The tears were falling down my face, lifted to his in its yearning for pity and forgiveness. Mr. Chandos bent towards me, a strange look of tenderness in his earnest eyes. I think he was going to lay his kind hand on my shoulder to assure me of his care, when at that moment some one passed the window, whom I took to be Edwin Barley. It was but the gardener—as I learned later—he had put on his coat to go home; a short, dark man walking past, and the dusk was deceptive. I thought Edwin Barley had come to take me there and then. For the minute I was certainly not in my proper senses: terror alone reigned. I laid hold of Mr. Chandos in hysterical excitement, clinging to him as one clings for dear life. "Oh, keep me, keep me! Do not let him take me! Mr. Chandos! Mr. Chandos! I know you are angry with me and despise me; but do not give me up to him!" Before I had done speaking he had me in his arms, holding me closely to his breast. We stood there in the shade of the dark room, heart beating wildly against heart. "I wish I could give myself the right to keep you from him, and from every other ill," he breathed. "Do you know, Anne, that I love you above all else in the world?" I—I made no answer, save that I did turn my face a little bit towards his; but I should have liked to remain where I was for ever. "But, my darling, it can only end here as it has begun; for I cannot marry. My brother, Sir Thomas, does not marry." I looked at him. He saw that I would have asked why. "Because we ought not: it would not be right. There are dark clouds hanging over Chandos: should they open, it would be to hurl down desolation and disgrace. How can either of us, he or I, think of exposing a wife to encounter this? Could I in honour do it?" "It might be happier for you, if this sorrow should arrive, to have one with you to soothe your cares and share them." "And there is one who would not shrink from it," he said, tenderly, the tears standing in his eyes. "Had I not seen that, Anne, I should have been as much knave as fool to confess to my own state of feeling. For some days past I have been thinking it might be better to speak; that I owed as much to you; to speak and have done with it. Before I knew my danger, love had stolen over me, and it was too late to guard against it. It has not been our fault: we were thrown together." He took some impassioned kisses from my face. I let him take them. I'm afraid I did not think whether it was right or wrong; I'm not sure that I cared which it was: I only know that I felt as one in a blissful dream. "I have been betrayed into this, Anne," he said, releasing me. "I ought to beg your pardon in all humility. It is not what I intended: though I might just tell you of my love, I never thought to give you tokens of it. Will you forgive me?"