“All right. That’s so. Now you had better run home, and be careful not to say anything about what you’ve just seen. For I tell you, little girl, if you do anything to interfere with me and my actions just now, it’ll be the worst day’s work for your little parson up yonder that ever was done. So now you know.”
Olivia shivered, but she did not answer or contradict him. She only said, in a subdued and tremulous voice, “Good-evening, Mr. Mitchell,” and walked away towards the gate, stumbling over the chips of stone that lay hidden in the grass, which had been allowed to remain long and rank in this the south side of the graveyard. She unlocked the gate, passed out, and was relocking it when she heard rapid footsteps behind her.
“Give me that key!” said Mrs. Brander’s voice, so hoarse, so agitated that Olivia looked round before she could be sure that it was really the vicar’s calm, cold wife.
Her large eyes had deep black semicircles under them; her usually firm lips were trembling; her whole appearance showed a disorder, a lack of that dainty preciseness in little things which was so strongly characteristic of her.
“This key!” said Olivia, doubtfully. “Do you know who is in there?”
Mrs. Brander examined the girl from head to foot with passionate mistrust, while at the same time she struggled to regain a calmer manner.
“Who is it?” she asked, with an attempt at an indifferent tone.
“Mr. Mitchell.”
The vicar’s wife drew back from the gate.
“You mean this? You are not playing me a trick?”