And Mrs. Chattaway was told.
In the twilight of that same evening, when the skies were grey, and the trees in the lonely avenue were gloomy, there glided one beneath them with timid and cautious step. It was Mrs. Chattaway. A soft black shawl was thrown over her head and shoulders, and her gown was black; precautions rendering her less easy to be observed; and curious eyes might be about. She kept close to the trees as she stole along, ready to conceal herself amidst them if necessary.
And it was necessary. Surely there was a fatality clinging to the spot this evening, or Mr. Chattaway was haunting it in suspicion. One moment more, and he would have met his wife; but she heard the footsteps in time.
Her heart beating, her hands pressed upon her bosom, she waited in her hiding-place until he had gone past: waited until she believed him safe at home, and then she went on.
The shutters were closed at the lodge, and Mrs. Chattaway knocked softly at them. Alas! alas! I tell you there was some untoward fate in the ascendant. In the very act of doing so she was surprised by Cris running in at the gate.
"Goodness, mother! who was to know you in that guise? Why, what on earth are you trembling at?"
"You have startled me, Cris. I did not know you; I thought it some strange man running in upon me."
"What are you doing down here?"
Ah! what was she doing? What was she to say? what excuse to make?
"Poor old Canham has been so ailing, Cris. I must just step in to see him."