"It all comes of that indiscriminate visiting, sir, that was allowed to Mademoiselle Chandos," she said, with bitter tears. "I told my sister ten times that Miladi Chandos was wrong to permit it. Ah! sir, we shall not ever get over the blow. Nothing of the kind has ever happened to us."
"Do not distress yourself," Mr. Chandos answered. "I can see that no shadow of blame rests with you. That lies with Emily and the De Mellissies: my sister's fortune is a great prize to a Frenchman."
What made me gather myself into a nook of the wall, and gaze upon Mr. Chandos, as he passed out in the dusk of the evening? Not the deep, mellow tones—not the sweet accent of voice in which his words were spoken. That they were all that, my ear told me; but something else had struck upon me—his face and form. Where had I seen him?
Somewhere, I felt certain. The contour of the pale face, with its fine and delicate features; something in the tall, slim figure, even in the manner of turning his head as he spoke: all seemed to touch on a chord of my memory. Where, where could I have seen Mr. Chandos?
The question was not solved, and time went steadily on again.
CHAPTER X.
AT MRS. PALER'S.
Nineteen years of age. Nineteen! For the last twelvemonth, since the completion of my education, I had helped in the school as one of the governesses. The Miss Barlieus, whose connexion was extensive amidst the English as well as the French, had undertaken the responsibility of "placing me out," as my trustees phrased it. When I was eighteen their task, as trustees, was over, and the annuity I had enjoyed ceased. Henceforth I had no friends in the world but the Miss Barlieus: and truly kind and good those ladies were to me.
I was attacked with an illness soon after my eighteenth birthday: not a severe one, but lasting tolerably long; and that had caused me to remain the additional twelvemonth, for which I received a slight salary. They liked me, and I liked them.
So I was to be a governess after all! The last descendant of the Herefords and the Keppe-Carews had no home in the world, no means of living, and must work for them. My pride rebelled against it now, as it never had when I was a child; and I made a resolution never to talk of my family. I was an orphan; I had no relatives living: that would be quite enough answer when asked about it. Keppe-Carew had again changed masters: a little lad of eight, whose dead father I had never seen, and who perhaps had never heard of me, was its owner now.
I had never heard a syllable of Mr. Edwin Barley since I left him, or of any of his household, or of the events that had taken place there. That George Heneage had never been traced, I knew; that Mr. Edwin Barley was still seeking after him, I was quite sure: the lapse of years could not abate the anger of a man like him. Mrs. Hemson was dead now, a twelvemonth past; so that I was entirely alone in the world. As to the will, it had not been found, as was to be supposed, or the money would have been mine. My growth in years, the passing from the little girl into the woman, and the new ties and interests of my foreign school life had in a degree obliterated those unhappy events, and I scarcely ever gave even a thought to the past.