IN THE WOOD.
That Mr. Edwin Barley! My imagination had been setting the face down
for a robber's at least; and the thought flashed over me—How could
Selina have married him? Another thought came with it—Had he been the
intruder at the door?
"Who is that, Selina?" he asked, in a very strong, determined voice,
but not an unpleasing one.
"Anne Hereford. Fancy my making so stupid a mistake as to conclude it
was next Thursday the lawyer meant. And she has had to find her way
from Nettleby in the best way she could."
He looked at me with his black eyes, the blackest eyes I had ever seen.
Either they wore a warning expression, or I fancied so, and I took it
to mean I was not to say I saw him watching the house from the avenue.
No fear, after that, that I should speak of it.
"Did you walk from Nettleby, little one?"
"No, sir. I came in the omnibus to the gate."
"She has been asking me if you were very handsome and I told her to
wait and see," observed Selina, with a laugh, and somehow it grated on
my ears. He made no reply in words, but his brow contracted a little. I
noticed one thing—that he had very pretty teeth, white and even.
"How is it you are home before the others?" she resumed. "And where are
they lingering? Charlotte Delves says the dinner is spoiling."
"They cannot be far behind," was Mr. Edwin Barley's answer. "I'll go
and dress."
As he went out of the room we heard sounds of voices and laughter.
Selina opened the window, and I stood by her. The night had grown
clearer, the moon was bright. Three gentlemen, dressed something like
Mr. Edwin Barley, were approaching the house with game, guns, and dogs.
"Can you see them by this light, Anne?"
"I can see that two are young, and one looks old. He has grey hair."
"Not very old, not more than fifty—but he is so stout. It is the
parson, Mr. Martin."
"Do parsons go out shooting, Selina?"
"Only when they can get the chance," she laughed. "That young one is
Philip King, a ward of Mr. Edwin Barley's. He and I are not friends at
all, and I do what I can to vex him. He is terribly ill-tempered."
"Is he!"
"He fell in love with me at Easter, the silly boy! Fancy that! One
can't think it was in earnest, you know, but it really seemed like it.
I asked him if he would like his ears boxed, and Mr. Edwin Barley gave
us both a sharp talking-to, saying we ought to be sent to school
again."
"Both! But if it was not your fault?"
"Mr. Edwin Barley said it was my fault," she returned, with a laugh.
"Perhaps it was. He has not, as I believe, loved Philip King since."
"Who is the other one with them, Selina?" I asked, as the gentlemen
below disappeared.
"The other is George Heneage—a great friend of mine. Hush! he is coming
up."
George Heneage entered. A young man, tall, slender, active; with a
pale, pleasant face, and dark wavy hair. He had a merry smile, and I
thought I had never seen any one so nice-looking. Mrs. Edwin Barley
moved to the fire, and he took her hand in greeting.
"Well! And how have you been all day? Dull?"
It was the pleasantest voice! Quite a contrast after that of Mr. Edwin
Barley.
"Much any of you care whether I am dull or gay," she returned in
answer, half laughing, half pouting. "The partridges get all your time,
just now. I might be dead and buried before any of you came home to see
after me."
"We must shoot, you know, Selina. One of us, at any rate, came home a
couple of hours ago—Barley."
"Not to me. He has but just come in. You must be mistaken."
"Look here. I was away for a short while from the party, seeing after
the horse I lamed the other day, and when I got back, Barley had
vanished: they thought he had gone to look after me. Perhaps he had in
one sense, the great simpleton—Halloa! who's that?" He broke off,
seeing me for the first time, as I stood partly within the shade of the
window-curtain.
"It is little Anne Hereford. She has come a week before I expected her.
Anne, come forward, and let Mr. Heneage make love to you. It is a
pastime he favours."
He lifted me up by the waist, looked at me, and put me down again.
"A pretty little face to make love to. How old are you?"
"Eleven, sir."
"Eleven!" he echoed, in surprise. "I should have taken you for nine at
the very most. Eleven!"
"And eleventeen in sober sense," interposed Selina, in her lightest and
most careless manner. "I suppose children are so who never live with
brothers and sisters. You should hear her talk, George! I tell her, her
mamma and nurse have made an old woman of her."
"Dare I venture to your presence in this trim, Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
The speaker was the Rev. Mr. Martin, who came slowly in, pointing to
his attire.
"It is Barley's fault, and you must blame him, not me," he continued.
"Barley invited me to say grace at your table to-day, and then
disappeared, keeping us waiting for him until now, and giving me no
time to go home and make myself presentable."
"Never mind, Mr. Martin, there are worse misfortunes at sea," she said,
in that charmingly attractive manner that she could sometimes use. "I
have sat down with gentlemen in shooting-coats before to-day, and
enjoyed my dinner none the worse for it. Is that you, Miss Delves?"
Footsteps were passing the open door, and Miss Delves came in.
"Did you speak, Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
"Yes. Take this child, please: she must have some tea. Anne dear, ask
for anything to eat that you best fancy. You shall come up again after
dinner."
We went to a small parlour on the ground floor—Miss Delves said it was
her own sitting-room—and she rang the bell. The maid who had been
gossiping at the front door came in to answer it.
"Are you at tea still, Jemima?"
"Yes, Miss Delves."
"I thought so. There's no regularity unless I'm about everywhere
myself. Bring in a cup for Miss Hereford, and some bread and butter."
They both left the room. I supposed that Miss Delves was going to dine
presently, for a cloth was spread over one end of the table, with a
knife and silver forks, the cruet-stand and salt-cellar, glasses, and a
decanter of wine. Presently Jemima came back with a small tray, that
had my tea upon it. She seemed a free-and-easy sort of girl, sat down
in a chair, and began chattering. Another servant came in with a small
jar of preserves. They called her Sarah.
"Miss Delves has sent some jam for the young lady, if she'd like it. Or
will she take a slice of cold meat first, she says?"
"I'll have the jam, please."
"That's right, Miss," laughed Jemima. "Sweets is good."
"Arn't you coming to your tea, Jemima? There'll be a fuss if she comes
in and finds you have not begun it."
"Bother the tea! We are not obliged to swallow it down just at the
minute she pleases," was the answer of Jemima.
"I say," exclaimed the other suddenly, "what do you think I saw? Young
King——"
Jemima gave a warning shake of the head, and pointed to me. The
conversation was dropped to a whisper, in which I once caught the words
"that handsome George Heneage." Presently steps were heard approaching,
and the two maids disturbed themselves. Sarah caught up the plate of
bread and butter, and stood as if she were handing it to me, and Jemima
stirred the fire vigorously. It had been warm in the day, but the bit
of lighted fire in the grate looked pleasant in the autumn evening. The
footsteps passed on.
"How stupid you are, Sarah! startling one for nothing!" exclaimed
Jemima.
"I thought it was Charlotte Delves. It sounded just like her foot."
"She's in the kitchen, and won't come out of it till the dinner's gone
in. She's in one of her tempers to-day."
"Is Charlotte Delves the mistress?" I could not help asking.
Both the maids burst out laughing. "She would like to be, Miss; and she
is, too, in many things," answered Jemima. "When young madam came home
first——"
"Hush, Jemima! she may go and repeat it again."
Jemima looked at me. "No: she does not look like it. You won't go and
repeat in the drawing-room the nonsense we foolish servants talk, will
you, Miss Hereford?"
"Of course I will not. Mamma taught me never to carry tales; she said
it made mischief."
"And so it does, Miss," cried Jemima. "Your mamma was a nice lady, I'm
sure! Was she not Mrs. Edwin Barley's sister?"
Before I had time to answer, Charlotte Delves came in. We had not heard
her, and I thought she must have crept up on tiptoe. Sarah made her
escape. Jemima took up the jam-pot.
"What are you waiting for?" she demanded, with asperity.
"I came in to see if the young lady wanted anything, ma'am."
"When Miss Hereford wants anything, she will ring."
Jemima retired. I went on with may tea, and Miss Delves began asking me
questions about home and mamma. We were interrupted by a footman. He
was bringing the fish out of the dining-room, and he laid the dish down
on the table. Miss Delves turned her chair towards it, and began her
dinner. I found that this was her usual manner of dining, but I thought
it a curious one. The dishes, as they came out of the dining-room, were
placed before her, and she helped herself. Her other meals she took
when she pleased, Jemima generally waiting upon her. I did wonder who
she could be.
It seemed that I had to sit there a long while. I was then taken
upstairs by Jemima, and my hair brushed. It hung down in curls all
round, and Jemima pleased me by saying it was the loveliest brown hair
she ever saw. Then I was marshalled to the drawing-room. Jemima opened
the door quietly, and I went in, seen, I believe, by nobody. It was a
large room, of a three-cornered shape, quite full of bright furniture.
Selina's grand piano was in the angle.
Standing before the fire, talking, were the clergyman and Mr. Edwin
Barley. A stranger might have taken one for the other, for the
clergyman was in his sporting clothes, and Mr. Barley was all in black,
with a white neckcloth. On a distant sofa, apparently reading a
newspaper, sat Philip King; his features were handsome, but they had a
very cross, disagreeable expression. He held the newspaper nearly level
with his face, and I saw that his eyes, instead of being on it, were
watching the movements of Mrs. Edwin Barley. She was at the piano, not
so much singing or playing, as trying scraps of songs and pieces; Mr.
Heneage standing by and talking to her. I went quietly round by the
chairs at the back, and sat down on the low footstool at the corner of
the hearth. The clergyman saw me and smiled. Mr. Barley did not; he
stood with his back to me. He also seemed to be watching the piano, or
those at it, while he spoke in a low, confidential tone with the
clergyman.
"I disagree with you entirely, Barley," Mr. Martin was saying. "Rely
upon it, he will be all the better and happier for following a
profession. Why! at Easter he made up his mind to read for the Bar!"
"Young men are changeable as the wind, especially those whom fortune
has placed at ease in the world," replied Mr. Barley. "Philip was
red-hot for the Bar at Easter, as you observe; but something appears to
have set him against it now."
"You, as his guardian and trustee, should urge him to take it up; or,
if not that, something else. A life of idleness plays the very ruin
with some natures; and it strikes me that Philip King has no great
resources within him to counteract the mischief of non-occupation. What
is the amount of his property?" resumed Mr. Martin, after a pause.
"About eighteen hundred pounds a year the estate brings in."
"Nonsense! I thought it was only ten or twelve."
"Eighteen, full. Reginald's was a long minority, you know."
"Well, if it brought in eight-and-twenty, I should still say give him a
profession. Let him have some legitimate work; occupy his hands and his
head, and they won't get into mischief. That's sound advice, mind,
Barley."
"Quite sound," rejoined Mr. Barley; but there was a tone in his voice
throughout that to me seemed to tell either of want of sincerity or
else of a knowledge that to urge a profession on Philip King would be
wrong and useless. At this period of my life people used to reproach me
with taking up prejudices, likes, and dislikes; as I grew older, I knew
that God had gifted me in an eminent degree with the faculty of reading
human countenances and human tones.
"I have no power to force a profession upon him," resumed Mr. Edwin
Barley; "and I should not exercise it if I had. Shall I tell you why?"
"Well?"
"I don't think his lungs are sound. In my opinion, he is likely to go
off as his brother did."
"Of consumption!" hastily muttered the clergyman: and Mr. Edwin Barley
nodded.
"Therefore, why urge him to fag at acquiring a profession that he may
not live to exercise?" continued Mr. Barley. "He looks anything but
well; he is nothing like as robust as he was at Easter."
Mr. Martin turned his head and attentively scanned the face of Philip
King. "I don't see anything the matter with him, Barley, except that he
looks uncommonly cross. I hope you are mistaken."
"I hope I am. I saw a whole row of medicine phials in his room
yesterday: when I inquired what they did there, he told me they
contained steel medicine—tonics—the physician at Oxford had ordered
them. Did you ever notice him at dinner—what he eats?"
"Not particularly."
"Do so, then, on the next opportunity. He takes scarcely anything. The
commencement of Reginald's malady was loss of appetite: the doctors
prescribed tonics for him. But they did not succeed in saving him."
Once more Mr. Martin turned his eyes on Philip King. "How old was
Reginald King when he died?"
"Twenty-three. Three years older than Philip is now."
"Well, poor fellow, I hope he will outlive his weakness, whatever may
cause it, and get strong again. That money of his would be a nice
windfall for somebody to drop into," added the clergyman, after a
pause. "Who is heir-at-law?"
"I am."
"You!"
"Of course I am," was the quiet reply of Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Nurse him up, nurse him up, then," said the clergyman, jokingly.
"Lest, if anything did happen, the world should say you had not done
your best to prevent it; for you know you are a dear lover of money,
Barley."
There may have been a great deal more said, but I did not hear. My head
had sought the wall for its resting-place, and sleep stole over me.
What I felt most glad of, the next morning, was to get my purse. There
were twenty-seven shillings in it; and old Betty had caused it to be
put in one of the boxes, vexing me. "People in the train might rob me
of it," she said.
Jemima waited on me at dressing, and I had breakfast in Miss Delves's
parlour. Afterwards I went up to Mrs. Edwin Barley in the drawing-room.
She was in mourning, deep as mine.
"I had been tempted to put it off for a cool dress yesterday evening,"
she said to me. "What with the dinner, and the fire they _will_ have,
though I am sure it is not weather for it, I feel melted in black. The
fire is kept large to please Philip King. So Miss Delves informed me
when I remonstrated against it the other day. He must be of a chilly
nature."
Remembering what I had heard said the previous night, I thought he
might be. But the words had afforded the opportunity for a question
that I was longing, in my curiosity, to put.
"Selina, who is Miss Delves? Is she a lady or a servant?"
"You had better not call her a servant, Anne; she would never forgive
it," answered Selina, with a laugh. "She is a relative of Mr. Edwin
Barley's."
"Then, why does she not sit with you, and dine at table?"
"Because I do not choose that she shall sit with me, and dine at
table," was the resentful, haughty retort; and I could see that there
had been some past unpleasantness in regard to Miss Delves. "When Mr.
Edwin Barley's mother died, who used to live with him, Charlotte Delves
came here as mistress of the house. That was all very well so long as
there was no legitimate mistress, but ages went on, and I came to it.
She assumed a great deal; I found she was planted down at table with
us, and made herself my companion in the drawing-room at will. I did
not like it; and one day I told my husband so in her presence. I said
that I must be the sole mistress in my own house, and quitted the room,
leaving them to settle it. Since then she has taken the parlour for her
sitting-room, and looks to the household, as she did before. In short,
Miss Delves is housekeeper. I have no objection to that; it saves me
trouble, and I know nothing of domestic management. Now and then I
invite her to take tea with us, or to a drive with me in the pony
carriage, and we are vastly polite to each other always."
"But if you do not like her——"
"Like her!" interrupted Selina. "My dear child, we hate each other like
poison. It was not in human nature, you know, for her not to feel my
entrance to the house as a _wrong_, displacing her from her high post,
and from the influence she had contrived to acquire over Mr. Edwin
Barley. They were as intimate as brother and sister; and I believe he
is the only living being she cares for in the whole world. When I took
a high tone with her, it exasperated her all the more against me,
there's no doubt of it; and she repays it by carrying petty tales of me
to Mr. Edwin Barley."
"And whose part did he take, Selina!"
"MINE, of course—always?" she returned, with a forcible emphasis on the
first word. "But it has never been open warfare between me and Miss
Delves, Anne; you must understand that. Should anything of the sort
supervene, she would have to quit the house. A bitter pill that would
be, for she has no money, and would have to go out as housekeeper in
reality, or something of the kind. My occupation would be gone then."
"What occupation?"
"The saying and doing all sorts of wild things to make her think ill of
me. She goes and whispers them to Mr. Edwin Barley. He listens to her—I
know he does, and that provokes me. Well, little pet, what are those
honest brown eyes of yours longing to say?"
"Why did you marry him, Selina?"
"People say for money, Anne. I say it was fate."
"He persuaded you, perhaps?"
"He did. Persuaded, pressed, worried me. He was two years talking me
into it. Better, perhaps, that he had given his great love elsewhere!
Better for him, possibly, that he had married Charlotte Delves!"
"But did he want to marry Charlotte Delves?"
"Never. I don't believe that even the thought ever entered his head.
The servants say she used to hope it; but they rattle nonsense at
random. Edwin Barley never cared but for two things in the world:
myself and money."
"Money?"
"Money, Anne. Pretty little pieces of gold and silver; new, crisp
bank-notes; yellow old deeds of parchment, representing houses and
lands. He cares for money almost as much as for me; and he'll care for
it more than for me in time. Who's this?"
It was Philip King. He came in, looking more cross, if possible, than
he did the previous night. His face shone out sickly, too, in the
bright morning sun. Selina spoke, but did not offer her hand.
"Good morning, Mr. King; I hope you feel better to-day. You did not get
down to breakfast, I understand. Neither did I?"
"I did get down to breakfast," he answered, speaking as if something
had very much put him out. "I took it with Mr. Edwin Barley in his
study."
"Leaving George Heneage to breakfast alone. You two polite men! Had I
known that, I would have come down and breakfasted with him."
That she said this in a spirit of mischief, in a manner most especially
calculated to provoke him, I saw by the saucy look that shot from her
bright blue eyes.
"I think you and Heneage breakfast together quite often enough as it
is, Mrs. Edwin Barley."
"You do? Then, if I were you, sir, I would have the good manners to
keep such thoughts to myself; or tell them to Mr. Edwin Barley, if you
like. He might offer you a premium for them—who knows?"
Philip King was getting into an angry heat.
"I hope you have tolerably strong shoulders," she resumed, as if struck
with some sudden thought.
"Why so?"
"George Heneage intends to try his cane upon them on the next
convenient day."
His lips turned white.
"Mrs. Barley, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. You have taken to peep and pry after me—whether set
on by any one, or from some worthy motive of your own, you best know.
It will not serve you, Philip King. If there be one thing more
detestable than another, it is that of spying. I happened to mention
this new pastime of yours before Mr. Heneage, and he observed that he
had a cane somewhere. That's all."
The intense aggravation with which she said it was enough to rouse the
ire of one less excitable than Philip King. He was breaking out in
abuse of Mr. Heneage, when the latter happened to come in. A few
menacing words, a dark look or two from either side, and then came the
quarrel.
A quarrel that terrified me. I ran out of the room; I ran back again; I
don't know what I did. Mrs. Edwin Barley seemed nearly as excited as
they were: it was not the first time I had seen her in a passion. She
called out (taking the words from the old ballad, "Lord Thomas"), that
she cared more for the little finger of George Heneage than for the
whole body of ill-conditioned Philip King. I knew it was only one of
her wild sayings: when in a passion she did not mind what she said, or
whom she offended. I knew that this present quarrel was altogether
Selina's fault—that her love of provocation had brought it on. Mr.
Edwin Barley had gone over to his brother's; and it was well, perhaps,
that it was so.
Jemima appeared on the stairs, carrying up a pail—there was no back
staircase to the house. "What is the matter, Miss Hereford?" she asked.
"Goodness me! how you are trembling!"
"They are quarrelling in there—Mr. Heneage and Mr. King. I am afraid
they will fight."
"Oh, it has come to that, has it?" said Jemima, carelessly. "I thought
it would. Never mind them, Miss Hereford; they'll not hurt you."
She tripped upstairs with the pail, as if a quarrel were the most
natural event in the world, and I looked into the room again. Mr.
Heneage held Philip King by the collar of the coat.
"Mark me!" he was saying; "if I catch you dodging my movements again,
if I hear of your being insolent to this lady, I'll shoot you with as
little compunction as I would a partridge. There!"
"What is Mrs. Edwin Barley to you, that you should interfere?" retorted
Philip King, his voice raised to a shriek. "And she! Why does she set
herself to provoke me every hour of my life?"
"I interfere of right: by my long friendship with her, and by the
respect I bear for her mother's memory. Now you know."
Mr. Heneage gave a shake to the collar as he spoke, and I ran up to my
room, there to sob out my fit of terror. My heart was beating, my
breath catching itself in gasps. In my own peaceful home I had never
seen or heard the faintest shadow of a quarrel.
By-and-by Jemima came in search of me. Mrs. Edwin Barley was waiting
for me to go out in the pony carriage. I washed my face and my red
eyes, was dressed, and went down. At the door stood a low open
basket-chaise, large and wide, drawn by a pony. Mrs. Edwin Barley was
already in it, and Mr. Heneage stood waiting for me. He drove, and I
sat on a stool at their feet. We went through green lanes, and over a
pleasant common. Not a word was said about the recent quarrel; but part
of the time they spoke together in an undertone, and I did not try to
hear. We were away about two hours.
"You can run about the grounds until your dinner's ready, if you like,
Anne," Mrs. Barley said to me when we alighted. "I daresay you feel
cramped, sitting so long on that low seat."
She went in with Mr. Heneage, the footman saying that some ladies were
waiting. I ran away amidst the trees, and presently lost myself. As I
stood, wondering which way to take, Mr. Edwin Barley and Philip King
came through, arm-in-arm, on their way home, talking together eagerly.
I thought Philip King was telling about the quarrel.
It was no doubt unfortunate that my acquaintance with Mr. Edwin Barley
should have begun with a fright. I was a most impressionable child, and
_could not_ get over that first fear. Every time I met him, my heart,
as the saying runs, leaped into my mouth. He saw me and spoke.
"So you have got back, Anne Hereford?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, my lips feeling as if they were glued together.
"Where's Mrs. Barley?"
"She is gone indoors, sir."
"And George Heneage. Where's he?"
"He went in also, sir. John said some visitors were waiting to see Mrs.
Barley."
And to that he made no rejoinder, but went on with Philip King.
Nothing more occurred that day to disturb the peace of the house. A
gentleman, who called in the afternoon, was invited to dine, and
stayed. Mrs. Edwin Barley rang for me as soon as she went up to the
drawing-room. I thought how lovely she looked in her black net dress,
and with the silver ornaments on her neck and arms.
"What did you think of Mr. Philip King's temper this morning, Anne?"
she asked, as she stood near the fire and sipped the cup of coffee that
John had brought in.
"Oh, Selina! I never was so alarmed before."
"You little goose! But it was a specimen, was it not, of gentlemanly
bearing?"
"I think—I mean I thought—that it was not Mr. King who was in fault," I
said; not, however, liking to say it.
"You thought it was George Heneage, I suppose. Ah! but you don't know
all, Anne; the scenes behind the curtain are hidden to you. Philip King
has wanted a chastisement this fortnight past; and he got it. Unless he
alters his policy, he will get one of a different nature. Mr. Heneage
will as surely cane him as that I stand here."
"Why do you like Mr. Heneage so much, Selina?"
"I like him better than anybody I know, Anne. Not with the sort of
liking, however, that Mr. Philip King would insinuate, the worthy
youth! Though it is great fun," she added, with a merry laugh, "to let
the young gentleman think I do. I have known George Heneage a long
while: he used to visit at Keppe-Carew, and be as one of ourselves. I
could not like a brother, if I had one, more than I do George Heneage.
And Mr. Philip King, and his ally, Charlotte Delves, tell tales of me
to my husband! It is as good as a comedy."
A comedy! If she could but have foreseen the comedy's ending!
On the following morning, Saturday, they all went out shooting again.
Mrs. Edwin Barley had visitors in the forenoon, and afterwards she
drove over to Hallam in the pony carriage, with the little boy-groom
Tom, not taking me. I was anywhere—with Charlotte Delves; with Jemima;
reading a fairy-tale I found; playing "Poor Mary Anne" on the piano. As
it grew towards dusk, and nobody came home, I went strolling down the
avenue, and met the pony carriage. Only Tom was in it.
"Where is Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
"She is coming on, Miss, with Mr. Heneage. He came up to the lodge-gate
just as we got back."
I went to the end of the avenue, but did not see her. The woman at the
lodge said they had taken the path on the left, which would equally
bring them to the house, though by a greater round. I ran along it, and
came to the pretty summer-house that stood where the ornamental grounds
were railed off from the pasture at the back and the wood beyond. At
the foot of the summer-house steps my aunt stood, straining her eyes on
a letter, in the fading light; George Heneage was looking over her
shoulder, a gun in his hand.
"You see what they say," he observed. "Rather peremptory, is it not?"
"George, you must go by the first train that starts from Nettleby," she
returned. "You should not lose a minute; the pony carriage will take
you. Is that you, Anne?"
"I would give something to know what's up, and why I am called for in
this fashion," was his rejoinder, spoken angrily. "They might let me
alone until the term I was invited for here is at an end."
Mrs. Edwin Barley laughed. "Perhaps our friend, Philip King, has
favoured Heneage Grange with a communication, telling of your fancied
misdoings."
No doubt she spoke it lightly, neither believing her own words nor
heeding the fashion of them. But George Heneage took them seriously;
and it unfortunately happened that she ran up the steps at the same
moment. A stir was heard in the summer-house. Mr. Heneage dashed in in
time to see Philip King escaping by the opposite door.
The notion that he had been "spying" was, of course, taken up by Mr.
Heneage. With a passionate word, he was speeding after him; but Mrs.
Edwin Barley caught his arm.
"George, you shall not go. There might be murder done between you."
"I'll pay him off; I'll make him remember it! Pray release me. I beg
your pardon, Selina."
For he had flung her hand away with rather too much force, in his storm
of passion; and was crashing through the opposite door, and down the
steps, in pursuit of Philip King. Both of them made straight for the
wood; but Philip King had a good start, and nothing in his hand; George
Heneage had his gun. Selina alluded to it.
"I hope it is not loaded! Flying along with that speed, he might strike
it against a tree, and be shot before he knows it. Anne, look here! You
are fleeter than I. Run you crossways over that side grass to the
corner entrance; it will take you to a path in the wood where you will
just meet them. Tell Mr. Heneage from me, that I _command_ him to come
back, and to let Philip King alone. I command it, in his mother's
name."
I did not dare to refuse, and yet scarcely dared to go. I ran along, my
heart beating. Arrived at the entrance indicated I plunged in, and went
on down many turns and windings amidst the trees. They were not very
thick, and were intersected by narrow paths. But no one could I see.
And now arrived a small calamity. I had lost my way. How to trace an
exit from the wood I knew not, and felt really frightened. Down I sat
on an old stump, and cried. What if I should have to stay there until
morning!
Not so. A slight noise made me look up. Who should be standing near,
his back against a tree, smoking a cigar and smiling at me, but Philip
King.
"What is the grief, Miss Anne? Have you met a wolf?"
"I can't find my way out, sir."
"Oh, I'll soon show you that. We are almost close to the south border.
You——"
He stopped suddenly, turned his head, and looked attentively in a
direction to the left. At that moment there came a report, something
seemed to whizz through the air, and strike Philip King. He leaped up,
and then fell to the ground with a scream. This was followed so
instantly that it seemed to be part and parcel of the scream, by a
distant exclamation of dismay or of warning. From whom did it come?
Though not perfectly understanding what had occurred, or that Philip
King had received a fatal shot, I screamed also, and fell on my knees;
not fainting, but with a sick, horrible sensation of fear, such as
perhaps no child ever before experienced. And the next thing I saw was
Mr. Edwin Barley, coming towards us with his gun, not quite from the
same direction as the shot, but very near it. I had been thinking that
George Heneage must have done it, but another question arose now to my
terrified heart: Could it have been Mr. Edwin Barley?
"Philip, what is it?" he asked, as he came up. "Has any one fired at
you?"
"George Heneage," was the faint rejoinder. "I saw him. He stood there."
With a motion of the eyes, rather than with aught else, poor Philip
King pointed to the left, and Mr. Edwin Barley turned and looked,
laying his gun against a tree. Nothing was to be seen.
"Are you sure, Philip?"
"I tell it you with my dying lips. I saw him."
Not another word. Mr. Edwin Barley raised his head, but the face had
grown still, and had an awful shade upon it—the same shade that mamma's
first wore after she was dead. Mr. Barley put the head gently down, and
stood looking at him. All in a moment he caught sight of me, and I
think it startled him.
"Are _you_ there, you little imp?"
But the word, ugly though it sounds, was spoken in rough surprise, not
in unkindness. I cried and shook, too terrified to give any answer. Mr.
Barley stood up before Philip King, so that I no longer saw him.
"What were you doing in the wood?"
"I lost my way, and could not get out sir," I sobbed, trembling lest he
should press for further details. "That gentleman saw me, and was
saying he would show me the way out, when he fell."
"Had he been here long?"
"I don't know. I was crying a good while, and not looking up. It was
only a minute ago that I saw him standing there."
"Did you see Mr. Heneage fire?"
"Oh no, sir. I did not see Mr. Heneage at all."
He took my hand, walked with me a few steps, and showed me a path that
was rather wider than the others. "Go straight down here until you come
to a cross-path, running right and left: it is not far. Take the one to
the right, and it will bring you out in front of the house. Do you
understand, little one?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, though, in truth, too agitated to understand
distinctly, and only anxious to get away from him. Suppose he should
shoot me! was running through my foolish thoughts.
"Make speed to the house, then," he resumed, "and see Charlotte Delves.
Tell her what has occurred: that Philip King has been shot, and that
she must send help to convey him home. She must also send at once for
the doctor, and for the police. Can you remember all that?"
"Oh yes, sir. Is he much hurt?"
"He is dead, child. Now be as quick as you can. Do not tell your aunt
what has happened: it would alarm her."
I sped along quicker than any child ever sped before, and soon came to
the cross-path. But there I made a mistake: I went blindly on to the
left, instead of to the right, and I came suddenly upon Mr. Heneage. He
was standing quite still, leaning on his gun, his finger on his lip to
impose silence and caution on me, and his face looked as I had never
seen it look before, white as death.
"Whose voice was that I heard talking to you?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Mr. Edwin Barley's. Oh, sir, don't stop me; Mr. King is dead!"
"Dead! Mr. King dead?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Edwin Barley says so, and I am on my way to the house to
tell Miss Delves to send for the police. Mr. Heneage, did you do it?"
"I! You silly child!" he returned, in an accent of rebuke. "What in the
world put that in your head? I have been looking for Philip
King—waiting here in the hope that he might pass. There, go along,
child, and don't tremble so. That way: you are coming from the house,
this."
Back I went, my fears increasing. To an imaginative, excitable, and
timid nature, such as mine, all this was simply terrible. I did gain
the house, but only to rush into the arms of Jemima, who happened to be
in the hall, and fall into a fit of hysterical, nervous, sobbing cries,
clinging to her tightly, as if I could never let her go again.
A pretty messenger, truly, in time of need!