Anne Hereford. Mrs. Henry Wood
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