"I remember hearing of her—of some relation, at least, who was in the house at the time," he observed, in a dreamy sort of tone. "Delves? perhaps that was the name. A candid, pleasant-mannered, ladylike woman—as described to me."
"I don't recollect much about her, or what she was like, except that she was very kind to me after my Aunt Selina's death. It is a good while ago, and I was only a little girl."
"Ay. But now, Anne, I want you to relate to me all the particulars of that bygone miserable tragedy: anything and everything that you may remember as connected with it. Understand me: it is not curiosity that prompts me to ask it. Were I to consult my own wishes, I would bury the whole in a stream of Lethe; every word spoken of it is to me so much agony. Nevertheless, you may do me a service if you will relate what you know of it."
"I would tell you willingly, Mr. Chandos. But—I fear—I—should have to seem to cast blame on Selina."
"You cannot cast so much blame on her as has already been cast on her to me. Perhaps your account may tend to remove the impression it left on my mind."
I began at the beginning, and told him all, so far as I could recollect, giving my childish impressions of things. I told him also my own early history. When I came to the details of Philip King's death, Mr. Chandos sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, his face turned from me and buried in his hand.
"You saw George Heneage just afterwards?" he remarked.
"Yes. He was hiding in the wood, trembling all over, and his face very white."
"Had he the look of a guilty man?"
"I think he had. Had he not been guilty, why should he not have come openly forward to succour Philip King?"