"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 teaspoon!" was Mr. Edwin Barley's rejoinder. "He is certainly dead, as I believe; but we must try restoratives, for all that. Make haste; bring it in a wine-glass."
She ran into the dining-room, and in the same moment Mrs. Edwin Barley came lightly down the stairs. She had on her dinner-dress, black silk trimmed with crape, no ornaments yet, and her lovely light hair was hanging down on her bare neck. The noise, as it appeared, had disturbed her in the midst of dressing.