VERY ILL.
He who first entered the room was a gentleman of middle age and size.
His complexion was healthy and ruddy; his short dark hair, sprinkled
with grey, was combed down upon the forehead: his countenance was
good-natured and simple. This was Mr. Barley of the Oaks. Not the least
resemblance did he bear to his brother. Following him was one in an
official dress, who was probably superior to a common policeman, for
his manners were good, and Mr. Barley called him "Sir." It was not the
same who had been in the hall.
"Oh, this—this must be the little girl," observed Mr. Barley. "Are you
Mrs. Edwin's niece, my dear—Miss Hereford?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Do you know where she is?"
"In her bedroom, I think, sir."
It had transpired that a quarrel had taken place the previous Friday
between Mr. Heneage and Philip King; and the officer had now been in
the kitchen to question Jemima. Jemima disclaimed all knowledge of the
affair, beyond the fact that she had heard of it from little Miss
Hereford, whom she saw on the stairs, crying and frightened. He had now
come to question me.
"Now, my little maid, try and recollect," said the officer, drawing me
to him. "What did they quarrel about?"
"I don't know, sir," I answered. And I spoke the literal truth, for I
had not understood at the time.
"Can you not recollect?"
"I can recollect," I said, looking at him, and feeling that I did not
shrink from him, though he was a policeman. "Mr. King seemed to have
done something wrong, for Mr. Heneage was angry with him, and called
him a spy; but I did not know what it was that he had done. I was too
frightened to listen; I ran out of the room."
"Then you did not hear what the quarrel was about?"
"I did not understand, sir. Except that they said that Mr. King was
mean, and a spy."
"They!" he repeated, catching me up quickly; "who else was in the
room?"
"My Aunt Selina."
"Then she took Mr. Heneage's part?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did the quarrel end? Amicably, or in evil feeling?"
"I don't know, sir. I went away, and stayed in my bedroom."
"My sister-in-law, Mrs. Edwin, may be able to tell you more about it,
as she was present," interposed Mr. Barley.
"I dare say she can," was the officer's reply. "It seems a curious
thing altogether—that two gentlemen should be visiting at a house, and
one should shoot the other. How long had they been staying here?"
"Let's see," said Mr. Barley, rubbing his forefinger upon his forehead.
"It must be a month, I fancy, sir, since they came. Heneage was here
first: some days before Philip."
"Were they acquainted previously?"
"I—think—not," said Mr. Barley, speaking with hesitation. "Heneage was
here on a short visit in the middle of the summer, but not Philip:
whereas Philip was here at Easter, and the other was not. No, sir, I
believe they were not acquainted before, but my brother can tell you."
"Who is this Mr. Heneage?"
"Don't you know? He is the son of the member for Wexborough. Oh, he is
of very good family—very. A sad blow it will be for them, if things
turn out as black as they look. Will he get clear off, think you?"
"You may depend upon it, he would not have got off far, but for this
confounded fog that has come on," warmly replied the police-officer.
"We shall have him to-morrow, no doubt."
"I never hardly saw such a fog at this time of year," observed Mr.
Barley. "I couldn't see a yard before me as I came along. Upon my word,
it almost seems as if it had come on purpose to screen him."
"Was he a pleasant man, this Heneage?"
"One of the nicest fellows you ever met, sir," was Mr. Barley's
impulsive reply. "The last week or two Edwin seems to have taken some
spite against him; I don't know what was up between them, for my part:
but I liked Heneage, what I saw of him, and thought him an uncommon
good fellow. Mrs. Edwin Barley has known him a long while; my brother
only recently. They all met in London last spring."
"Heneage derives no benefit in any way, by property or otherwise, from
his death?" observed the policeman, speaking half as a question, half
as a soliloquy.
"It's not likely, sir. The only person to benefit is my brother. He
comes in for it all."
The officer raised his eyes. "Your brother comes in for young King's
fortune, Mr. Barley?"
"Yes, he does. And I'll be bound he never gave a thought to the
inheriting of it. How should he, from a young and hearty lad like
Philip? Edwin has croaked over Philip's health of late, said he was
consumptive, and going the way of his brother Reginald; but I saw
nothing amiss with Philip."
"May I ask why you don't inherit, Mr. Barley, being the eldest
brother?"
"He was no blood relation to me. My father married twice, I was the son
of the first wife; Edwin of the second; and Philip King's father and
Edwin's mother were cousins. Philip had no male relative living but my
brother, therefore he comes in for the estate."
Mrs. Edwin Barley appeared at the door, and paused there, as if
listening to the conclusion of the last sentence. Mr. Barley turned and
saw her, and she came forward. She had twisted up her damp hair, and
thrown on a shawl of white China crape. Her eyes were brilliant, her
cheeks carmine—beautiful she looked altogether.
The officer questioned her as to the cause of the quarrel which she had
been present at, but she would give him no satisfactory answer. She
"could not remember;" "Philip King was in the wrong, she knew that;"
"the officer must excuse her talking, for her head ached, and her brain
felt confused." Such was the substance—all, in fact, that he could get
from her. He bowed and withdrew, and Mr. Barley followed him
downstairs, Selina bolting the door after them.
"Now, Anne, I must have a little conversation with you," she said,
drawing me to her as she sat on the low ottoman. And I could see that
she shivered still. She proceeded to question me of what had occurred
after I left her at the summer-house. I told her; and had got to where
Philip King was shot, when she interrupted.
"Good heavens, child! you _saw_ him shot?"
"I heard the noise, and saw him fall. It seemed to come from the spot
where he had been gazing."
"Did you see who did it?" she asked, scarcely above her breath.
"No!"
"Then you saw no one about but Philip King?"
"I saw Mr. Edwin Barley. He was near the spot from whence the shot
seemed to come, looking through the trees and standing still, as if he
wondered what could be amiss. For, oh, Selina! Philip King's scream was
dreadful, and must have been heard a long way."
My aunt caught hold of my arm in a sort of fright. "Anne! what do you
say? You saw _Edwin Barley_ at that spot! Not Mr. Heneage?"
"I did not see Mr. Heneage at all then. I saw only Mr. Edwin Barley. He
came up to Philip King, asking what was the matter."
"Had he his gun with him—Edwin Barley?"
"Yes, he was carrying it."
She dropped my arm, and sat quite still, shrinking as if some blow had
struck her. Two or three minutes passed before she spoke again.
"Go on, Anne. What next? Tell me all that passed, for I suppose you
heard." And I related what I knew, word for word.
"You have not told me all, Anne."
"Yes, I have."
"Did not Philip King say that Mr. Heneage had raised his gun, aimed at
him, and fired?—that he saw him do it?"
"He did not, aunt. He only said what I have told you."
"Lie the first!" she exclaimed, lifting her hand and letting it fall
passionately. "Then you never saw Mr. Heneage?"
"I saw him later." And I went on to tell her of the meeting him through
my taking the wrong turning. I told her all: how he looked like one in
mortal fright; what he said; and of my asking him whether he had done
it.
"Well?" she feverishly interrupted. "Well?"
"He quite denied it," I answered, repeating to her exactly the words
Mr. Heneage had said.
"You say he looked scared—confused?"
"Yes, very much so."
"And Mr. Edwin Barley—did he?"
"Not at all. He looked just as he always looks. He seemed to be
surprised, and very sorry; his voice, when he spoke to Philip King, was
kinder than I ever heard it."
Another pause. She seemed to be thinking.
"I can hardly understand where it was you saw George Heneage, Anne: you
must show me, to-morrow. Was it on the same side from which the shot
came?"
"Yes; I think near to the place. Or how could he have heard Mr. Barley
speak to me?"
"How long had you been in the wood when the shot was fired?"
"About ten minutes or a quarter of an hour."
"Little girls compute time differently from grown people, Anne. A few
minutes might seem like a quarter of an hour to you."
"Mamma taught me how differently time appears to pass, according to
what we may be doing, Aunt Selina. That when we are pleasantly
occupied, it seems to fly; and when we are impatient for it to go on,
or in any suspense or fear, it does not seem to move. I think I have
learnt to be pretty exact, and I do believe that I was in the wood
nearly a quarter of an hour. I was running about for some time, looking
for Mr. Heneage, as you told me, before I found I had lost myself. And
then I was some minutes getting over the fright. I had said my prayers,
and——"
"You had—WHAT?"
"I was much alarmed; I thought I might have to stay in the wood until
morning, and I could only pray to God to protect me: I knew that harm
would not come to me then. It must have been a quarter of an hour in
all: so you see Mr. Heneage did not do it in the heat of passion, in
running after him: he must have done it deliberately."
"I don't care," she repeated to herself, in a sort of defiant voice; "I
know George Heneage did not wilfully shoot Philip King. If he did do
it, it was an accident; but I don't believe he did."
"If he did not, why did he hide in the wood, and look as if he had done
something wrong, Selina? Why did he not go boldly up, and see what was
amiss with Philip King, as Mr. Edwin Barley did?"
"There is no accounting for what people do in these moments of
confusion and terror: some act in one way, some in another," she said,
slowly. "Anne, I don't like to speak out openly to you—what I fear and
what I don't fear. It was imperative upon George Heneage to hasten
home—and he may not have believed that Philip King was really dead."
"But, Selina——"
"Go! go! lie down there," she said, drawing me to the distant sofa, and
pushing me on it, with the pillow over my head. "You are asleep, mind!
He might think I had been tutoring you."
So sudden and unexpected was the movement, I could only obey, and lie
still. Selina unbolted the door, and was back in her seat before Mr.
Edwin Barley entered the room.
"Are you coming down to dinner, Selina?"
"Dinner! It is well for you that you can eat it," was her answer. "You
must dine without me to-day—those who dine at all. Now, don't disturb
that sleeping child, Mr. Barley! I was just going to send her to bed."
"It might do you more good to eat dinner than to roam about in a
night-fog," was Mr. Edwin Barley's rejoinder. "It is rather curious you
should choose such a night as this to be out, half-naked."
"Not curious," she said, coldly: "very natural."
"Very! Especially that you should be tearing up and down the wood
paths, like a mad woman. Others saw you as well as myself, and are
speaking of it."
"Let them speak."
"But for what purpose were you there?"
"I was looking for George Heneage. There! you may make the most of it."
"Did you find him?"
"No. I wish I had: _I wish I had_. I should have learnt from him the
truth of this night's business; for the truth, as I believe, has not
come to light yet."
"What do you suppose to be the truth?" he returned, in a tone of
surprise; whether natural, or assumed, who could say?
"No matter—no matter now: it is something that I scarcely dare to
glance at. Better, even, that Heneage had done it, than—than—what I am
thinking of. My head is confused to-night," she broke off; "my mind
unhinged—hardly sane. You had better leave me, Mr. Barley."
"You had better come and eat a bit of dinner," he said, roughly, but
not unkindly. "None of us can touch much, I daresay, but we are going
to sit down. William is staying, and so is Martin. Won't you come and
try to take a bit? Or shall I send you something up?"
"It would be of no use."
Mr. Edwin Barley looked at her: she was shivering outwardly and
inwardly. I could just see out under the corner of the cushion.
"You have caught a violent cold, Selina. How could you think of going
out?"
"I will tell you," she added, in a more conciliating spirit. "I went
out because you went. To prevent any encounter between you and George
Heneage,—I mean any violence. After that, I stayed looking for him."
"You need not have feared violence from me. I should have handed him
over to the police, nothing more."
There was a mocking sound in his voice as he spoke. Selina sat down and
put her feet on the fender.
"I hate to dine without somebody at the table's head," Mr. Edwin Barley
said, turning to the door. "If you will not come, I shall ask Charlotte
Delves to sit down."
"It is nothing to me who sits down when I am not there."
He departed with the ungracious reply ringing in his ears: and
ungracious I felt it to be. She bolted the door again, and pulled the
blue velvet cushion off my head.
"Are you smothered, child? Get up. Now, mark me: you must not say a
word to Mr. Edwin Barley of what happened at the summer-house. Do not
mention it at all—to him, or to any one else."
"But suppose I am asked, Selina?"
"How can you be asked? Philip King is gone, poor fellow; George Heneage
is not here, and who else is there to ask you? You surely have not
spoken of it already?" she continued, in a tone of alarm.
I had not spoken of it to any one, and told her so. Jemima had
questioned me as to the cause of my terror, when I ran in from the
wood, and I said I had heard a shot and a scream I had not courage to
say more.
"That's well," said Selina.
She sent me to rest, ordering Jemima to stay by me until I was asleep.
"The child may feel nervous," she remarked to her, in an undertone, but
the words reached me. And I suppose Jemima felt nervous, for one of the
other maids came too.
The night passed; the morning came, Sunday, and with it illness for
Mrs. Edwin Barley. I gathered from Jemima's conversation, while she was
dressing me, that Selina had slept alone: Mr. Edwin Barley, with his
brother and some more gentlemen, had been out a great part of the night
looking for George Heneage. It was so near morning when they got back
that he would not go to his wife's room for fear of disturbing her.
I ran in when I went downstairs. She lay in bed, and her voice, as she
spoke to me, did not sound like her own.
"Are you ill, Selina? Why do you speak so hoarsely?"
"I feel very ill, Anne. My throat is bad—or my chest, I can scarcely
tell which: perhaps it is both. Go downstairs, and send Miss Delves to
me."
I have said that I was an imaginative, thoughtful, excitable child, and
as I hastened to obey her, one sole recollection (I could have said
fear) kept running through my brain. It was the oracular observation
made by Duff, relating to his mistress and the fog: "It's enough to
give her her death!" Suppose she _had_ caught her death? My fingers,
fastening my narrow waist-band, trembled at the thought.
The first thing I saw when I went down was a large high screen of many
folds, raised across the hall, shutting out part of it from view. It
seemed to strike me back with fear. Sarah was coming out of the
dining-room with a duster in her hand: it was early yet. I caught hold
of her gown.
"Sarah, what is behind there?"
"The same that was last night, Miss," she answered. "Nothing is to be
moved until the coroner has come.
"Have they taken Mr. Heneage?"
"Not that I have heard of, Miss. One of the police was in just now, and
he told Miss Delves there was no news."
"I want to find Miss Delves. Where is she?"
"In master's study. You can go in. Don't you know which it is? It's
that room built out at the back, half-way up the first flight of
stairs. You can see the door from here."
In the study sat Mr. Barley and Mr. Edwin Barley at breakfast,
Charlotte Delves serving them. I gave her my aunt's message, but was
nearly scared out of my senses at being laid hold of by Mr. Edwin
Barley.
"Go up at once, Charlotte, and see what it is," he said. "How do you
say, little one—that her throat is bad?"
"Yes, sir; she cannot speak well."
"No wonder; she has only herself to thank," he muttered, as Charlotte
Delves left the room. "The wonder would be if she were not ill."
"Why?" asked Mr. Barley, curiously, lifting his head.
"Oh, she got frightened last night when poor Philip was brought in, and
ran out in the fog after me with nothing on."
He released my arm, and Mr. Barley put a chair for me beside him, and
gave me some breakfast. I had taken quite a liking to him, he was so
simple and kind. He told me he had no little girls or boys of his own,
and his wife was always ill, unable to go out.
"Mrs. Edwin Barley appears exceedingly poorly," said Charlotte Delves,
when she returned. "Lowe said he should be here this morning; he shall
see her when he comes. She must have taken cold."
Scarcely had she spoken when the surgeon arrived. Mr. Edwin Barley went
upstairs with him. Mr. Lowe came down alone afterwards, and I caught a
moment to speak to him when no one was listening.
"Will my Aunt Selina get well, sir?"
"I do not know, my dear," he answered, turning upon me his grave face.
"I fear she is going to be very ill."
Sunday came to an end; oh, such a dull day it had seemed!—and Monday
morning dawned. It was Selina's birthday: she was twenty-one.
Nothing could be heard of George Heneage. The police scoured the
country; handbills were printed, offering a reward for his
apprehension; no effort was left untried, but he was not found.
Opinions were freely bandied about: some said he must have escaped in
the fog, and got off by the railway from Nettleby, or by the other line
beyond Hallam; others thought he was lying concealed near the spot
still. Mr. Edwin Barley was in great anger at his escape, and avowed he
would pursue him to the death.
Not on this day, but the following one, Tuesday, Mr. Heneage's father
came to the house—a fine old gentleman, with white hair. Mr. Lowe
corrected me for calling him old, and said he could not be much more
than fifty. I had not then the experience to know that while young
people call fifty old, those past that age are apt to style it young. I
saw him twice as he went along the passages, but was not close to him.
He was a courteous, gentlemanly man, but seemed bowed down with grief.
It was said he could not understand the calamity at all, and decidedly
refused to believe in his son's guilt. If the shot had in truth
proceeded from him, the gun must have gone off by accident.
"Then why should he run away?" argued Mr. Edwin Barley.
He stayed in the house altogether but about two hours, and had an
interview with Mrs. Edwin Barley in her bedroom before his departure.
Refreshments were laid for him, but he declined to touch anything: I
heard the servants commenting on it.
In the afternoon the coroner's inquest sat. It was held in the
dining-room. The chief witness was Mr. Edwin Barley. I was not called
upon, and Selina said it was a proof that he had not mentioned I was
present at the time. You may be sure _I_ took care not to mention it;
neither did she. Nothing transpired touching the encounter at the
summer-house; therefore the affair appeared to the public involved in
mystery. Mr. Edwin Barley protested that it was a mystery to him. He
could not conceive what motive Heneage could have had in taking Philip
King's life. Mr. Edwin Barley testified that Philip King, in dying, had
asserted he saw George Heneage take aim and fire at him, and there was
nobody to contradict the assertion. I knew Philip King had not said so
much; but no one else knew it, save Mrs. Edwin Barley, and she only
from me. They did not require her to appear at the inquest; it was
assumed that she knew nothing whatever about the transaction.
Charlotte Delves was called, at the request of the jury, because Philip
King had sat with her in her parlour for half an hour the morning of
his death; but she proved that he had not touched upon anything
unpleasant, or spoken then of George Heneage. The feeling between them
had not been good, she testified, and there used to be bickering and
disputes. "What about?" asked the jury; but Miss Delves only answered
that she "could not say." The fact was, Mr. Edwin Barley in his stern
way had ordered her not to bring in his wife's name.
While the inquest was sitting I stayed in Selina's room. She seemed
very restless, turning about in bed continually, and telling me to
listen how it was "going on." But I could hear nothing, though I went
often on the stairs to try.
"What was that stir just now, Anne?" she asked, when it was late.
"They called from the dining-room to have the chandelier lighted. John
went in and did it."
"Is it dark, Anne?"
"Not dark. It is getting dark."
Dark it appeared to be in the chamber, for the crimson silk curtains
were drawn before the large, deep bay-window, and also partially round
the bed. You could distinguish the outline of objects, and that was
all. I went close up to the bed and looked at her; she was buried in
the pillows: that she was very ill I knew, for a physician from
Nettleby had come that morning with Mr. Lowe.
"I think it must be over," she said, as a bustle was heard below. "Go
and see, dear."
I went half-way down the stairs in the dark. Nobody had thought to
light the hall-lamp. Sure enough, they were pouring out of the room, a
crowd of dark figures, talking as they came, and slowly making for the
hall-door. Suddenly I distinguished Mr. Edwin Barley coming towards the
stairs.
To his study, as I thought, and back went I, not caring to encounter
him. Added to my childish dislike and fear of Mr. Edwin Barley, since
Saturday night another impulse to avoid him had been added: a dread,
which I could not divest myself of, that he might question me as to
that meeting at the summer-house, and to the subsequent interview with
George Heneage. Selina had ordered me to be silent; but if he found
anything out and questioned me, what could I do? I know that the fear
was upon me then and for a long time afterwards.
I crept swiftly back again up the stairs, and into my aunt's room.
Surely he was not coming to it! Those were his footsteps, and they drew
nearer: he could not have turned into his study! No, they came on. In
the impulse of the moment, I pushed behind the heavy window-curtain. It
was drawn straight across from wall to wall, leaving a space between it
and the bow of the window nearly as large as a small room. There were
three chairs there, one in the middle of the window and at the two
sides. I sat down on one of them, and, pulling the white blind slightly
aside, looked out at the dark figures who were then sauntering down the
avenue.
"Well, it's over," said Mr. Edwin Barley to his wife, as he came in and
shut the door. "And now all the work will be to find him."
"How has it ended?" she asked.
"Wilful murder. The coroner was about to clear the room, but the jury
intimated that they required no deliberation, and returned their
verdict at once."
"Wilful murder against whom?"
"Against George Heneage. Did you suppose it was against you or me?"
There was a pause. I felt in miserable indecision, knowing that I
ought, in honour, to go out and show myself, but not daring to do it.
Selina resumed, speaking as emphatically as her inflamed throat
permitted.
"I cannot believe—I never will believe—that George Heneage was capable
of committing murder. His whole nature would rise up against it: as his
father said in this room a few hours ago. If the shot did come from his
gun, it must have been fired inadvertently."
"The shot did come from his gun," returned Mr. Edwin Barley. "There's
no 'if' in the question."
"I am aware you say so; but it was passing strange that you, also with
your gun, should have been upon the spot. Now, stay!—don't put yourself
in a passion. I cannot help saying it. I think all this suspense and
uncertainty are killing me!"
Mr. Edwin Barley dragged a chair to the side of the bed, anger in the
very sound. I felt ready to drop, lest he should see me through the
slit in the curtain.
"We will have this out, Selina. It is not the first time you have given
utterance to hints that you ought to be ashamed of. Do you suspect that
I shot Philip King?"
His tone was so stern that, perhaps, she did not like to say "yes"
outright, and tampered with the question.
"Not exactly that. But there's only your word to prove that it was
George Heneage. And you know how incensed you have latterly been
against him!"
"Who caused me to be incensed? Why, you."
"There was no real cause. Were it the last words I had to speak,
Edwin"—and she burst into tears—"were I dying, I would assert it. I
never cared for George Heneage in the way you fancy."
"_I_ fancy! Had I fancied that, I should have flung George Heneage out
of my house long ago," was his rejoinder, spoken calmly. "But now, hear
me, Selina. It has been your pleasure to declare so much to me. On my
part, I declare to you that Heneage, and Heneage only, killed Philip
King. Dispossess your mind of all dark folly. You must be insane, I
think, to take it up against your husband."
"Did you see Heneage fire?" she asked, after a silence.
"No. I should have known pretty surely that it could only be Heneage,
had there been no proof against him; but there were Philip's dying
words. Still, I did not see Heneage at the place, and I have never said
I did. I was pushing home through the wood, and halted a second,
thinking I heard voices: it must have been Philip talking to the child:
at that very moment a shot was fired close to me—close, mind you—not
two yards off; but the trees are thick just there, and whoever fired it
was hid from my view. I was turning to search, when Philip King's awful
scream rang out, and I pushed my head beyond the trees and saw him in
the act of falling to the ground. I hastened to him, and the other
escaped. This is the entire truth, so far as I am cognizant of it."
It might have been the truth; and, again, it might not. It was just one
of those things that depend upon the credibility of the utterer. What
little corroboration there was, certainly was on Mr. Edwin Barley's
side: _only_ that he had asserted more than was true of the dying words
of Philip King. If these were the simple facts, the truth, why have
added falsehood to them?
"Heneage could have had no motive to take the life of Philip King,"
argued Mrs. Edwin Barley. "That he would have caned him, or given him
some other sound chastisement, I grant you—and richly he deserved it,
for he was the cause of all the ill-feeling that had arisen in the
house—but, to kill him! No, no!"
"And yet you would deem me capable of it!"
"I am not accusing you. But when you come to speak of motives, I cannot
help seeing that George Heneage could have had none."
"You have just observed that the author of the mischief, the bad
feeling which had sprung up in the house, was Philip King; but you are
wrong. The author was you, Selina."
No answer. She put up one of her hot hands, and shaded her eyes.
"I forgive you," he continued. "I am willing to bury the past in
silence: never to recur to it—never henceforth to allude to it, though
the boy was my relative and ward, and I liked him. But I would
recommend you to bear this tragical ending in mind, as a warning for
the future. I will not tolerate further folly in my wife; and your own
sense ought to tell you that had I been ambitious of putting somebody
out of the world, it would have been Heneage, not Philip. Heneage has
killed him, and upon his head be the consequences. I will never cease
my endeavours to bring him to the drop. I will spare no pains, or
energy, or cost, until it is accomplished. So help me Heaven!"
He rose with the last solemn word, and put the chair back in its place.
On his way to the door he turned, speaking in a softer voice.
"Are you better this evening, Selina?"
"Not any. It seems to me that I grow worse with every hour."
"I'll send Lowe up to you. He is somewhere about."
"Oh, aunt, aunt!" I said, going forward with lifted hands and streaming
eyes, as he left the chamber, "I was here all the time! I saw Mr. Edwin
Barley coming in, and I hid behind the window-curtain. I never meant to
be a listener: I was afraid to come out."
She looked at me without speaking, and her face, hot with fever, grew
more flushed. She seemed to be considering; perhaps remembering what
had passed.
"I—I——don't think there was anything very particular said, that you
need care; or, rather, that I need," she said at length. "Was there?"
"No, Selina. Only——"
"Only what, child? Why do you hesitate?"
"You think it might have been Mr. Edwin Barley. I wish I had not heard
that."
I said, or implied, it was as likely to have been he as the other.
"Anne," she suddenly added, "you possess thought and sense beyond your
years: what do you think?"
"I think it was Mr. Heneage. I think so because he has run away, and
because he looked so strangely when he was hiding. And I do not think
it was Mr. Edwin Barley. When he told you how it occurred just now, and
that it was not he, his voice sounded as though he were speaking
truth."
"Oh, dear!" she moaned, "I hope it was so! What a mercy if that Philip
King had never come near the house!"
"But, Selina, you are sorry that he is dead?"
"Sorry that he is dead? Of course I am sorry. What a curious child you
are! He was no favourite of mine; but," she cried, passionately
clasping her hands, "I would give all I am worth to call him back to
life."
But I could not be reconciled to what I had done, and sobbed on
heavily, until lights and Mr. Lowe came in together.