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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your domains!" retorted Mr. Edwin Barley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Since when have you felt frightened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know she was."

"And my aunt."

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

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

"Thomas Hereford? Of the --th?"

"Yes."

"And your mother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saw what done?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is Mrs. Hemson?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very beautiful."

"Are you anything like her?"

I could not help laughing. I like Selina!

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

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

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

"Who was Charlotte Delves?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Had he the look of a guilty man?"

"I think he had. Had he not been guilty, why should he not have come openly fo............