Anne Hereford. Mrs. Henry Wood
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!
CHAPTER III.
GOING OUT IN THE FOG.
Help had arrived from another quarter. A knot of labourers on the estate, going home from work, happened to choose the road through the wood, and Mr. Edwin Barley heard them.
One of them, a young man they called Duff, was at the house almost as soon as I. He came into the hall, and saw me clinging to Jemima. Nothing could have stopped my threatened fit of hysterics so effectually as an interruption. Duff told his tale. The young heir had been shot in the wood, he said. "Shot dead!"
"The young heir!" cried Jemima, with a cry. She was at no loss to understand who was meant: it was what Philip King had been mostly styled since his brother's death. Charlotte Delves came forward as Duff was speaking. Duff took off his felt hat in deference to her, and explained.
She turned as white as a sheet--white as George Heneage had looked--and sat down on a chair. Duff had not mentioned George Heneage's name, only Mr. Edwin Barley's: perhaps she thought it was the latter who had fired the shot.
"It must have been an accident, Duff. They are so careless with their guns!"
"No, ma'am, it was murder! Leastways, that's what they are saying."
"He cannot be dead."
"He's as dead as a door-nail!" affirmed Duff, with decision. "I can't be mistaken in a dead man. I've seen enough of 'em, father being the grave-digger. They are bringing him on, ma'am, now."
Even as Duff spoke, sounds of the approach stole on the air from the distance--the measured tread of feet that bear a burden. It came nearer and nearer; and Philip King, or what was left of him, was laid on the large table in the hall. As is the case in some country houses, the hall was furnished like a plain room. Duff, making ready, had pushed the table close to the window, between the wall and the entrance-door, shutting me into a corner. I sank down on the matting, not daring to move.
"Light the lamp," said Mr. Edwin Barley.
The news had spread; the servants crowded in; some of the women began to shriek. It became one indescribable scene of confusion, exclamations, and alarm. Mr. Edwin Barley turned round, in anger.
"Clear out, all of you!" he said, roughly. "What do you mean by making this uproar? You men can stay in the barn, you may be wanted," he added, to the out-door labourers.
They crowded out at the hall-door; the servants disappeared through the opposite one. Mr. Edwin Barley was one who brooked no delay in being obeyed. Miss Delves remained, and she drew near.
"How did it happen?" she asked, in a low voice, that did not sound much like hers.
"Get me some brandy, and a