Anne Hereford. Mrs. Henry Wood
shillings!" I repeated, in great alarm.
"Why, did you expect to come for one--and inside too! It's uncommon cheap, is this omnibus."
"Oh, it is not that. But I have not any money."
"Not got any money!"
"They did not give me any. They gave the guard my fare to Nettleby. Mr. Sterling said I should be sure to be met."
The man went up to the driver. "I say, Bill, this child says she's got no money."
The driver turned round and looked at me. "We can call to-morrow for it; I daresay it's all right. Do you belong to the Barleys, Miss?"
"Mrs. Edwin Barley is my aunt. I am come on a visit to her."
"Oh, it's all right. Get up, Joe."
"But please," said I, stopping the man, in an agony of fear--for I could see no house or sign of one, save a small, round, low building that might contain one room--"which is Mr. Edwin Barley's? Am I to stay in the road with the boxes?"
The man laughed, said he had supposed I knew, and began shouting out, "Here; missis!" two or three times. "You see that big green gate, Miss?" he added to me. "Well, that leads up to Mr. Barley's, and that's his lodge."
A woman came out of the lodge; in answer to the shouts, and opened the gate. The man explained, put the trunks inside the gate, and the omnibus drove on.
"I beg pardon that I can't go up to the house with you, Miss, but it's not far, and you can't miss it," said she. "I have got my baby sick in its cradle, and dare not leave it alone. You are little Miss Hereford?"
"Yes."
"It's odd they never sent to meet you at Nettleby, if they knew you were coming! But they have visitors at the house, and perhaps young madam forgot it. Straight on, Miss, and you'll soon come to the hall-door; go up the steps, and give a good pull at the bell."
There was no help for it: I had to go up the gloomy avenue alone. It was a broad gravel drive, wide enough for two carriages to pass each other; a thick grove of trees on either side. The road wound round, and I had just got in sight of the house when I was startled considerably by what proved to be a man's head projecting beyond the trees. He appeared to be gazing steadfastly at the house, but turned his face suddenly at my approach. But for that, I might not have observed him. The face looked dark, ugly, menacing; and I started with a spring to the other side of the way.
I did not speak to him, or he to me, but my heart beat with fear, and I was glad enough to see lights from several of the windows in front of me. I thought it a very large house; I found afterwards that it contained eighteen rooms, and some of them small: but then we had lived in a pretty cottage of six. There was no need to ring. At the open door stood a man and a maid-servant, laughing and talking.
"Who are you?" cried the girl.
"I want Mrs. Edwin Barley."
"Then I think want must be your master," she returned. "It is somebody from Hallam, I suppose. Mrs. Edwin Barley cannot possibly see you to-night."
"You just go away, little girl," added the footman. "You must come to-morrow morning, if you want anything."
Their manner was so authoritative that I felt frightened, nearly crying as I stood. What if they should really turn me away!
"Why don't you go?" asked the girl, sharply.
"I have nowhere to go to. My boxes are down at the gate."
"Why, who are you?" she inquired, in a quick tone.
"I am Miss Hereford."
"Heart alive!" she whispered to the man. "I beg your pardon, Miss. I'll call Charlotte Delves."
"What's that? Who will you call?" broke from an angry voice at the back of the hall. "Call 'Charlotte Delves,' will you? Go in to your work this instant, you insolent girl. Do you hear me, Jemima?"
"I didn't know you were there, Miss Delves," was the half-saucy, half-deprecating answer. "The young lady has come--Miss Hereford."
A tall, slight, good-looking woman of thirty-five or thirty-six came forward. I could not tell whether she was a lady or a smart maid. She wore a small, stylish cap, and a handsome muslin gown with flounces--which were in fashion then. Her eyes were light; long, light curls fell on either side her face, and her address was good.
"How do you do, Miss Hereford?" she said, taking my hand. "Come in, my dear. We did not expect you until next week. Mrs. Barley is in the drawing-room."
"Mrs. Barley is in her chamber, dressing for dinner," contended Jemima, from the back of the hall, as if intent on aggravation.
Miss Delves made no reply. She ran upstairs, and opened a door, from whence came a warm glow of fire-light. "Wait there a moment," she said, looking round at me. "Mrs. Edwin Barley, the child has come."
"What child?" returned a voice--a young, gay, sweet, voice.
"Little Miss Hereford."
"My goodness! Come to-day! And I with no mourning about me, to speak of. Well, let her come in."
I knew my Aunt Selina again in a moment. She had stayed with us in Devonshire for three months two years before, when she was nineteen. The same lovely face, with its laughing blue eyes, and its shining golden hair. She wore an embroidered clear-muslin white dress, with low body and sleeves, and a few black ribbons; jet bracelets, and a long jet chain.
"You darling child! But what made you come in this strange way, without notice?"
"Mr. Sterling said he wrote word to you, Selina, that I should be here on Thursday. You ought to have had the letter yesterday."
"Well, so he did write; but I thought--how stupid I must have been!" she interrupted, with a sudden laugh. "I declare I took it to mean next Thursday. But you are all the more welcome, dear. You have grown prettier, Anne, with those deep eyes of yours."
I stood before her very gravely. I had dreaded the meeting, believing it would be one of sobs and lamentation for my mother: not taking into account how careless and light-headed Selina was. I had called her "Selina," since, a little girl of four, I had gone on a visit to Keppe-Carew.
Taking off my bonnet, she kissed me several times, and then held me before her by my hands as she sat on the sofa. Miss Delves went out and closed the door.
"They are not home from shooting yet, Anne, so we can have a little talk to ourselves. When they go to the far covers, there's no knowing when they'll be in: two nights ago they kept me waiting dinner until eight o'clock."
"Who did, Aunt Selina?"
"Mr. Barley, and the rest," she answered, carelessly. "Anne, how very strange it was that your mamma should have died so quickly at the last! It was only two weeks before her death that she wrote to tell me she was ill."
"She had been ill longer than that, Aunt Selina----"
"Call me Selina, child."
"But she did not tell any one until she knew there was danger. She did not tell me."
"It was a renewal of that old complaint she had in India--that inward complaint."
I turned my head and my wet eyes from her. "They told me it was her heart, Selina."
"Yes; in a measure; that had something to do with it. It must have been a sad parting, Anne. Why, child, you are sobbing!"
"Please don't talk of it!"
"But I must talk of it: I like to have my curiosity gratified," she said, in her quick way. "Did the doctors say from the first that there was no hope?"
"Mamma knew there was no hope when she wrote to you. She had told me so the day before."
"I wonder she told you at all."
"Oh, Selina! that fortnight was