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."