Anne Hereford: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

I sat down with my great weight of happiness. Oh, the change that had passed over me! He was not married; he was true and honourable, and he loved me! Hickens came in to remove the wine, and I chattered to him like a merry schoolgirl. Everything else went out of my head, even the letter I held, still unopened; and when I should have thought of it I cannot say, but that some time later I heard the voice of Mrs. Penn in the hall, speaking in covert tones.

It came to my memory then fast enough. Was she going to steal out, as she had previously essayed to do? I went to the door and opened it about an inch. Lizzy Dene stood there.

"How early you are home!" Mrs. Penn was saying.

"Thanks to Madam Hill!" grumbled Lizzy. "She wouldn't give me leave to go unless I'd be in by seven, or a bit later: with illness in the house, she said, there was no knowing what might be wanted."

"Did you deliver the letter?" resumed Mrs. Penn, in the faintest possible whisper.

"Yes, ma'am," was the ready answer. "A young man came to the door, and I asked if Mr. Barley was at home, and he said, 'Yes, all alone,' so I gave him the note, and he took it in."

"Thank you, Lizzy," answered Mrs. Penn, complacently. "There's the five shillings I promised you."

"Many thanks all the same to you, ma'am, but I'd rather not take it," replied Lizzy, to my great astonishment, and no doubt to Mrs. Penn's. "I'm well paid here, and I don't care to be rewarded for any little extra service. It's all in the way of the day's work."

They parted, Mrs. Penn going up the stairs again. But a startling doubt had come over me at Lizzy Dene's words: could I have taken the wrong letter from the basket? I hastened back to the light and drew it forth. No, it was all right: it was directed to Mr. Edwin Barley. What could Lizzy Dene mean by saying she had delivered it? I wondered, as I tore it open.

"I am overwhelmed with astonishment. I was coming round to your house, in spite of your prohibition, to tell you what I have discovered, but was prevented by Mrs. Chandos. He is here! I am as certain of it as that I am writing these words: and it sets clear the mystery of that closely-guarded west wing, which has been as a closed book to me. Anne Hereford went surreptitiously in there just now, and saw what she describes as a tall, emaciated object, reclining in an invalid chair, whose face bore a striking resemblance to that of Harry Chandos. There can be no doubt that it is he, not the slightest in the world; you can therefore take immediate steps, if you choose, to have him apprehended. My part is now over.