She leaned back on her pillow, clasping her hands before her. "Ah me! I did! Tell him so," she continued again passionately; "tell him that I killed Anthony—thinking it was him."
"It is a dreadful story!" shuddered William.
"I did not mean it to be so dreadful," she answered, speaking quite equably. "No, I did not; and I am telling you as true as though it were my confession before receiving the bon dieu. I only meant to wound him——"
"Herbert?"
"Herbert! Of course; who else but Herbert?" she retorted, giving signs of another relapse. "Had I cause of anger against that pauvre Anthony? No; no. Anthony was sharp with the rest sometimes, but he was always civil to me; I never had a mis-word with him. I not like Cyril; but I not dislike George and Anthony. Why, why," she continued, wringing her hands, "did Anthony come forth from his chamber that night and go out, when he said he had retired to it for good? That is where all the evil arose."
"Not all," dissented William in low tones.
"Yes, all," she sharply repeated. "I had only meant to give Mr. Herbert a little prick in the dark, just to repay him, to stop his pleasant visits to that field for a term. I never thought to kill him. I liked him better than that, ill as he was behaving to me. I never thought to kill him; I never thought much to hurt him. And it would not have hurt Anthony; but that he was what you call tipsy, and fell on the point of the——"
"Scissors?" suggested William, for she had stopped. How could he, even with this confession before him, speak to a lady—or one who ought to have been a lady—of any uglier weapon?
"I had something by me sharper than scissors. But never you mind what. That, so far, does not matter. The little hurt I had intended for Herbert he escaped; and poor Anthony was killed."
There was a long pause. William broke it, speaking out his thoughts impulsively.