"Mr. Chandos does not know. He received a note himself also last night, an anonymous one: insinuating that as you and I were the only strangers at Chandos, one of us must be the guilty person."
"What next?" demanded Mrs. Penn, angrily taking up the words. "Does Mr. Chandos suppose I stole my own lace and rifled my own letter? But it is only what I have anticipated."
"Mr. Chandos knows better. I say it was the anonymous letter that suggested the idea to him. I thought it seemed to point more to me than to you."
"Mr. Chandos would not admit the idea—would he?"
"Oh, no. I am quite easy on that score. Mr. Chandos knows he may trust me."
Whether Mrs. Penn thought this remark seemed to reflect on herself; to shift the imputation on her, failing me, I could not tell; certainly no such thing had been in my mind. Her eyes grew angry: she rose from the chair, and shook her finger in my face.
"Anne Hereford, I have warned you once not to allow yourself to grow attached to Mr. Chandos; I now warn you again. There are reasons—I may not speak them—why it could bring you nothing but misery. Misery! It is but a faint word for it: disgrace, shame; more than you in your inexperience can imagine of evil. Better that you fell in love with the lowest manservant attached to the place, than with Harry Chandos."
The tell-tale crimson arose in my cheeks, and I bent to pick one of the late rose-buds, entwining themselves about the trellis-work outside.
"Child! should harm ever come of this, recollect that I did my best to warn you. I am older than you by many years; had I ever possessed a daughter, she might have been of your age."
"Thank you, Mrs. Penn," I gently said; "there is no cause to fear for me."