkerchief to his face, as if fearing the draught: i knew that it was to shade his livid countenance.

"a late visit, gentlemen! to what am i indebted for it?"

he had been gradually withdrawing to the oak-parlour as he spoke, and they came with him. i drew back in confused indecision, and stood humbly in the remotest and darkest corner. i had not courage to quit the room, for i must have brushed by them: i hoped that mr. chandos would see and dismiss me. but no; he never looked my way. he closed the door, in the face of hickens, whose state of mind was a pretty even balance between wonder and dismay.

"we could not get here sooner, sir," observed one of the officers, who spoke quite like a gentleman, "but we hope the delay has not been inconvenient to you. the inspector, to whom your note was addressed, was out when it arrived, so that it was not opened immediately."

had the sentence been spoken in an unknown tongue, it could not more completely have puzzled mr. chandos, to judge by his looks.

"what note do you speak of?"

"the note you sent in to-day."

this appeared to be no elucidation to mr. chandos.

"will you tell me what its contents were?"

"we got but one, sir. it requested two or three of us to be here to-night, mounted. it intimated that the thief, who has been playing tricks in your house, was discovered, and would be given up to us. our inspector wondered why we were wanted to come mounted."

oh, the change that fell over the face of mr. chandos! the eager light of hope, the vivid rush of renewed colour! it was as one awakening from death to life.

"gentlemen," he said with a smile, as he pointed to seats, "i fear a trick has been played upon you. i have not written to your inspector, and most certainly possess as yet, no clue to the parties who have been so disagreeably busy at chandos."

they seemed hardly to believe him. for my own part i could scarcely tell what was real, what not.

"but you must not go back without refreshment, although you have had a useless ride," concluded mr. chandos, when some further explanation had passed. "it shall be brought in at once," he added, ringing for hickens. "and this young lady," looking at me then, "will obligingly see the housekeeper and bid her hasten it."

i obeyed the look and followed him into the hall. hickens was there.

"supper, hickens. these gentlemen will take some before their departure. bring the best of what you have, and be quick over it."

hickens moved away with alacrity: the word "departure" had reassured him, and also seemed to afford hope that his curiosity would be satisfied. mr. chandos caught my hand and drew me through the door to the foot of the stairs. his own hand was trembling, and cold as ice: unconsciously, i think, to himself, he laid it on my shoulder, and spoke in the gentlest whisper.

"go to the west wing, anne. knock at the outer door, but do not attempt to enter. hill will answer you. tell her to inform lady chandos that it is a false alarm; that the officers have only come respecting what was recently lost from my desk, and that i have ordered supper for them. say that i will be with my mother as soon as possible, but i remain at present to entertain them."

he returned swiftly to the parlour, closing the door, leaving me to proceed on my errand. hill answered my knock, her face and her cap of an equal whiteness, and i delivered the message, speaking in a whisper. strangely relieved seemed she, at least in an equal degree with mr. chandos, and she made me repeat the little i had heard said by the officers, as if scarcely daring to believe the good tidings, without confirmation.

"heaven be praised!" she exclaimed; "it would just have killed my lady. bless you, child, for a good girl."

that hill's relief of mind must have been something extraordinary for her to bless me, one could but acknowledge; and i excused her shutting the baize door in my face.

in less than half an hour, i heard the police ride away, as i sat in my chamber, and mr. chandos passed to the west wing. it was very dull for me in that lonely bedroom, and only half-past nine o'clock; so i thought i might go down again. hickens was putting the things together on the supper tray.

"miss, do you know what those men came for?" he asked.

"well, hickens, not exactly. nothing at all to be afraid of, so far as i could gather. i heard mr. chandos laughing with them when they went away."

"oh, i heard that; i was rung for to show 'em out," returned hickens. "my opinion is this, miss, that it's just a scandal for policemen to ride up at will in the dark night to a gentleman's seat--almost a nobleman's--and if i were mr. chandos i'd let them know it. swords clanging to 'em, indeed! what next?"

he went away with his tray. five minutes afterwards mr. chandos came down. he was so gay; his step was light, his face smiling. it was only the reaction that sometimes sets in after deliverance from great fear. i had not thought to see him again that night: and stupidly said so.

"no! i came to look after you; lest you should have melted away with terror. were you very much scared, anne?"

"yes; just at first."

"take it for all in all this has been a sensational evening," he resumed, laughing. "my accident at the window; your discovery of the marked money in your box; and the visitation of the police. private families cannot in general boast of so much entertainment all at once."

i looked at him wistfully. after the intense agitation and dread he had betrayed, this light tone sounded very unnatural; almost like a mocking make-believe.

"mr. chandos, i fear you live in some great peril," was my timid rejoinder. "i suppose i may not be told what it is; but i wish i could ease you; i wish i could avert it from you, whatever it may be."

as if by magic, his mood changed, and the dark shade came back to his countenance. "so you won't let me cheat myself, anne! i was trying if i could do it."

"if you would but tell me what it is! if i could avert it from you!"

"no living being can do that, child. i wish i could forget it, if only for a moment."

"and you cannot?"

"never; by night or by day. i appear as the rest of the world does; i laugh, i talk; but within lies ever that one terrible care, weighing me down like an incubus."

how terrible it was, i could see even then, as he covered his eyes for a moment with his wasted hand.

"but to-night has brought me a great relief--though it may be but temporary," he resumed, looking up. "how thankful i felt when the police explained their errand, god alone can ever know."

"but what errand did you fear they had come upon?"

"that i cannot tell you. not upon quite so harmless a one as it turned out to be."

"better, perhaps, that they had come for me."

mr. chandos smiled--as well he might at the words; and passed to a gayer strain.

"which of the three would you have preferred to ride before, had i given you into custody for finding that money of mine in your possession? we must have looked for a pillion!"

but i did not answer in the same jesting spirit; i could not so readily forget my alarm, or their hidden trouble. very gravely, for it was nearly bedtime, i put my hand out to wish him good-night. he took it within both of his, and there was a pause of silence.

"anne," he said, his low voice sounding strangely solemn in the stillness of the room, "you have been to-night forced into what may be called a species of confidence as to our unhappy secrets; at least, to have become cognizant that chandos has things to be concealed. will you be true to us--in so far as not to speak of this?"

"i will."

"in the house and out of it?"--and he seemed to lay emphasis on the "in."

"i will be true as heaven," i answered in my earnestness. "i will seem to forget that i know it myself."

"thank you, my best friend. good-night."

i had come up earlier than usual; it was not ten o'clock; and i thought i might read for half an hour without transgressing any good rule. but where had i left my book? looking about, i could not see it.

it occurred to me then. i had been sitting reading in the gallery window for some minutes before dinner; and must have left the book there. it was but a few steps, and i went to fetch it.

there it was. i found it by feel, not by sight. the moon was bright again, but the window-shutters were closed and barred. it was that beautiful story, the "heir of redclyffe." madame de mellissie had bought the tauchnitz edition of it in paris, and had left it behind her at chandos. soon after she departed, i had found it and read it; and was now dipping into it again.

but now--as i took it in my hand, there occurred a very strange thing, frightening me nearly to death. turning from the window, the whole length of gallery was before me up to the door of the west wing, the moonlight shining into it in places from the high windows above. there, midway in the passage, the moonlight revealing it, was a shadowy sort of form; looking like nothing on earth but an apparition.

i was in the shade; in the dark; remember that. gliding along slowly, one of its arms stretched out, looking just as if it were stretched out in warning to me to escape--and i had not the sense then to remember that i must be invisible--on it came. a tall, thin skeleton of a form, with a white and shadowy face. there was no escape for me: to fly to my own room would be to meet it; and no other door of refuge was open.

it has never been your fate as i feel sure, my gentle reader, to be at one end of a gallery in a haunted house at night and see a ghost gliding towards you from the other; so please don't laugh at me. what my sensations were i can neither describe nor you conceive: i cannot bear to think of them even now. that i beheld the ghost, said to haunt chandos, my sick heart as fully believed, in that moment, as it believed in heaven. presence of mind forsook me; all that the wildest imagination can picture of superstitious terror assailed me: and i almost think--yes, i do think--that i might have lost my senses or died, but for the arrival of succour.

oh, believe me! in these awful moments, which have on occasion come to people in real life far more certainly and terribly than anything ever represented in fiction, believe me, god is ever at hand to send relief. the overstrung mind is not abandoned to itself: very, very rarely indeed are our guardian angels absent, or unready to work by an earthly instrument.

it came to me in the person of mr. chandos. ascending the stairs, a candle in his hand, softly whistling in unconcern, he came. it was no moment for deliberation: had it been a king or emperor, it had been all the same to me. with a great cry of anguish; with a low prolonged shriek, that burst from me in the tension of nerves and brain; with a clasp of his arm, as if i dare not let him go again, i laid hold of him; dropping the book on the carpet of the gallery.

i suppose he put the wax-light down; i suppose he got over his astonishment in some way: all i knew was that in a moment he was holding me in his arms, trying to soothe my sobbing. reaction had come, and with it tears; never before had i cried so violently; and i clung to him still in an agony of terror, as one, drowning, clings to the living. but nothing remained in the gallery. whatever had been in it had vanished.

"what is all this? what has alarmed you?"

"it was there; it was coming towards me!" i whispered hysterically in answer. "oh forgive me! hold me! i feel as though i should die."

"what was coming?" he inquired.

"the same--i think--that is seen in the grounds. the ghost. i saw it."

"how can you be so foolish? how can you take up these absurd fancies?" he remonstrated, in a sharp tone, moving some steps away from me.

"i did, mr. chandos; i did. it came along with its arm raised, as if to warn me off: a tall skeleton of a form, with shadowy features the hue of the dead. features that bear, in their formation, a great resemblance to yours."

was it fancy? or was it fact?--that his own features, as i spoke, assumed an ashy tint, just as they had done when the police-officers came?

"what were you doing out here?" he asked, in the same sharp accent.

"i only came to the window-seat to get a book. i saw it as i turned to go back."

"you saw nothing," he persisted, with some warmth. "i am astonished at you, miss hereford: the fancy was the creation of your own brain, and nothing more. pray, if the ghost was here then, where is it now?"

"i don't know. it disappeared: i think it seemed to go back towards the west wing. it was certainly there."

"you are certainly silly," was his response. "a vast deal more so than i had given you credit for."

"ah, mr. chandos, you cannot reason me out of my eyesight and my senses. thank you, thank you ever for coming up the stairs just then: i do believe i should have died, or lost my reason."

picking up the "heir of redclyffe," i walked to my room, went in, and shut the door. mr. chandos pulled it open again with a sharp pull.

"forgive me if i have been harsh. good-night."

"oh, yes, sir; i know how foolish it must seem to you. good-night."

"go to rest in peace and safety, anne. and be assured that no ill, ghostly or human, shall work you harm while i am at hand to prevent it."

i closed the door and bolted it, a vague idea in my mind that a bolted door is a better safeguard against a ghost than on unbolted one. mr. chandos's footsteps died away in the direction of the west wing.

with the morning, a little of the night's impression had vanished, for the sun was shining brilliantly. ghosts and sunlight don't accord with each other; you cannot make them amalgamate. ghosts at midnight are ghosts: in the warm and cheery morning sun they are of doubtful identity; or, at any rate, have vanished very far-off, into unknown regions. i dressed myself as usual, in better spirits than might be supposed, and went down. mr. chandos was earlier than i, and stood at the window in the oak-parlour. he took my hand and retained it for some moments in silence, i standing side by side with him, and looking from the window as he did.

"and how is the ghost this morning, anne?"

"i wish you would regard me as a rational being, mr. chandos! do anything but treat me as a child."

"nay, i think you proved yourself both irrational and a child last night," he laughingly said.

"indeed i did not. i wish you had seen what i did."

"i wish i had," was the mocking answer. "anne, trust me: there is no ghost inside chandos, whatever they may say as to there being one out of it."

"i don't know how i shall be able to go upstairs alone at night again."

"nor i. you will want hill and half a dozen lighted torches to escort you. do you remember my remarking, that last evening, taking one event with another, was a sensational one? but i did not suppose it was to wind up with anything so grand as a ghost."

the mocking tone, the ridicule vexed me. it was as if he ridiculed me. in spite of my good sense and my good manners, the vexation appeared in my eyes.

"there! we will declare a truce, anne, and let the ghost drop. i don't want to make you angry with me."

"i am not angry, sir. i can never repay all your kindness to me; and especially that last one of coming to my relief last night."

"which was accidental. shall i tell you how you can repay it all, anne?"

his voice dropped to earnest seriousness; his eyes, a strangely-sad gravity seated in their depths, looked yearningly into mine.

"i wish you could, sir."

"let this matter of your ghost be a perfect secret between you and me. one to be disclosed to no one."

"certainly. i promise."

that some great reason prompted the request was unmistakeable: that there were certain interests attaching to this "ghost," whether it might walk out of doors or in, could but be apparent. a mysterious awe--pardon the words--pervaded the subject altogether; and had from the moment i first entered chandos. how i wished he would take me into his confidence!--if it were only that i might show him that i would be true and faithful. but for the strange reticence imposed by love when once it takes possession of the soul, i might have boldly suggested this.

he leaned out of the window, inhaling the crisp air of the bright october morning. courage at length came to me to say a word.

"of course, sir, i do not fail to see that there are interests here that involve caution and care, though i cannot think how, or what they are. if you would entrust me with them--and i could help in any way--i should be glad. i would be so true."

"ay, i am sure you would be. latterly a vision has crossed me of a time--a possible future when it might be disclosed. but it is neither probable nor near. indeed, it seems like a dream even to glance at it."

he had been looking at the far-off skies as he spoke, as though he were in a dream. the urn was brought in, and i went to the table to make the tea. newspapers and letters arrived; he was buried in them during breakfast, and carried them afterwards to his own sitting-room.

"i saw his horse brought to the door in the course of the morning. in crossing the hall to go to it, he looked in at oak-parlour. i was mending gloves.

"hard at work! do you wear mended gloves?"

"everybody is not mr. chandos of chandos. poor governesses have to wear many things that the gay world does not. and mrs. paler has not paid me."

"shall i bring you some gloves home to-day?"

"oh, no indeed; no, thank you, mr. chandos;" i answered, speaking and colouring much more vehemently than the occasion called for. "are you going for a ride?"

"i am going to the police-station at warsall, to endeavour to get a sight of that note."

"who could have written it? it seems so useless a hoax to have played."

"useless?--as it turned out, yes. but it strikes me the intention was neither harmless nor useless," he added, in a thoughtful tone.

"shall you not institute an inquiry into it, mr. chandos?"

"no. i shall pick up what there may be to pick up in a quiet way; but i shall make no stir in it. i have my reasons. good-bye, anne. mind you mend those gloves neatly."

"good-bye, sir. take care of black knave--that he does not throw you again."

he went away laughing at his own remark on the gloves, or mine on black knave, went up to the west wing, and was down again in a minute. the horse was a favourite, and he patted him and spoke to him before mounting. the groom rode a bright bay horse; a fine animal also.

surely there was no harm in my looking from the window to watch them away! but mrs. penn, who came into the oak-parlour at the moment, appeared to think there was. her lips were drawn in and her brow had a frown on it as i turned to her. with that want of ceremony that distinguished her customary behaviour to me, she flung herself back in an easy-chair, her arms hanging down listlessly, her feet stretching out. her gown was a bright muslin of beautiful hue and texture; her glowing hair had purple ribbons in it and black lace lappets.

"what a place this chandos seems to be!" she exclaimed. "did you ever see such a house, miss hereford? that visit of the police--riding up with their naked sabres!"

"the sabres were in their sheaths."

"they clanked; i know that. i can tell you it gave me a turn. and after all, after terrifying us nearly to death, mr. chandos, i hear, entertained them amicably at supper."

"it was as well to be civil; it was not their fault that they came. a trick had been played on them."

"a trick? i don't understand."

"a note was written in mr. chandos's name to the inspector of police at warsall, asking for mounted officers to be sent over. they supposed they were coming to take into custody the person who had been playing tricks at chandos. tricks: that was the word used."

mrs. penn stared at me. "who wrote the note?"

"mr. chandos does not know. he received a note himself also last night, an anonymous one: insinuating that as you and i were the only strangers at chandos, one of us must be the guilty person."

"what next?" demanded mrs. penn, angrily taking up the words. "does mr. chandos suppose i stole my own lace and rifled my own letter? but it is only what i have anticipated."

"mr. chandos knows better. i say it was the anonymous letter that suggested the idea to him. i thought it seemed to point more to me than to you."

"mr. chandos would not admit the idea--would he?"

"oh, no. i am quite easy on that score. mr. chandos knows he may trust me."

"whether mrs. penn thought this remark seemed to reflect on herself; to shift the imputation on her, failing me, i could not tell; certainly no such thing had been in my mind. her eyes grew angry: she rose from the chair, and shook her finger in my face.

"anne hereford, i have warned you once not to allow yourself to grow attached to mr. chandos; i now warn you again. there are reasons--i may not speak them--why it could bring you nothing but misery. misery! it is but a faint word for it: disgrace, shame; more than you in your inexperience can imagine of evil. better that you fell in love with the lowest manservant attached to the place, than with harry chandos."

the tell-tale crimson arose in my cheeks, and i bent to pick one of the late rose-buds, entwining themselves about the trellis-work outside.

"child! should harm ever come of this, recollect that i did my best to warn you. i am older than you by many years; had i ever possessed a daughter, she might have been of your age."

"thank you, mrs. penn," i gently said; "there is no cause to fear for me."

"where has mr. chandos gone?"

"to warsall. he would like to discover the writer of the note to the police."

"you seem to be quite in his confidence," remarked mrs. penn.

"he told me so much--that he intended to ride thither. it was no very great amount of confidence."

"there are many things i don't like in this house," she continued, after an interval of silence. "what do you suppose they did last night? actually locked us up in the east wing! turned the key upon us! i was coming forth to see if i could find out what those police were doing, and i found myself a prisoner! madam hill's act and deed, that was."

"indeed!" was my reply, not, choosing to tell her that i had heard the order given by mr. chandos.

"hill takes a vast deal too much upon herself. i thought it could be no one else, and taxed her with it, asking how she could presume to lock up me. she coolly replied that she had never thought of me at all in the affair, but of mrs. chandos, who was of a timid nature, and would not like the sight of policemen inside the house. poor thing! she has cause," added mrs. penn, in a sort of self-soliloquy.

"mrs. chandos has!"

"no unhappy prisoner escaped from portland island, hiding his head anywhere to elude notice, has more cause to dread the detective officers of justice than she. your friend, harry chandos, has the same. i would not lead the life of apprehension he does, for untold gold. look at the skeleton it makes of him! he is consuming away with inward fever. you were surprised when that london physician was brought down to him; the household were surprised: i was not."

"how came you to be so deep in their secrets?"

"had i not been in their secrets, and shown them that i was, i should not have been admitted an inmate of that east wing," she answered. "do you know, when the police came last night--but i had better hold my tongue, or i may say too much."

to avoid doing so, possibly, she quitted the room. but there were few women--as i believed--less likely than mrs. penn to be betrayed into speaking on impulse what it might not be expedient to speak.

the adventures of the day were not over for me. i wish they had been! i finished my gloves; i practised; i did a little german; and in the afternoon, when it was getting late, i strolled out with my book, the "heir of redclyffe," and sat down between the house and the lodge-gates in a sheltered seat; where i could see who passed to and from the house, without being seen.

the morning had been very lovely; the evening was setting in less so; a sighing wind whistled amidst the trees, clouds passed rapidly over the face of the sky, and the autumn leaves fell and were whirled about the paths. did it ever strike you that there is something melancholy in these dying leaves? many people like autumn the best of the four seasons; but i think there is in it a great deal of sadness. it brings our own autumn of life too forcibly to the mind: as the leaves of the trees decay, and fall, and die; so must we when our time shall come.

i was listening to the rustle of the leaves, and watching.--if this is to be a true confession--for mr. chandos, when he rode by to the house. inclination would have led me after him; common sense and propriety kept me where i was. presently, i saw lizzy dene advancing quietly along one of the dark and private paths. she wore her cloak and bonnet, and had a basket on her arm, as if she had been on an errand to the village. in a moment some gentleman had met her and they were talking together. it was edwin barley. there were so many outlets from the broad walk that almost any of these private paths could be gained at will.

lizzy dene came on almost directly; she seemed to be in a hurry, and turned off towards the kitchens. the next to appear in the same walk was mrs. penn, striking right across the steps of mr. edwin barley.

i was so sheltered by surrounding trees that they could not see me; but as they came nearer, walking side by side, mrs. penn's eye caught mine. she quickened her pace, and mr. edwin barley turned hack, raising his hat to her. "here you are with your book," she began. "is it not too dark to see to read?"

"almost. have you been for a walk, mrs. penn?" i asked, hoping she'd not mention the name of edwin barley.

"i have been to the village post. i don't care to entrust my letters now to the hall-table. did you notice a gentleman with me down there, miss hereford?"

"i think i did see some one walking with you. it is dark amid all those trees."

"i want to know his name," she continued, looking at me. "he has accosted me once or twice lately. a very civil, gentlemanly man."

"is he! he has spoken to me, and i--i did not think him so. at least, i did not much like him. he lives in that house by the lodge-gates."

"oh, then, it must be mr. edwin barley, i suppose. did you know his name?"

"yes."

"he is a friend of the people here, i imagine. he stopped me just now and began asking after the health of lady chandos, as if he had an interest in it."

"i should not answer any of his questions at all, if i were you, mrs. penn."

"why not?"

"you don't know anything of him, or what his motives may be for inquiry. i once heard mr. chandos warn him off these grounds; after that, he has no right to enter them. i think his doing so looks suspicious."

"i think you must be a suspicious young lady to fancy it," returned mrs. penn with a laugh. "you were certainly born to be a vieille fille, anne hereford. they are always ultra-cautious."

"i daresay i was."

"when a gentleman--and a neighbour, as you now say he is--makes inquiries in passing after the invalids of the family you may be staying with, i do not see any harm in answering. one can't turn away like a bear, and say, i will not tell you."

"as you please. i do not think mr. chandos would approve of your speaking to him."

"talking of mr. chandos, has he returned from that police errand yet?"

"i saw him ride past half an hour ago."

"i must hasten home," she returned, beginning to move away. "mrs. chandos cannot be left for long. i have run all the way back from the post, and i ran to it."

what a strangely persevering man that edwin barley seemed to be! if mrs. penn knew--as she evidently did know--the dark secrets of the chandos family, what might he not get out of her? i nearly made up my mind to inform mr. chandos.

alas for me! for my poor courage! turning a sharp corner by the alcove to go home, i came upon him standing there; edwin barley. was he waiting for me, or for mrs. penn? but she had gone by the other path. it was too late to retreat. i essayed to do it, but he placed himself in my way.

"not so fast, young lady. i have been expecting you to come up: i saw you in the distance, and waited to exchange a word with you. why! you won't be so discourteous as to refuse!"

"i cannot stay now, thank you."

"oh, yes, you can--when i wish it. i want to inquire after the health of the family. there's no getting anything out of anybody: they 'can't tell me how my lady is, save from hearsay;' they 'never see her,' they 'see nearly as little of mr. chandos.' you and i can be more confidential."

"no, we cannot, sir. i never see lady chandos, any more than others do."

"which you cannot say of mr. harry; you see rather much of him," retorted mr. edwin barley, with a parting of the lips that showed the subject vexed him. "you and he are together always--as the news is brought to me."

"did mrs. penn tell you that?" i asked, my colour and my anger rising together.

"mrs. penn!"

"the lady you have just parted with," i answered, supposing he did not know her by name.

"mrs. chandos's companion? she's none too civil to me. you had a visit from the mounted police last evening; an unexpected one, rumour runs. did their sudden appearance confound mr. harry chandos?"

how he seemed to know things! did he get them from mere rumour, or from lizzy dene? i remained silent.

"did they bring, i ask, confusion to mr. chandos? did he exhibit the aspect, the terror, of one who--who has been guilty of some great crime, and dreads to expiate, it?"

"i cannot tell you, sir."

"you were with him, i know that much," he returned, in the same commanding, angry, imperative tone of voice i had once heard him use to my aunt selina.

"but what if i was? i cannot say how mr. chandos felt or thought."

"you can--if you choose. i asked you how he looked; what his manner betrayed: not what he felt or thought."

loving him as i did, bound to his interests, could i be otherwise than on my guard? nevertheless there must have been that in my tone and look that carried doubt to mr. edwin barley.

"mr. chandos spoke to the officers quite calmly, sir. they were admitted at once, and he invited them into the sitting-room."

he looked at me keenly: i say, there must have been some doubt on his mind. "are you aware that i know you, anne? i think you must know me. as your uncle, your only living relative, i have a right to question you of these and other things."

my heart beat violently. nearly too sick to speak felt i: and the words shook as they issued from my lips.

"you are not my uncle, sir. selina was my aunt, but----"

"and as selina's husband, i became your uncle, anne, by law. she is dead, but i am living: your uncle still. so you did know me?"

"i have known you, sir, ever since the day i first saw you here."

"it is more than i did by you, young lady; or i should not have allowed you to remain so quietly at chandos. for the sake of my dead wife, i hold an interest in your welfare: and that will not be enhanced by your companionship with harry chandos."

the hint conveyed by the words half frightened me to death. he allow me! he assume a right to control me! i spoke out in my sick terror.

"you cannot have any power over me or my actions, mr. edwin barley."

"indeed i have, anne. the law would say so. do you know who mrs. penn is?" he abruptly asked.

"i don't know who mrs. penn is or where she comes from," was my quick reply, glad he had put a question at last that i could answer honestly. "will you please to let me go, sir? it is getting dark."

"not just yet. you must first reply to a question or two i wish to ask touching harry chandos. to begin with: does he go often from home?"

sick, faint, weak, though i was, i had presence of mind to put up one little sentence of prayer to be helped to do right: and that right i knew lay in denying him all information.

"i cannot tell you anything whatever about mr. chandos--or what he does--or what any one else does. as long as i am in the family, protected by them, trusted by them, it is dishonourable even to listen to such questions. but indeed i know nothing. if the chandos family have secrets, they do not tell them to me."

"i should not imagine they would. i am not asking you for secrets. there are reasons why i wish to learn a little of their ordinary everyday doings. this, at any rate, is a simple question: does mr. harry chandos----"

"it is of no use, sir; i will not answer that or any other. pray do not stop me again! i hope you will pardon me for reminding you that i heard mr. chandos desire you not to intrude on these grounds: i think you ought to obey him, sir."

his face, always stern, grew fierce in its anger. perhaps it was only natural that it should. he raised his hand before me.

"i hold the chandoses under my finger and thumb. a little movement (here he closed them), and they may go trooping out of the kingdom to hide their disgrace; your friend, mr. harry, with all his high and mighty pride, leading the van. it will not be long first. by the obedience you owed your aunt selina, my dead wife, by the tenderness for her cherished memory, i order you to speak. you must do so, anne."

one single moment of hesitation--i am ashamed to confess to it; but his voice and manner were so solemn--and my resolve returned, fixed and firm.

"i have said that i will not, now or ever."

he laid hold of me by the two arms as if he were going to shake me; his angry face, with its beautiful white teeth--he always showed them when in anger--close to mine. you see, the old fear i used to have of him as a child clung to me still, and i shrieked out loud twice in my terror. i had always been wanting in presence of mind.

it all passed in a moment. what i hardly knew. there was a crash as if the slender hedge gave way; and mr. chandos was holding me behind him, having flung mr. edwin baxley back against the opposite tree.