I don't know what I stammered; something foolish and incoherent; and in tone, at any rate, full of my depth of love.
"No, it may not be," he answered, very decisively. "If a wavering crossed my mind before, when I thought you—forgive me, Anne—an unpretending governess-girl, as to whether I should lay the good and the ill before you and let you decide, it has passed now. The daughter of Colonel Hereford and of Miss Carew of Keppe-Carew, must not be trifled with. Good-night, child!"
The tears were streaming down my cheeks when I entered my bedroom. Had Mr. Chandos cast me off for ever? Since that unlucky remark of his, that my family was better than his own, I know not what sweet visions of rose-colour had been floating in my mind. I was of good descent, with a lady's breeding and education; surely, if he could forgive my want of money and my having lived as a dependent at Mrs. Paler's, there had been no very great barrier between me and a younger brother of Chandos!
Dwelling upon this, my tears blinding me, it startled me to see Mrs. Penn quietly seated in my room. She pointed to the door.
"Shut it and bolt it, Miss Hereford. I have been waiting to talk to you!"
I shut it, but did not slip the bolt. Where was the necessity? Nobody ever came into my room at night—Mrs. Penn excepted.
"Come and sit down, and tell me why you are crying!"
"I am not crying. I have no cause to cry," I resentfully answered, vexed beyond everything. "I thought of something as I came upstairs, which brought the tears into my eyes: we often laugh until we cry, you know."
"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Penn, "perhaps yours are tears of joy?"
"I should be so very much obliged if you could put off what you wish to say until the morning. You don't know how sleepy I am."