Really mine was just now a strange life. A young girl--I was only that; young in experience as well as years--living in that house without any companion except Mr. Chandos. More unrestrained companionship could scarcely have existed between us had we been brother and sister. Our meals were taken together; he presiding at luncheon and dinner, I at breakfast and tea. The oak-parlour was our common sitting-room; the groves and glades of Chandos, glowing with the tints of autumn, our frequent walks. It was very pleasant; too pleasant; I don\'t say anything about its prudence.

Later, when I grew more conversant with the ways of the world and its exactions, I wondered that Lady Chandos had not seen its inexpediency. But that love should supervene on either side never crossed her thoughts; had it been suggested to her, she would have rejected the idea as entirely improbable: I was a schoolgirl, her son (as she had reason to think) was love-proof. In regard to other considerations, Mr. Chandos was one of those men with whom a young girl would be perfectly safe; and she knew it.

Three or four days passed on. Mr. Chandos had recovered from his lameness, and went to church with us on Sunday. Our order of going was, as usual, this: he walked by the side of Mrs. Chandos, almost in silence: I and Mrs. Penn behind. In a pew at right angles with ours sat Mr. Edwin Barley alone; and his dark stern eyes seemed to be fixed on me from the beginning of the service to the end.

Well from his lameness; but anything but well as to his health, if looks might be relied upon; he seemed to grow more shadowy day by day. What his illness was I could not think and might not ask: it certainly seemed on the mind more than the body. A conviction grew gradually upon me that some curious mystery, apart from the sleepwalking, did attach to Mr. Chandos; and the words I overheard spoken by Edwin Barley strengthened the impression: "That there is something to be discovered connected with him, and at this present time, I am absolutely certain of." What did he allude to?

Surely it was nothing of disgrace! As he sat there before me, with his calm pale face and its sweet expression, it was against the dictates of common sense to suppose that ill or wicked antecedents attached to him. No; I would not believe it, let Madam Penn say what she chose.

It was a lovely autumn morning to begin the week with. The fire burnt briskly in the grate, but the window, near which we sat, was open. Mr. Chandos seemed low and depressed. His moods were changeable: sometimes he would be lively, laughing, quite gay; as if he put away the inward trouble for a time. During breakfast, which he ate this morning nearly in silence, he took a letter from his pocket and glanced down its contents, heaving an involuntary sigh. I recognised it for one that had been delivered the previous morning: the name "Henry Amos" on the corner of the envelope proved the writer. I wondered then--I wonder still--why people put their names outside the letters they send, as some do.

"Does he write instructions to you still, Mr. Chandos?"

"Who? Dr. Amos? Well, yes; in a measure."

"I hope he thinks you are getting better?"

"I tell him that I am. You have forgotten the sugar. A small lump, please. Thank you."

It was ever so. If I did summon up courage to ask about his health he only turned it off. His tea did not want further sweetening more than mine did.

We were sent out that day for a drive in the large open carriage; Mrs. Chandos, Mrs. Penn, and I. It was the first time we had gone together. Mr. Chandos was away; attending some county meeting. It was nearly five when we got home. Later, when I had my hair down and dress off, getting ready for dinner, Mrs. Penn came in.

"Oh, this dreary life at Chandos!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, without any ceremony or apology for entering. "I am not sure that I can continue to put up with it."

"Dreary, do you find it?"

"It is dreary. It is not pleasant or satisfactory. Mrs. Chandos grows colder and more capricious; and you are not half the companion you might be. It was on the tip of my tongue just now to give her warning. If I do give it, I shall be off the next day. I never found a place dull in all my life before."

"Something has vexed you, perhaps, Mrs. Penn?"

"If it has, it\'s only a slight vexation. I made haste to write this as soon as we came in"--turning her left hand, in which lay a sealed letter--"and I find the letters are gone. I thought the man called for them at half-past five."

"No; at five."

"So Hickens has just informed me. What few letters I have had to write since I came have been done in the morning. It can\'t be helped; it must wait until to-morrow."

She put the letter into her bag, shutting it with a sharp click that told of vexation; a small morocco bag with a steel clasp and chain; took her keys from her pocket and locked it.

"What a pretty thing that is!"

"This reticule? Yes, it is pretty: and very convenient. Have you one?"

"Not like that. Mine is an ugly one, made out of a piece of carpet; I bought it ever so long ago at the fair at Nulle."

"Shall you ever go hack to Nulle?"

"I should be there at this present time, but for a fever that has broken out at Miss Barlieu\'s. It is getting better, though; I heard from Miss Annette on Saturday."

"Fever, or not fever, I should say it would be a happy change for you from this dull place.

"Dull! This! It was my Elysium. I felt like a guilty girl in my self-consciousness, and the bright colour stole over my face and neck.

"Allow me to fasten your dress for you."

I thanked her, but laughingly said that I was accustomed to dress myself. She laughed too; observed that schoolgirls generally could help themselves, having no choice upon the point, and turned to look from the window.

She stood there with her back to me until I was ready to go down, sometimes turning her head to speak. We quitted the room together, and she seemed to have recovered her good temper. I had reached the foot of the stairs when I happened to look up the well of the staircase. There was the face of Mrs. Penn, regarding me with a strange intensity. What did she see in me?

Is this to be a full confession? When my solitary dinner was brought in, and Hickens said his master dined at Warsall, I felt half sick with disappointment. What was I coming to? Something not good, I feared, if I could feel like that; and I sat down after dinner to take myself to task.

"Why did I love him? That I could not help now; but I could help encouraging it. And yet--could I help it, so long as I stayed at Chandos? I foresaw how it would be: a short period of time--it could not be a long one--and Madame de Mellissie would be there and carry me away with her, and end it. I should get another situation, and never see or hear of Chandos again, or of him. Better go away at once than wait until my heart broke! better go to the fever, as Mrs. Penn had said!

"Why! What\'s the matter?"

He had come up to the open window, riding-whip in hand, having alighted at the gates, and left his horse to the groom. There was no possibility of concealment, and my face was blistered with crying.

"I felt a little dull, sir."

"Dull! Ah, yes; of course you do," he continued, as he came into the room, and stood with me at the window. "I wish I could be more with you, but duties of various kinds call me elsewhere."

The very thing I had been thinking ought not to be! My tears were dried, but I felt ashamed of my burning face.

"Would you please to let me have that money, Mr. Chandos?"

"What money?"

"Some I asked you for. Enough to take me to Nulle."

"You shall have as much money as you please, and welcome. But not to take you to Nulle."

"Oh, sir! I must go."

He paused, looking at me. Will you tell me why you want to go there, knowing that it might be dangerous?

"I have not anywhere else to go to. I don\'t suppose the fever would come near me. In all French schools there is, you know, an infirmary apart."

"Then your motive is to quit Chandos. Why?"

I did not speak. Only hung my head.

"Is it because you find it dull? Are you so unhappy in it?"

"It is not dull to me; only at moments. But I ought to leave it, because--because the longer I stay, the worse the going away will be."

But that I was confused and miserable, I should not have told him anything so near the truth. The words slipped from me. There was no reply, and I looked up to find his eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.

"Only think, sir, for yourself," I stammered. "I am but a governess, accustomed to be at work from morning until night. After this life of ease and idleness, how shall I be able to reconcile myself to labour again?"

"It seems to me that you ought to welcome this interval as a rest. You know best about that, of course. But, whether or not, there is no help for it. Do you think my mother would suffer you to go to the fever?"

"I don\'t know," I answered, with a catching sob.

"Yes, I think you do know. I should not."

"You are too kind to me, Mr. Chandos."

"Am I? Will you repay it by giving me some tea? I am going up to my mother, and shall expect it ready when I come down. Put out, and cool, mind, ready to drink. I am as thirsty as a fish."

"I ran to the bell; he meant to forestal me, and his hand fell on mine as it touched the handle. He kept his there while he spoke.

"Can you not be happy at Chandos a little longer?"

"Oh, sir, yes. But it will only make the leaving worse when it comes."

"Well, that lies in the future."

Yes, it did lie in it. And in the throbbing bliss his presence brought, I was content to let it lie. Parting could not be worse in the future than it would be now.

The tea had time to get cold, instead of cool, for he stayed a long while in the west wing. He seemed very tired; did not talk much, and said good-night early.

It must have been getting on for eleven o\'clock the next morning. Mr. Chandos had been asking me to sew a button on his glove. "They are always coming off," he cried, as he watched my fingers. "My belief is, they are just pitched on to the gloves, and left there. I have heard Harriet say the same; she sews them on in general."

"Why did you not give her this one?" I had been laughing, and was in high spirits; and until the words were out, it did not strike me that it was not quite the right thing for me to say, even in joke.

"Because I best like you to do it."

"There it is, sir. Are there any more?"

If there were, he had no time to give them me. A sharp decisive knock at the room door, and Mrs. Penn came in, looking pale and angry.

She has been coming to a rupture with Mrs. Chandos, thought I. But I was wrong.

It appeared, by what she began to say, that she had left, unintentionally, the small bag, or reticule as she called it, in my room the previous evening, and had not thought of it until just now. Upon sending one of the maids for it, she found it had been opened.

"Mrs. Penn!" I exclaimed.

"It\'s quite true, she rejoined, almost vehemently, as she held out the bag. Do you remember seeing me put the letter in the bag, Miss Hereford? The letter I was too late to send away?"

"Yes; I saw you put it in and lock the bag."

"Just so. Well, while I talked with you afterwards, I presume I must have let the bag slip on the window-seat; and forgot it. This morning, not long ago, I missed it, looked everywhere, and it was only by tracing back to when I last remembered to have had it, that I thought of your room, and that I might inadvertently have left it there. I sent Emma to look; and when she brought me the bag, I found it had been opened."

"Opened!" I repeated.

"Opened," she fiercely affirmed. And then, perhaps our very calmness recalling her to herself, she went on in a quiet tone.

"I am sure you will make allowance for me if I appear a little excited. I do not seek to cast suspicion upon any one: but I cannot deny that I am both annoyed and angry. You would be so yourself, Mr. Chandos, did such a thing happen to you," she added, suddenly turning to him.

"Take a seat, and explain to me what it is that has happened," replied Mr. Chandos, handing her a chair. "I scarcely comprehend."

"Thank you, no," she said, rejecting the seat. "I cannot stay to sit down, I must return to Mrs. Chandos; it was she who recommended me to come and speak to Miss Hereford. Upon Emma\'s bringing me the reticule I unlocked it, suspecting nothing, and----"

"I thought you said it had been opened, Mrs. Penn?"

"It had been opened. You shall hear. The first thing I saw was my letter, and the read seal looked cracked across. I thought perhaps the bag had fallen fiercely to the ground; but upon my looking at it more attentively I saw it had been opened. See."

She put the envelope into Mr. Chandos\'s hand for examination. It had been opened with a penknife, cut underneath, and afterwards fastened down with gum. Of this there was no doubt; part of the letter had also been cut.

"This is very extraordinary," said Mr. Chandos, as he turned the envelope about. It was addressed to London, to a medical man.

"Yes, it is extraordinary, sir," said Mrs. Penn, with some slight temper, which I am sure he considered excusable. "I did. The note was a private note to the gentleman who has attended me for some years; I didn\'t write it for the perusal of the world. But that is not the chief question. There must be false keys in the house."

"Did you leave your key in the bag, Mrs. Penn?"

"No, sir. I had my keys in my pocket. The lock has not been hurt, therefore it can only have been opened with a false key."

Remembering my own boxes and Mr. Chandos\'s desk, I felt no doubt that false keys must be at hand. Mrs. Penn said she had not yet spoken to the servants, and Mr. Chandos nodded approval: he would wish to deal with it himself. For my part I had not seen the bag in my room, except in her possession, and did not notice whether she had carried it away or left it.

She quitted the parlour, taking the bag and note and envelope. Mr. Chandos called Hickens and desired that Emma should be sent to him. The girl arrived in some wonder. But she could tell nothing; except that she found the bag lying on the floor by the window-seat, and carried it at once to Mrs. Penn. Harriet was next questioned. She had seen the bag lying in the window-seat the previous evening, she said, when she put the room to rights after Miss Hereford went down to dinner, and left it there, drawing the curtains before it.

"Did you touch it?" asked Mr. Chandos.

"Yes, sir. I took it up in my hand, and thought what a pretty thing it was: I had never seen it before."

"Did you open it?"

"Open it? No, sir, that I did not. I think it was locked, for I saw there was a key-hole: at any rate, it was close shut. I did not keep it in my hands a moment, but put it down where I found it, and drew the curtains."

"Who else went into Miss Hereford\'s room last evening?"

"Why, sir, how can I tell?" returned Harriet, after a pause of surprise. "What I have to do in the room does not take five minutes, and I am not anigh it afterwards. Twenty folks might go in and out without my knowing of it."

That both the girls were innocent there could be no question. Then who was guilty? In undrawing the curtains that morning I must have pulled the bag off the window-seat, which caused me not to see it. Hill went into a fit of temper when she heard of the affair.

"I don\'t believe there\'s one of the maids would do such a thing, Mr. Harry. What should they want with other folk\'s letters? And where would they get gum from to stick them down?"

"There\'s some gum on my mantelpiece, Hill: I use it with my drawings," I said to her.

"Ah, well, gum or no gum, they\'d not cut open letters," was Hill\'s reply, given with obstinacy.

"There must be false keys in the house, Mr. Chandos," I began, as Hill went out.

"There\'s something worse than that--a spy," was his answer. "Though the one implies the other."

And I thought I could have put my hand upon her--Lizzy Dene. But it was only a doubt. I was not sure. And, being but a doubt, I did not consider I ought to speak.

Some days elapsed with nothing particular to record, and then some money was missed. Mr. Chandos and I were together as usual in the oak-parlour. Opening his desk, he called out rather sharply, and I looked up from my work.

"So! they have walked into the trap, have they!" he cried, searching here and there in it. "I thought so."

"What is it, Mr. Chandos?" I asked, and he presently turned to me, quitting the table.

"These matters have been puzzling me, Miss Hereford. Is it a petty thief that we have in the house, one to crib lace and such trifles; or is it a spy? I have thought it may be both: such a thing is not beyond the bounds of possibility. A person who took Mrs. Penn\'s lace would not be likely to take my memorandum-book: for that must have been done to pry into my private affairs, or those of the Chandos family: and a spy, aiming at higher game, would keep clear of petty thefts. The taking of Mrs. Penn\'s letter, I mean the breaking its seal, I do not understand: but, before that was done, I marked some money and put it in my desk; two sovereigns and two half-crowns. They are gone."

"You locked the desk afterwards?"

"Yes. Now I shall act decisively. Mrs. Penn has thought me very quiet over her loss, I daresay, but I have not seen my way at all clear. I do not, truth to say, see it now."

"In what way, sir?"

"I cannot reconcile the one kind of loss with the other. Unless we have two false inmates ............