"Which was accidental. Shall I tell you how you can repay it all, Anne?"
His voice dropped to earnest seriousness; his eyes, a strangely-sad gravity seated in their depths, looked yearningly into mine.
"I wish you could, sir."
"Let this matter of your ghost be a perfect secret between you and me. One to be disclosed to no one."
"Certainly. I promise."
That some great reason prompted the request was unmistakeable: that there were certain interests attaching to this "ghost," whether it might walk out of doors or in, could but be apparent. A mysterious awe—pardon the words—pervaded the subject altogether; and had from the moment I first entered Chandos. How I wished he would take me into his confidence!—if it were only that I might show him that I would be true and faithful. But for the strange reticence imposed by love when once it takes possession of the soul, I might have boldly suggested this.
He leaned out of the window, inhaling the crisp air of the bright October morning. Courage at length came to me to say a word.
"Of course, sir, I do not fail to see that there are interests here that involve caution and care, though I cannot think how, or what they are. If you would entrust me with them—and I could help in any way—I should be glad. I would be so true."
"Ay, I am sure you would be. Latterly a vision has crossed me of a time—a possible future when it might be disclosed. But it is neither probable nor near. Indeed, it seems like a dream even to glance at it."
He had been looking at the far-off skies as he spoke, as though he were in a dream. The urn was brought in, and I went to the table to make the tea. Newspapers and letters arrived; he was buried in them during breakfast, and carried them afterwards to his own sitting-room.