"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?"