"My lady is sick in bed, sir," was Hickens's reply, his long, grave face giving ample token that he held belief in his own words.
"I am sorry to hear that. Is her illness serious?"
"Rather so, sir, I believe. Mrs. Hill fears it will be days before her ladyship is downstairs. She used to be subject to dreadful bilious attacks; I suppose it's one of them come back again."
The curate gave in a card, left a message, and departed. So it appeared that Hill was regaling the servants with the same story that she had told me. I could have spoken up, had I dared, and said there was nothing the matter with the health of Lady Chandos.
At six o'clock I went down to dinner, wondering who would preside. I have said that no ceremony was observed at Chandos, the everyday life was simple in the extreme. Since the departure of Emily de Mellissie we had sat in the oak-parlour, and all the meals were taken there. In fact, there was nobody to sit but myself. Lady Chandos had been mostly in the west wing; Mr. Chandos out, or in his study; Mrs. Chandos I never saw. The servants were placing the soup on the table. In another moment Mr. Chandos came in.
"A small company this evening, Miss Hereford; only you and I," he laughed, as we took our seats.
"Is Lady Chandos not sufficiently well to dine, sir?" I asked.
"She will eat something, no doubt. Hill takes care of her mistress. I met her carrying up the tray as I came down."
"I hope I am not the cause of your dining downstairs," I rejoined, the unpleasant thought striking me that it might be so. "Perhaps, but for me, you would take your dinner with Lady Chandos?"
"Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Were it not for you, I should sit here in a solitary state, and eat my lonely dinner with what appetite I might. And a solitary dinner is not good for the digestion, the doctors tell us. Did any one call while I was out, Hickens?"