Anne Hereford. Mrs. Henry Wood
on the side where I was, but seemed to be searching for something; looking about, opening two or three drawers. I sat cowering, feeling I had no business to be there; my heart was in my mouth, when he went to the door and called Charlotte Delves.
"Where are my wife's keys?" he inquired, as she came up.
"I do not know," was her answer; and she began to look about the room as he had previously done. "They must be somewhere."
"Not know! But it was your place to take possession of them, Charlotte. I want to examine her desk; there may be directions left in it, for all I can tell."
"I really forgot all about the keys," Charlotte Delves deprecatingly said. "I will ask the women who were here. Why! here they are; in this china basket on the mantelpiece," she suddenly exclaimed. "I knew they could not be far-off."
Mr. Edwin Barley took the keys, and went out, the desk under his arm. Charlotte followed him, and closed the door. But I was too much scared to attempt to remain; I softly opened it, and stole out after them, waiting against the wall in the shade. They had halted at the turning to Mr. Barley's study, half way down the stairs, and were talking in subdued tones. Charlotte Delves was telling him of the lawyer's visit on the previous day.
"I did not mention it before," she observed: "of course, while poor Mrs. Edwin was here, it was not my business to report to you on anything she might do, and to-day has had too much trouble in it. But there's no doubt that Gregg was here, and a clerk with him. Little Miss Hereford showed them out, and I suppose admitted them. It was an odd time to choose for the visit--the hour of the funeral."
Can you imagine how terrified I felt as Charlotte Delves related this? I had done no wrong; I had simply obeyed the orders of Mrs. Edwin Barley; but it was uncertain what amount of blame her husband might lay to my share, and how he would punish it.
"It is strange what Gregg could be doing here at that time with a clerk; and in private, as you appear to assume," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Could he have come by appointment, to transact any legal business for my wife?"
"But, if so, why should she wish it kept from you?" and Charlotte Delves's voice had a jealous ring in it: jealous for the rights of her cousin, Edwin Barley.
"I don't know. The little girl may be able to explain. Call her up."
Another fright for me. But the next moment his voice countermanded the order.
"Never mind, Charlotte; let it be. When I want information of Anne Hereford, I'll question her myself. And if my wife did anything, made a will, or gave Gregg any other directions, we shall soon know of it."
"Made a will!" exclaimed Charlotte Delves.
"I should not think it likely that she would without speaking to me, but she could do it: she was of age," replied Mr. Barley.
He went into his study with the desk, and Charlotte Delves passed downstairs. I got into her parlour as soon as she did; never having seen my dear Aunt Selina.
They took me to see her the next day, when she was in her first coffin. She looked very calm and peaceful; but I think the dead, generally speaking, do look peaceful; whether they have died a happy death or not. A few autumn flowers were strewed upon her flannel shroud.
In coming out of the room, my face streaming with tears, there stood Mr. Lowe.
"Oh, sir!" I cried, in my burst of grief; "what made her die? Could you not have saved her?"
"My little girl, what she really died of was exhaustion," he answered. "The disease took hold of her, and she could not rally from it. As to saving her--God alone could have done that."
There was no inquest this time. The doctors certified to some cause of death. The house was more closely shut up than before; the servants went about speaking in whispers; deeper mourning was prepared for them. In Selina's desk a paper had been found by Mr. Edwin Barley--a few pencilled directions on it, should she "unhappily die." Therefore the prevision of death had been really upon her. She named two or three persons whom she should wish to attend her funeral, Mr. Gregg being one of them.
Saturday again, and another funeral! Ever since, even to this hour, Saturdays and funerals have been connected together in my impressionable mind. I had a pleasant dream early that morning. I saw Selina in bright white robes, looking peacefully happy, saying that her sins had been washed away by Jesus Christ, the Redeemer. I had previously sobbed myself to sleep, hoping that they had.
It was fixed for twelve o'clock this time. The long procession, longer than the other one had been, wound down the avenue. Mr. Edwin Barley went in a coach by himself; perhaps he did not like to be seen grieving; three or four coaches followed it, and some private carriages, Mr. Barley's taking the lead. There was not a dry eye amidst the household--us, who were left at home--with the exception of Charlotte Delves. I did not see her weep at all, then or previously. The narrow crape tucks on her gown were exchanged for wide ones, and some black love-ribbon mingled with her hair. I sobbed till they came back, sitting by myself in the dining-room.
It was the very room they filed into, those who entered. A formidable array, in their sweeping scarves and hatbands; too formidable for me to pass, and I shrunk into the far corner, between the sideboard and the dumb-waiter. But they began to leave again, only just saying good day in a low tone to Mr. Edwin Barley, and got into the coaches that waited. Mr. Gregg the lawyer remained, and Mr. Barley.
"Pardon me that I stay," observed the lawyer to Mr. Edwin Barley; "I am but obeying the request of your late wife. She charged me, in the event of her death, to stay and read the will after the funeral."
"The will!" echoed Mr. Edwin Barley.
"She made a will just before she died. She gave me instructions for it privately; though what her motives were for keeping it a secret, she did not state. It was executed on the day previous to her death."
"This is news to me," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "Do you hold the will?"
"No, I left it with her. You had better remain, my little girl," the lawyer added to me, touching my arm with his black glove as I was essaying to quit the room. "The will concerns you. I asked your wife if I should take possession of it, but she preferred to keep it herself."
"I do not know where it can have been put, then," returned Mr. Edwin Barley, while his brother lifted his head in interest. "I have examined her desk and one or two of her drawers where she kept papers; but I have found no will."
"Perhaps you did not look particularly for a will, not knowing she had made one, and so it may have escaped your notice, sir," suggested the lawyer.
"Pardon me; it was the precise thing I looked for. I heard of your visit to my wife: not, however, until after her death; and it struck me that your coming might have reference to something of the sort. But I found no will; only a few pencilled words on a half-sheet of paper in her desk. Do you know where it was put?"
The lawyer turned to me. "Perhaps this little lady may know," he said. "She made one in the room when I was with Mrs. Edwin Barley, and may have seen afterwards where the will was placed."
Again I felt sick with apprehension: few children at my age have ever been so shy and sensitive. It seemed to me that all was coming out; at any rate, my share in it. But I spoke pretty bravely.
"You mean the paper that you left on my Aunt Selina's bed, sir? I put it in the cabinet; she directed me to do so."
"In the cabinet?" repeated Mr. Edwin Barley to me.
"Yes, sir. Just inside as you open it."
"Will you go with me to search for it?" said Mr. Edwin Barley to the lawyer. "And you can go into Miss Delves's parlour, Anne; little girls are better out of these affairs."
"Pardon me," dissented Mr. Gregg. "Miss Hereford, as the only interested party, had better remain. And if she can show us where the will is, it will save time."
Mr. Edwin Barley looked as if he meant to object, but did not. "The child's nerves have been unhinged," he said to the lawyer