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A Smarter Way to Learn Python Learn it faster
Remember it longer First Edition Mark Myers Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): Mark Myers
ISBN(s): 9781974431472, 1974431479
Edition: First Edition
File Details: PDF, 1.87 MB
Year: 2017
Language: english
Also by Mark Myers
 A Smarter Way
to Learn Python

Mark Myers
 Copyright © 2017 Mark Myers

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portions of it, in any
form.

1.0

http://www.ASmarterWayToLearn.com

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 Table of Contents

Learn it faster. Remember it longer.

How to use this book
The language you're learning here
1: print
2: Variables for Strings
3: Variables for Numbers
4: Math expressions: Familiar operators
5: Variable Names Legal and Illegal
6: Math expressions: Unfamiliar operators
7: Math expressions: Eliminating ambiguity
8: Concatenating text strings
9: if statements
10: Comparison operators
11: else and elif statements
12: Testing sets of conditions
13: if statements nested
14: Comments
15: Lists
16: Lists: Adding and changing elements
17: Lists: Taking slices out of them
18: Lists: Deleting and removing elements
19: Lists: popping elements
20: Tuples
21: for loops
22: for loops nested
23: Getting information from the user and converting strings and
numbers
24: Changing case
25: Dictionaries: What they are
26: Dictionaries: How to code one
27: Dictionaries: How to pick information out of them
28: Dictionaries: The versatility of keys and values
29: Dictionaries: Adding items
30: Dictionaries: Removing and changing items
31: Dictionaries: Looping through values
32: Dictionaries: Looping through keys
33: Dictionaries: Looping through key-value pairs
34: Creating a list of dictionaries
35: How to pick information out of a list of dictionaries
36: How to append a new dictionary to a list of dictionaries
37: Creating a dictionary that contains lists
38: How to get information out of a list within a dictionary
39: Creating a dictionary that contains a dictionary
40: How to get information out of a dictionary within another dictionary
41: Functions
42: Functions: Passing them information
43: Functions: Passing information to them a different way
44: Functions: Assigning a default value to a parameter
45: Functions: Mixing positional and keyword arguments
46: Functions: Dealing with an unknown number of arguments
47: Functions: Passing information back from them
48: Using functions as variables (which is what they really are)
49: Functions: Local vs. global variables
50: Functions within functions
51: While loops
52: While loops: Setting a flag
53: Classes
54: Classes: Starting to build the structure
55: Classes: A bit of housekeeping
56: Classes: Creating an instance
57: Classes: A little more complexity
58: Classes: Getting info out of instances
59: Classes: Building functions into them
60: Classes: Coding a method
61: Classes: Changing an attribute's value
62: Data files
63: Data files: Storing data
64: Data files: Retrieving data
65: Data files: Appending data
66: Modules
67: CSV files
68: CSV files: Reading them
69: CSV files: Picking information out of them
70: CSV files: Loading information into them. Part 1
71: CSV files: Loading information into them. Part 2
72: CSV files: Loading information into them. Part 3
73: CSV files: Appending rows to them.
74: How to save a Python list or dictionary in a file: JSON
75: How to retrieve a Python list or dictionary from a JSON file
76: Planning for things to go wrong
77: A more practical example of exception handling
Guide to the appendices
Appendix A: An easy way to run Python
Appendix B: How to install Python on your computer
Appendix C: How to run Python in the terminal
Appendix D: How to create a Python program that you can save
Appendix E: How to run a saved Python program in the terminal
 Learn it faster.
Remember it longer.

If you embrace this method of learning, you’ll get the hang of Python in less
time than you might expect. And the knowledge will stick.
You’ll catch onto concepts quickly.
You’ll be less bored, and might even be excited. You’ll certainly be
motivated.
You’ll feel confident instead of frustrated.
You’ll remember the lessons long after you close the book.
Is all this too much for a book to promise? Yes, it is. Yet I can make these
promises and keep them, because this isn’t just a book. It’s a book plus almost a
thousand interactive online exercises.
You’re going to learn by doing. You'll read a chapter, then practice with the
exercises. That way, the knowledge gets embedded in your memory so you don't
forget it. Instant feedback corrects your mistakes like a one-on-one teacher.
I’ve done my best to write each chapter so it’s easy for anyone to
understand, but it’s the exercises that are going to turn you into a real Python
coder.
Cognitive research shows that reading alone doesn’t buy you much long-
term retention. Even if you read a book a second or even a third time, things
won’t improve much, according to research.
And forget highlighting or underlining. Marking up a book gives us the
illusion that we’re engaging with the material, but studies show that it’s an
exercise in self-deception. It doesn’t matter how much yellow you paint on the
pages, or how many times you review the highlighted material. By the time you
get to Chapter 50, you’ll have forgotten most of what you highlighted in
Chapter 1.
This all changes if you read less and do more—if you read a short passage
and then immediately put it into practice. Washington University researchers say
that being asked to retrieve information increases long-term retention by four
hundred percent. That may seem implausible, but by the time you finish this
book, I think you’ll believe it.
Practice also makes learning more interesting.
Trying to absorb long passages of technical material puts you to sleep and
kills your motivation. Ten minutes of reading followed by fifteen minutes of
challenging practice keeps you awake and spurs you on.
And it keeps you honest.
If you only read, it’s easy to kid yourself that you’re learning more than you
are. But when you’re challenged to produce the goods, there’s a moment of
truth. You know that you know—or that you don’t. When you find out that
you’re a little shaky on this point or that, you can review the material, then re-do
the exercise. That’s all it takes to master this book from beginning to end—and
to build a solid foundation of Python knowledge.
I’ve talked with many readers who say they thought they had a problem
understanding technical concepts. But what looked like a comprehension
problem was really a retention problem. If you get to Chapter 50 and everything
you studied in Chapter 1 has faded from memory, how can you understand
Chapter 50, which depends on your knowing Chapter 1 cold? The read-then-
practice approach embeds the concepts of each chapter in your long-term
memory, so you’re prepared to tackle material in later chapters that builds on
top of those concepts. When you’re able to remember what you read, you’ll find
that you learn Python quite readily.
I hope you enjoy this learning approach. And I hope you build on it to
become a terrific coder.
 How to use this book

This isn't a book quite like any you've ever owned before, so a brief user
manual might be helpful.

Study, practice, then rest. If you're intent on mastering the

fundamentals of Python, as opposed to just getting a feel for the
language, work with this book and the online exercises in a 15-to-25-
minute session, then take a break. Study a chapter for 5 to 10 minutes.
Immediately go to the online link given at the end of each chapter and
code for 10 to 15 minutes, practicing the lesson until you've coded
everything correctly. Then take a walk.

Do the coding exercises on a physical keyboard. A mobile device

can be ideal for reading, but it's no way to code. Very, very few Web
developers would attempt to do their work on a phone. The same thing
goes for learning to code. Theoretically, most of the interactive
exercises could be done on a mobile device. But the idea seems so
perverse that I've disabled online practice on tablets, readers, and
phones.

If you have an authority problem, try to get over it. When you start
doing the exercises, you'll find that I can be a pain about insisting that
you get every little detail right. For example, if you omit spaces where
spaces belong, the program monitoring your work will tell you the code
isn't correct, even though it might still run perfectly. Do I insist on
having everything just so because I'm a control freak? No, it's because I
have to place a limit on harmless maverick behavior in order to
automate the exercises. If I were to grant you as much freedom as you
might like, creating the algorithms that check your work would be, for
me, a project of frightening proportions. Besides, learning to write
code with fastidious precision helps you learn to pay close attention to
details, a fundamental requirement for coding in any language.

Subscribe, temporarily, to my formatting biases. Current code

formatting is like seventeenth-century spelling. Everyone does it his
own way. There are no universally accepted standards. But the
algorithms that check your work when you do the interactive exercises
need standards. They can't grant you the latitude that a human teacher
could, because, let's face it, algorithms aren't that bright. So I've had to
settle on certain conventions. All of the conventions I teach are
embraced by a large segment of the coding community, so you'll be in
good company. But that doesn't mean you'll be married to my
formatting biases forever. When you start coding projects, you'll soon
develop your own opinions or join an organization that has a
stylebook. Until then, I'll ask you to make your code look like my code.
 The language you're learning here

Python is a popular, 30-year-old general purpose programming language

created by Guido van Rossum. Compared with some other languages, it's
reasonably easy to learn, and it's relatively easy to read. Python is often used to
teach beginners the fundamentals of programming.
 1
print

In Python, the command print tells the program to display words or numbers
on the screen. Here's a line of code that tells Python to display the words
“Hello, World!”

print("Hello, World!")

print is a keyword—that is, a word that has special meaning for Python. It
means, "Display what’s inside the parentheses." Note that print isn't
capitalized. If you capitalize it, the program won’t run.
The parentheses are a special requirement of Python, one that you'll soon
get used to. You'll be typing parentheses over and over again, in all kinds of
Python statements.
In coding, the quoted text in the line above—"Hello, World!"—is called a
text string or simply a string. The name makes sense: it's a string of characters.
When Python displays a string on the screen, the quotation marks don't
display. They’re only in your code to tell Python that it’s dealing with a string.
Note that the opening parenthesis is jammed up against the keyword print,
and the opening quotation mark is hugging the opening parenthesis. You could
space it out, writing...

print ( "Hello, World!" )

But I want you to learn the style conventions of Python, so I'll ask you to
omit spaces when it’s the conventional thing to do.
Find the interactive coding exercises for this chapter at:
http://www.ASmarterWayToLearn.com/python/1.html
 2
Variables for Strings

Please memorize the following facts.

My name is Mark.

My nationality is U.S.

Now that you've memorized my name and nationality, I won't have to

repeat them again. If I say to you, "You probably know other people who have
my name," you'll know I'm referring to "Mark."
If I ask you whether my nationality is the same as yours, I won't have to ask,
"Is your nationality the same as U.S.?" I'll ask, "Is your nationality the same as
my nationality?" You'll remember that when I say "my nationality," I'm referring
to "U.S.", and you'll compare your nationality with "U.S.", even though I haven't
said "U.S." explicitly.
In these examples, the terms my name and my nationality work the same
way Python variables do. my name refers to a particular value, "Mark." In the
same way, a variable refers to a particular value. You could say that my name is
a variable that refers to the string "Mark."
A variable is created this way:

name = "Mark"

Now the variable name refers to the text string "Mark".

Note that it was my choice to call it name. I could have called it my_name,
xyz, lol, or something else. It's up to me how to name my variables, within
limits. More on those limits later.
With the string "Mark" assigned to the variable name, my Python code
doesn't have to specify "Mark" again. Whenever Python encounters name,
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 "I'll have the jam, please."
"That's right, Miss," laughed Jemima. "Sweets is good."
"Arn't you coming to your tea, Jemima? There'll be a fuss if she
comes in and finds you have not begun it."
"Bother the tea! We are not obliged to swallow it down just at the
minute she pleases," was the answer of Jemima.
"I say," exclaimed the other suddenly, "what do you think I saw?
Young King——"
Jemima gave a warning shake of the head, and pointed to me.
The conversation was dropped to a whisper, in which I once caught
the words "that handsome George Heneage." Presently steps were
heard approaching, and the two maids disturbed themselves. Sarah
caught up the plate of bread and butter, and stood as if she were
handing it to me, and Jemima stirred the fire vigorously. It had been
warm in the day, but the bit of lighted fire in the grate looked
pleasant in the autumn evening. The footsteps passed on.
"How stupid you are, Sarah! startling one for nothing!" exclaimed
Jemima.
"I thought it was Charlotte Delves. It sounded just like her foot."
"She's in the kitchen, and won't come out of it till the dinner's
gone in. She's in one of her tempers to-day."
"Is Charlotte Delves the mistress?" I could not help asking.
Both the maids burst out laughing. "She would like to be, Miss;
and she is, too, in many things," answered Jemima. "When young
madam came home first——"
"Hush, Jemima! she may go and repeat it again."
Jemima looked at me. "No: she does not look like it. You won't go
and repeat in the drawing-room the nonsense we foolish servants
talk, will you, Miss Hereford?"
"Of course I will not. Mamma taught me never to carry tales; she
said it made mischief."
"And so it does, Miss," cried Jemima. "Your mamma was a nice
lady, I'm sure! Was she not Mrs. Edwin Barley's sister?"
 Before I had time to answer, Charlotte Delves came in. We had
not heard her, and I thought she must have crept up on tiptoe.
Sarah made her escape. Jemima took up the jam-pot.
"What are you waiting for?" she demanded, with asperity.
"I came in to see if the young lady wanted anything, ma'am."
"When Miss Hereford wants anything, she will ring."
Jemima retired. I went on with may tea, and Miss Delves began
asking me questions about home and mamma. We were interrupted
by a footman. He was bringing the fish out of the dining-room, and
he laid the dish down on the table. Miss Delves turned her chair
towards it, and began her dinner. I found that this was her usual
manner of dining, but I thought it a curious one. The dishes, as they
came out of the dining-room, were placed before her, and she
helped herself. Her other meals she took when she pleased, Jemima
generally waiting upon her. I did wonder who she could be.
It seemed that I had to sit there a long while. I was then taken
upstairs by Jemima, and my hair brushed. It hung down in curls all
round, and Jemima pleased me by saying it was the loveliest brown
hair she ever saw. Then I was marshalled to the drawing-room.
Jemima opened the door quietly, and I went in, seen, I believe, by
nobody. It was a large room, of a three-cornered shape, quite full of
bright furniture. Selina's grand piano was in the angle.
Standing before the fire, talking, were the clergyman and Mr.
Edwin Barley. A stranger might have taken one for the other, for the
clergyman was in his sporting clothes, and Mr. Barley was all in
black, with a white neckcloth. On a distant sofa, apparently reading
a newspaper, sat Philip King; his features were handsome, but they
had a very cross, disagreeable expression. He held the newspaper
nearly level with his face, and I saw that his eyes, instead of being
on it, were watching the movements of Mrs. Edwin Barley. She was
at the piano, not so much singing or playing, as trying scraps of
songs and pieces; Mr. Heneage standing by and talking to her. I
went quietly round by the chairs at the back, and sat down on the
low footstool at the corner of the hearth. The clergyman saw me
and smiled. Mr. Barley did not; he stood with his back to me. He also
seemed to be watching the piano, or those at it, while he spoke in a
low, confidential tone with the clergyman.
"I disagree with you entirely, Barley," Mr. Martin was saying. "Rely
upon it, he will be all the better and happier for following a
profession. Why! at Easter he made up his mind to read for the Bar!"
"Young men are changeable as the wind, especially those whom
fortune has placed at ease in the world," replied Mr. Barley. "Philip
was red-hot for the Bar at Easter, as you observe; but something
appears to have set him against it now."
"You, as his guardian and trustee, should urge him to take it up;
or, if not that, something else. A life of idleness plays the very ruin
with some natures; and it strikes me that Philip King has no great
resources within him to counteract the mischief of non-occupation.
What is the amount of his property?" resumed Mr. Martin, after a
pause.
"About eighteen hundred pounds a year the estate brings in."
"Nonsense! I thought it was only ten or twelve."
"Eighteen, full. Reginald's was a long minority, you know."
"Well, if it brought in eight-and-twenty, I should still say give him a
profession. Let him have some legitimate work; occupy his hands
and his head, and they won't get into mischief. That's sound advice,
mind, Barley."
"Quite sound," rejoined Mr. Barley; but there was a tone in his
voice throughout that to me seemed to tell either of want of
sincerity or else of a knowledge that to urge a profession on Philip
King would be wrong and useless. At this period of my life people
used to reproach me with taking up prejudices, likes, and dislikes; as
I grew older, I knew that God had gifted me in an eminent degree
with the faculty of reading human countenances and human tones.
"I have no power to force a profession upon him," resumed Mr.
Edwin Barley; "and I should not exercise it if I had. Shall I tell you
why?"
 "Well?"
"I don't think his lungs are sound. In my opinion, he is likely to go
off as his brother did."
"Of consumption!" hastily muttered the clergyman: and Mr. Edwin
Barley nodded.
"Therefore, why urge him to fag at acquiring a profession that he
may not live to exercise?" continued Mr. Barley. "He looks anything
but well; he is nothing like as robust as he was at Easter."
Mr. Martin turned his head and attentively scanned the face of
Philip King. "I don't see anything the matter with him, Barley, except
that he looks uncommonly cross. I hope you are mistaken."
"I hope I am. I saw a whole row of medicine phials in his room
yesterday: when I inquired what they did there, he told me they
contained steel medicine—tonics—the physician at Oxford had
ordered them. Did you ever notice him at dinner—what he eats?"
"Not particularly."
"Do so, then, on the next opportunity. He takes scarcely anything.
The commencement of Reginald's malady was loss of appetite: the
doctors prescribed tonics for him. But they did not succeed in saving
him."
Once more Mr. Martin turned his eyes on Philip King. "How old was
Reginald King when he died?"
"Twenty-three. Three years older than Philip is now."
"Well, poor fellow, I hope he will outlive his weakness, whatever
may cause it, and get strong again. That money of his would be a
nice windfall for somebody to drop into," added the clergyman, after
a pause. "Who is heir-at-law?"
"I am."
"You!"
"Of course I am," was the quiet reply of Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Nurse him up, nurse him up, then," said the clergyman, jokingly.
"Lest, if anything did happen, the world should say you had not
done your best to prevent it; for you know you are a dear lover of
money, Barley."
There may have been a great deal more said, but I did not hear.
My head had sought the wall for its resting-place, and sleep stole
over me.
What I felt most glad of, the next morning, was to get my purse.
There were twenty-seven shillings in it; and old Betty had caused it
to be put in one of the boxes, vexing me. "People in the train might
rob me of it," she said.
Jemima waited on me at dressing, and I had breakfast in Miss
Delves's parlour. Afterwards I went up to Mrs. Edwin Barley in the
drawing-room. She was in mourning, deep as mine.
"I had been tempted to put it off for a cool dress yesterday
evening," she said to me. "What with the dinner, and the fire they
will have, though I am sure it is not weather for it, I feel melted in
black. The fire is kept large to please Philip King. So Miss Delves
informed me when I remonstrated against it the other day. He must
be of a chilly nature."
Remembering what I had heard said the previous night, I thought
he might be. But the words had afforded the opportunity for a
question that I was longing, in my curiosity, to put.
"Selina, who is Miss Delves? Is she a lady or a servant?"
"You had better not call her a servant, Anne; she would never
forgive it," answered Selina, with a laugh. "She is a relative of Mr.
Edwin Barley's."
"Then, why does she not sit with you, and dine at table?"
"Because I do not choose that she shall sit with me, and dine at
table," was the resentful, haughty retort; and I could see that there
had been some past unpleasantness in regard to Miss Delves. "When
Mr. Edwin Barley's mother died, who used to live with him, Charlotte
Delves came here as mistress of the house. That was all very well so
long as there was no legitimate mistress, but ages went on, and I
came to it. She assumed a great deal; I found she was planted down
at table with us, and made herself my companion in the drawing-
room at will. I did not like it; and one day I told my husband so in
her presence. I said that I must be the sole mistress in my own
house, and quitted the room, leaving them to settle it. Since then
she has taken the parlour for her sitting-room, and looks to the
household, as she did before. In short, Miss Delves is housekeeper. I
have no objection to that; it saves me trouble, and I know nothing
of domestic management. Now and then I invite her to take tea with
us, or to a drive with me in the pony carriage, and we are vastly
polite to each other always."
"But if you do not like her——"
"Like her!" interrupted Selina. "My dear child, we hate each other
like poison. It was not in human nature, you know, for her not to
feel my entrance to the house as a wrong, displacing her from her
high post, and from the influence she had contrived to acquire over
Mr. Edwin Barley. They were as intimate as brother and sister; and I
believe he is the only living being she cares for in the whole world.
When I took a high tone with her, it exasperated her all the more
against me, there's no doubt of it; and she repays it by carrying
petty tales of me to Mr. Edwin Barley."
"And whose part did he take, Selina!"
"MINE, of course—always?" she returned, with a forcible emphasis
on the first word. "But it has never been open warfare between me
and Miss Delves, Anne; you must understand that. Should anything
of the sort supervene, she would have to quit the house. A bitter pill
that would be, for she has no money, and would have to go out as
housekeeper in reality, or something of the kind. My occupation
would be gone then."
"What occupation?"
"The saying and doing all sorts of wild things to make her think ill
of me. She goes and whispers them to Mr. Edwin Barley. He listens
to her—I know he does, and that provokes me. Well, little pet, what
are those honest brown eyes of yours longing to say?"
"Why did you marry him, Selina?"
"People say for money, Anne. I say it was fate."
 "He persuaded you, perhaps?"
"He did. Persuaded, pressed, worried me. He was two years
talking me into it. Better, perhaps, that he had given his great love
elsewhere! Better for him, possibly, that he had married Charlotte
Delves!"
"But did he want to marry Charlotte Delves?"
"Never. I don't believe that even the thought ever entered his
head. The servants say she used to hope it; but they rattle nonsense
at random. Edwin Barley never cared but for two things in the world:
myself and money."
"Money?"
"Money, Anne. Pretty little pieces of gold and silver; new, crisp
bank-notes; yellow old deeds of parchment, representing houses and
lands. He cares for money almost as much as for me; and he'll care
for it more than for me in time. Who's this?"
It was Philip King. He came in, looking more cross, if possible,
than he did the previous night. His face shone out sickly, too, in the
bright morning sun. Selina spoke, but did not offer her hand.
"Good morning, Mr. King; I hope you feel better to-day. You did
not get down to breakfast, I understand. Neither did I?"
"I did get down to breakfast," he answered, speaking as if
something had very much put him out. "I took it with Mr. Edwin
Barley in his study."
"Leaving George Heneage to breakfast alone. You two polite men!
Had I known that, I would have come down and breakfasted with
him."
That she said this in a spirit of mischief, in a manner most
especially calculated to provoke him, I saw by the saucy look that
shot from her bright blue eyes.
"I think you and Heneage breakfast together quite often enough
as it is, Mrs. Edwin Barley."
"You do? Then, if I were you, sir, I would have the good manners
to keep such thoughts to myself; or tell them to Mr. Edwin Barley, if
you like. He might offer you a premium for them—who knows?"
Philip King was getting into an angry heat.
"I hope you have tolerably strong shoulders," she resumed, as if
struck with some sudden thought.
"Why so?"
"George Heneage intends to try his cane upon them on the next
convenient day."
His lips turned white.
"Mrs. Barley, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. You have taken to peep and pry after me—
whether set on by any one, or from some worthy motive of your
own, you best know. It will not serve you, Philip King. If there be
one thing more detestable than another, it is that of spying. I
happened to mention this new pastime of yours before Mr. Heneage,
and he observed that he had a cane somewhere. That's all."
The intense aggravation with which she said it was enough to
rouse the ire of one less excitable than Philip King. He was breaking
out in abuse of Mr. Heneage, when the latter happened to come in.
A few menacing words, a dark look or two from either side, and then
came the quarrel.
A quarrel that terrified me. I ran out of the room; I ran back
again; I don't know what I did. Mrs. Edwin Barley seemed nearly as
excited as they were: it was not the first time I had seen her in a
passion. She called out (taking the words from the old ballad, "Lord
Thomas"), that she cared more for the little finger of George
Heneage than for the whole body of ill-conditioned Philip King. I
knew it was only one of her wild sayings: when in a passion she did
not mind what she said, or whom she offended. I knew that this
present quarrel was altogether Selina's fault—that her love of
provocation had brought it on. Mr. Edwin Barley had gone over to his
brother's; and it was well, perhaps, that it was so.
Jemima appeared on the stairs, carrying up a pail—there was no
back staircase to the house. "What is the matter, Miss Hereford?"
she asked. "Goodness me! how you are trembling!"
"They are quarrelling in there—Mr. Heneage and Mr. King. I am
afraid they will fight."
"Oh, it has come to that, has it?" said Jemima, carelessly. "I
thought it would. Never mind them, Miss Hereford; they'll not hurt
you."
She tripped upstairs with the pail, as if a quarrel were the most
natural event in the world, and I looked into the room again. Mr.
Heneage held Philip King by the collar of the coat.
"Mark me!" he was saying; "if I catch you dodging my movements
again, if I hear of your being insolent to this lady, I'll shoot you with
as little compunction as I would a partridge. There!"
"What is Mrs. Edwin Barley to you, that you should interfere?"
retorted Philip King, his voice raised to a shriek. "And she! Why does
she set herself to provoke me every hour of my life?"
"I interfere of right: by my long friendship with her, and by the
respect I bear for her mother's memory. Now you know."
Mr. Heneage gave a shake to the collar as he spoke, and I ran up
to my room, there to sob out my fit of terror. My heart was beating,
my breath catching itself in gasps. In my own peaceful home I had
never seen or heard the faintest shadow of a quarrel.
By-and-by Jemima came in search of me. Mrs. Edwin Barley was
waiting for me to go out in the pony carriage. I washed my face and
my red eyes, was dressed, and went down. At the door stood a low
open basket-chaise, large and wide, drawn by a pony. Mrs. Edwin
Barley was already in it, and Mr. Heneage stood waiting for me. He
drove, and I sat on a stool at their feet. We went through green
lanes, and over a pleasant common. Not a word was said about the
recent quarrel; but part of the time they spoke together in an
undertone, and I did not try to hear. We were away about two
hours.
"You can run about the grounds until your dinner's ready, if you
like, Anne," Mrs. Barley said to me when we alighted. "I daresay you
feel cramped, sitting so long on that low seat."
 She went in with Mr. Heneage, the footman saying that some
ladies were waiting. I ran away amidst the trees, and presently lost
myself. As I stood, wondering which way to take, Mr. Edwin Barley
and Philip King came through, arm-in-arm, on their way home,
talking together eagerly. I thought Philip King was telling about the
quarrel.
It was no doubt unfortunate that my acquaintance with Mr. Edwin
Barley should have begun with a fright. I was a most impressionable
child, and could not get over that first fear. Every time I met him, my
heart, as the saying runs, leaped into my mouth. He saw me and
spoke.
"So you have got back, Anne Hereford?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, my lips feeling as if they were glued
together.
"Where's Mrs. Barley?"
"She is gone indoors, sir."
"And George Heneage. Where's he?"
"He went in also, sir. John said some visitors were waiting to see
Mrs. Barley."
And to that he made no rejoinder, but went on with Philip King.
Nothing more occurred that day to disturb the peace of the house.
A gentleman, who called in the afternoon, was invited to dine, and
stayed. Mrs. Edwin Barley rang for me as soon as she went up to the
drawing-room. I thought how lovely she looked in her black net
dress, and with the silver ornaments on her neck and arms.
"What did you think of Mr. Philip King's temper this morning,
Anne?" she asked, as she stood near the fire and sipped the cup of
coffee that John had brought in.
"Oh, Selina! I never was so alarmed before."
"You little goose! But it was a specimen, was it not, of
gentlemanly bearing?"
"I think—I mean I thought—that it was not Mr. King who was in
fault," I said; not, however, liking to say it.
 "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?"
"I would give something to know what's up, and why I am called
for in this fashion," was his rejoinder, spoken angrily. "They might let
me alone until the term I was invited for here is at an end."
Mrs. Edwin Barley laughed. "Perhaps our friend, Philip King, has
favoured Heneage Grange with a communication, telling of your
fancied misdoings."
No doubt she spoke it lightly, neither believing her own words nor
heeding the fashion of them. But George Heneage took them
seriously; and it unfortunately happened that she ran up the steps at
the same moment. A stir was heard in the summer-house. Mr.
Heneage dashed in in time to see Philip King escaping by the
opposite door.
The notion that he had been "spying" was, of course, taken up by
Mr. Heneage. With a passionate word, he was speeding after him;
but Mrs. Edwin Barley caught his arm.
"George, you shall not go. There might be murder done between
you."
"I'll pay him off; I'll make him remember it! Pray release me. I beg
your pardon, Selina."
For he had flung her hand away with rather too much force, in his
storm of passion; and was crashing through the opposite door, and
down the steps, in pursuit of Philip King. Both of them made straight
for the wood; but Philip King had a good start, and nothing in his
hand; George Heneage had his gun. Selina alluded to it.
"I hope it is not loaded! Flying along with that speed, he might
strike it against a tree, and be shot before he knows it. Anne, look
here! You are fleeter than I. Run you crossways over that side grass
to the corner entrance; it will take you to a path in the wood where
you will just meet them. Tell Mr. Heneage from me, that I command
him to come back, and to let Philip King alone. I command it, in his
mother's name."
I did not dare to refuse, and yet scarcely dared to go. I ran along,
my heart beating. Arrived at the entrance indicated I plunged in, and
went on down many turns and windings amidst the trees. They were
not very thick, and were intersected by narrow paths. But no one
could I see.
And now arrived a small calamity. I had lost my way. How to trace
an exit from the wood I knew not, and felt really frightened. Down I
sat on an old stump, and cried. What if I should have to stay there
until morning!
Not so. A slight noise made me look up. Who should be standing
near, his back against a tree, smoking a cigar and smiling at me, but
Philip King.
"What is the grief, Miss Anne? Have you met a wolf?"
"I can't find my way out, sir."
"Oh, I'll soon show you that. We are almost close to the south
border. You——"
He stopped suddenly, turned his head, and looked attentively in a
direction to the left. At that moment there came a report, something
seemed to whizz through the air, and strike Philip King. He leaped
up, and then fell to the ground with a scream. This was followed so
instantly that it seemed to be part and parcel of the scream, by a
distant exclamation of dismay or of warning. From whom did it
come?
Though not perfectly understanding what had occurred, or that
Philip King had received a fatal shot, I screamed also, and fell on my
knees; not fainting, but with a sick, horrible sensation of fear, such
as perhaps no child ever before experienced. And the next thing I
saw was Mr. Edwin Barley, coming towards us with his gun, not quite
from the same direction as the shot, but very near it. I had been
thinking that George Heneage must have done it, but another
question arose now to my terrified heart: Could it have been Mr.
Edwin Barley?
 "Philip, what is it?" he asked, as he came up. "Has any one fired at
you?"
"George Heneage," was the faint rejoinder. "I saw him. He stood
there."
With a motion of the eyes, rather than with aught else, poor Philip
King pointed to the left, and Mr. Edwin Barley turned and looked,
laying his gun against a tree. Nothing was to be seen.
"Are you sure, Philip?"
"I tell it you with my dying lips. I saw him."
Not another word. Mr. Edwin Barley raised his head, but the face
had grown still, and had an awful shade upon it—the same shade
that mamma's first wore after she was dead. Mr. Barley put the head
gently down, and stood looking at him. All in a moment he caught
sight of me, and I think it startled him.
"Are you there, you little imp?"
But the word, ugly though it sounds, was spoken in rough
surprise, not in unkindness. I cried and shook, too terrified to give
any answer. Mr. Barley stood up before Philip King, so that I no
longer saw him.
"What were you doing in the wood?"
"I lost my way, and could not get out sir," I sobbed, trembling lest
he should press for further details. "That gentleman saw me, and
was saying he would show me the way out, when he fell."
"Had he been here long?"
"I don't know. I was crying a good while, and not looking up. It
was only a minute ago that I saw him standing there."
"Did you see Mr. Heneage fire?"
"Oh no, sir. I did not see Mr. Heneage at all."
He took my hand, walked with me a few steps, and showed me a
path that was rather wider than the others. "Go straight down here
until you come to a cross-path, running right and left: it is not far.
Take the one to the right, and it will bring you out in front of the
house. Do you understand, little one?"
 "Yes, sir," I answered, though, in truth, too agitated to understand
distinctly, and only anxious to get away from him. Suppose he
should shoot me! was running through my foolish thoughts.
"Make speed to the house, then," he resumed, "and see Charlotte
Delves. Tell her what has occurred: that Philip King has been shot,
and that she must send help to convey him home. She must also
send at once for the doctor, and for the police. Can you remember
all that?"
"Oh yes, sir. Is he much hurt?"
"He is dead, child. Now be as quick as you can. Do not tell your
aunt what has happened: it would alarm her."
I sped along quicker than any child ever sped before, and soon
came to the cross-path. But there I made a mistake: I went blindly
on to the left, instead of to the right, and I came suddenly upon Mr.
Heneage. He was standing quite still, leaning on his gun, his finger
on his lip to impose silence and caution on me, and his face looked
as I had never seen it look before, white as death.
"Whose voice was that I heard talking to you?" he asked, in a
whisper.
"Mr. Edwin Barley's. Oh, sir, don't stop me; Mr. King is dead!"
"Dead! Mr. King dead?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Edwin Barley says so, and I am on my way to the
house to tell Miss Delves to send for the police. Mr. Heneage, did you
do it?"
"I! You silly child!" he returned, in an accent of rebuke. "What in
the world put that in your head? I have been looking for Philip King
—waiting here in the hope that he might pass. There, go along,
child, and don't tremble so. That way: you are coming from the
house, this."
Back I went, my fears increasing. To an imaginative, excitable, and
timid nature, such as mine, all this was simply terrible. I did gain the
house, but only to rush into the arms of Jemima, who happened to
be in the hall, and fall into a fit of hysterical, nervous, sobbing cries,
clinging to her tightly, as if I could never let her go again.
A pretty messenger, truly, in time of need!
 CHAPTER III.
GOING OUT IN THE FOG.

Help had arrived from another quarter. A knot of labourers on the

estate, going home from work, happened to choose the road
through the wood, and Mr. Edwin Barley heard them.
One of them, a young man they called Duff, was at the house
almost as soon as I. He came into the hall, and saw me clinging to
Jemima. Nothing could have stopped my threatened fit of hysterics
so effectually as an interruption. Duff told his tale. The young heir
had been shot in the wood, he said. "Shot dead!"
"The young heir!" cried Jemima, with a cry. She was at no loss to
understand who was meant: it was what Philip King had been mostly
styled since his brother's death. Charlotte Delves came forward as
Duff was speaking. Duff took off his felt hat in deference to her, and
explained.
She turned as white as a sheet—white as George Heneage had
looked—and sat down on a chair. Duff had not mentioned George
Heneage's name, only Mr. Edwin Barley's: perhaps she thought it
was the latter who had fired the shot.
"It must have been an accident, Duff. They are so careless with
their guns!"
"No, ma'am, it was murder! Leastways, that's what they are
saying."
"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.
"What is all this disturbance?" she began, as she tripped across
the hall, and it was the first intimation Mr. Edwin Barley had of her
presence. He might have arrested her, had there been time; but she
was bending over the table too soon. Believing, as she said
afterwards, that it was a load of game lying there, it must have been
a great shock; the grey-and-brown woollen plaid they had flung over
him, from the neck downwards, looking not unlike the colour of
partridge feathers in the dim light. There was no gas in the house;
oil was burnt in the hall and passages—wax-candles in the sitting-
rooms.
"It is Philip King!" she cried, with a sort of shriek. "What is the
matter? What is amiss with him?"
"Don't you see what it is?" returned Mr. Edwin Barley, who was all
this while chafing the poor cold hands. "He has been shot in the
chest; marked out in the wood, and shot down like a dog."
A cry of dread—of fear—broke from her. She began to tremble
violently. "How was it done, Edwin? Who did it?"
"You."
"I!" came from her ashy lips. "Are you going mad, Edwin Barley?"
"Selina, this is as surely the result of your work as though you had
actually drawn the trigger. I hope you are satisfied with it!"
"How can you be so cruel?" she asked, her bosom heaving, her
breath bursting from her in gasps.
He had spoken to her in a low, calm tone—not an angry one. It
changed to sorrow now.
"I thought harm would come of it; I have thought so these two
days; not, however, such harm as this. You have been urging that
fellow a little too much against this defenceless ward and relative of
mine; but I could not have supposed he would carry it on to murder.
Philip King would have died quite soon enough without that, Selina;
he was following Reginald with galloping strides."
Charlotte Delves returned with a teaspoon and the brandy in a
wine-glass. As is sure to be the case in an emergency, there had
been an unavoidable delay. The spirit-stand was not in its place, and
for a minute or two she had been unable to find it. Mr. Edwin Barley
took up a teaspoonful. His wife drew away.
 "Was it an accident, or—or—done deliberately?" inquired Charlotte
Delves, as she stood there, holding the glass.
"It was deliberate murder!"
"Duff said so. But who did it?"
"It is of no use, Charlotte," was all the reply Mr. Barley made, as
he gave her back the teaspoon. "He is quite dead."
Hasty footsteps were heard running along the avenue, and up the
steps to the door. They proved to be those of Mr. Lowe, the surgeon
from Hallam.
"I was walking over to Smith's to dinner, Mr. Edwin Barley, and
met one of your labourers coming for me," he exclaimed, in a loud
tone, as he entered. "He said some accident had happened to young
King."
"Accident enough," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Here he lies."
For a few moments nothing more was said. Mr. Lowe was stooping
over the table.
"I was trying to give him some brandy when you came in."
"He'll never take brandy or anything else again," was the reply of
Mr. Lowe. "He is dead."
"As I feared. Was as sure of it, in fact, as a non-professional man
can well be. I believe that he died in the wood, a minute after the
shot struck him."
"How did it happen?" asked the surgeon. "These young fellows are
so careless!"
"I'll tell you all I know," said Mr. Barley. "We had been out
shooting—he, I, and Heneage, with the two keepers. He and
Heneage were not upon good terms; they were sour with each other
as could be; had been cross and crabbed all day. Coming home,
Heneage dropped us; whether to go forward, or to lag behind, I am
unable to say. After that, we met Smith—as he can tell you, if you
are going to his house. He stopped me about that right-of-common
business, and began discussing what would be our better mode of
proceeding against the fellows. Philip King, whom it did not interest,
said he should go on, and Smith and I sat down on the bench
outside the beer-shop, and called for a pint of cider. Half-an-hour we
may have sat there, and then, I started for home through the wood,
which cuts off the corner——"
"Philip King having gone forward, did you say?" interrupted the
surgeon.
"Yes. I was nearly through the wood, when I heard a slight
movement near me, and then a gun was fired. A terrible scream—
the scream of a man, Lowe—succeeded in an opposite direction. I
pushed through the trees, and saw Philip King. He had leaped up
with the shot, and was then falling to the ground. I went to his
succour, and asked who had done it. 'George Heneage,' was his
answer. He had seen him raise his gun, take aim, and fire upon
him."
Crouching down there on the matting, trembling though I was, an
impulse prompted me to interrupt: to say that Mr. Edwin Barley's
words went beyond the truth. All that Philip King had said was, that
he saw George Heneage, saw him stand there. But fear was more
powerful than impulse, and I remained silent. How could I dare
contradict Mr. Edwin Barley?
"It must have been an accident," said Mr. Lowe. "Heneage must
have aimed at a bird."
"There's no doubt that it was deliberate murder!" replied Mr.
Edwin Barley. "My ward affirmed it to me with his dying lips. They
were his own words. I expressed a doubt, as you are doing. 'It was
Heneage,' he said; 'I tell it you with my dying lips.' A bad man!—a
villain!" Mr. Barley emphatically added. "Another day or two, and I
should have kicked him out of my house; I waited but a decent
pretext."
"If he is that, why did you have him in it?" asked the surgeon.
"Because it is but recently that my eyes have been opened to him
and his ways. This poor fellow," pointing to the dead, "lifted their
scales for me in the first instance. Pity the other is not the one to be
lying here!"
 Sounds of hysterical emotion were heard on the stairs: they came
from Mrs. Edwin Barley. It appeared that she had been sitting on the
lowest step all this while, her face bent on her knees, and must have
heard what passed. Mr. Barley, as if wishing to offer an apology for
her, said she had just looked on Philip King's face, and it had
frightened her much.
Mr. Lowe tried to persuade her to retire from the scene, but she
would not, and there she sat on, growing calm by degrees. The
surgeon measured something in a teaspoon into a wine-glass, filled
it up with cold water, and made her drink it. He then took his leave,
saying that he would call again in the course of the evening. Not a
minute had he been gone, when Mr. Martin burst into the hall.
"What is this report?" he cried, in agitation. "People are saying
that Philip King is killed."
"They might have said murdered," said Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Heneage shot him in the wood."
"Heneage!"
"Heneage. Took aim, and fired at him, and killed him. There never
was a case of more deliberate murder."
That Mr. Edwin Barley was actuated by intense animus as he said
this, the tone proved.
"Poor fellow!" said the clergyman, gently, as he leaned over him
and touched his face. "I have seen for some days they were not
cordial. What ill-blood could have been between them?"
"Heneage had better explain that when he makes his defence,"
said Mr. Edwin Barley, grimly.
"It is but a night or two ago that we were speculating on his
health, upon his taking a profession; we might have spared
ourselves the pains, poor lad. I asked you, who was his heir-at-law,
little thinking another would so soon inherit."
Mr. Edwin Barley made no reply.
"Why—good heavens!—is that Mrs. Barley sitting there?" he
inquired, in a low tone, as his eyes fell on the distant stairs.
 "She won't move away. These things do terrify women. Don't
notice her, Martin: she will be better left to herself."
"Upon my word, this is a startling and sudden blow," resumed the
clergyman, again recurring to the death. "But you must surely be
mistaken in calling it murder."
"There's no mistake about it: it was wilful murder. I am as sure of
it as though I had seen the aim taken," persisted Mr. Barley. "And I
will pursue Heneage to the death."
"Have you secured him? If it really is murder, he must answer for
it. Where is he?"
Mr. Barley spoke a passionate word. It was a positive fact—
account for it, any one that can—that until that moment he had
never given a thought to the securing of George Heneage. "What a
fool I have been!" he exclaimed, "what an idiot! He has had time to
escape."
"He cannot have escaped far."
"Stay here, will you, Martin. I'll send the labourers after him; he
may be hiding in the wood until the night's darker."
Mr. Edwin Barley hastened from the hall, and the clergyman bent
over the table again. I had my face turned to him, and was scarcely
conscious, until it had passed, of something dark that glided from
the back of the hall, and followed Mr. Barley out. With him gone, to
whom I had taken so unaccountable a dislike and dread, it was my
favourable moment for escape; I seemed to fear him more than poor
Philip King on the table. But nervous terror held possession of me
still, and in moving I cried out in spite of myself. The clergyman
looked round.
"I declare it is little Miss Hereford!" he said, very kindly, as he took
my hand. "What brought you there, my dear?"
I sobbed out the explanation. That I had been pushed into the
corner by the table, and was afraid to move. "Don't tell, sir, please!
Mr. Edwin Barley might be angry with me. Don't tell him I was
there."
 "He would not be angry at a little girl's very natural fears,"
answered Mr. Martin, stroking my hair. "But I will not tell him. Will
you stay by your aunt, Mrs. Edwin Barley?"
"Yes, please, sir."
"But where is Mrs. Barley?" he resumed, as he led me towards the
stairs.
"I was wondering, too," interposed Charlotte Delves, who stood at
the dining-room door. "A minute ago she was still sitting there. I
turned into the room for a moment, and when I came back she was
gone."
"She must have gone upstairs, Miss Delves."
"I suppose she has, Mr. Martin," was Miss Delves's reply. But a
thought came over me that it must have been Mrs. Edwin Barley
who had glided out at the hall-door.
And, in point of fact, it was. She was sought for upstairs, and
could not be found; she was sought for downstairs, all in vain.
Whither had she gone? On what errand was she bent? One of those
raw, damp fogs, prevalent in the autumn months, had come on,
making the air wet, as if with rain, and she had no out-door things
on, no bonnet, and her black silk dress had a low body and short
sleeves. Was she with her husband, searching the wood for George
Heneage?
The dark oak-door that shut out the passage leading to the
domains of the servants was pushed open, and Jemima's head
appeared at it. I ran and laid hold of her.
"Oh, Jemima, let me stay by you!"
"Hark!" she whispered, putting her arm round me. "There are
horses galloping up to the house."
Two police-officers, mounted. They gave their horses in charge to
one of the men-servants, and came into the hall, the scabbards of
their swords clanking against the steps.
"I don't like the look of them," whispered Jemima. "Let us go
away."
 She took me to the kitchen. Sarah, Mary, and the cook were in it;
the latter a tall, stout woman, with a rosy colour and black eyes. Her
chief concern seemed to be for the dinner.
"Look here," she exclaimed to Jemima, as she stood over her
saucepans, "everything's a-spiling. Who's to know whether they'll
have it served in one hour or in two?"
"I should think they wouldn't have it served at all," returned
Jemima: "that sight in the hall's enough dinner for them to-day, one
would suppose. The police are come now."
"Ah, it is bad, I know," said the cook. "And the going to look at it
took everything else out of my head, worse luck to me! I forgot my
soles were on the fire, and when I got back they were burnt to the
pan. I've had to skin 'em now, and put 'em into wine sauce. Who's
this coming in?"
It was Miss Delves. The cook appealed to her about the dinner.
"It won't be eatable, ma'am, if it's kept much longer. Some of the
dishes is half cold, and some's dried up to a scratchin'."
"There's no help for it, cook; you must manage it in the best way
you can," was Miss Delves's reply. "It is a dreadful thing to have
happened, but I suppose dinner must be served all the same for the
master and Mrs. Edwin Barley."
"Miss Delves, is it true what they are saying—that it was Mr.
Heneage who did it?" inquired Sarah.
"Suppose you trouble yourself with your own affairs, and let alone
what does not concern you," was Miss Delves's reprimand.
She left the kitchen. Jemima made a motion of contempt after her,
and gave the door a bang.
"She'll put in her word against Mr. Heneage, I know; for she didn't
like him. But I am confident it was never he that did it—unless his
gun went off accidental."
For full an hour by the clock we stayed in the kitchen,
uninterrupted, the cook reducing herself to a state of despair over
the uncalled-for dinner. The men-servants had been sent out, some
to one place, some to another. The cook served us some coffee and
bread-and-butter, but I don't think any one of us touched the latter. I
thought by that time my aunt must surely have come in, and asked
Jemima to take me upstairs to her. A policeman was in the hall as
we passed across the back of it, and Charlotte Delves and Mr. Martin
were sitting in the dining-room, the door open. Mrs. Edwin Barley
was nowhere to be found, and we went back to the kitchen. I began
to cry; a dreadful fear came upon me that she might have gone
away for ever, and left me to the companionship of Mr. Edwin Barley.
"Come and sit down here, child," said the cook, in a motherly way,
as she placed a low stool near the fire. "It's enough to frighten her,
poor little stranger, to have this happen, just as she comes into the
house."
"I say, though, where can the mistress be!" Jemima said to her, in
a low tone, as I drew the stool into the shade and sat down, leaning
my head against the wall.
Presently Miss Delves's bell rang. The servants said they always
knew her ring—it came with a jerk. Jemima went to answer it. It
was for some hot water, which she took up. Somebody was going to
have brandy-and-water, she said; perhaps Mr. Martin—she did not
know. Her master was in the hall then, and Mr. Barley, of the Oaks,
was with him.
"Who's Mr. Barley of the Oaks, Jemima?" I asked.
"He is master's elder brother, Miss. He lives at the Oaks, about
three miles from here. Such a nice place it is—ten times better than
this. When the old gentleman died, Mr. Barley came into the Oaks,
and Mr. Edwin into this."
Then there was silence again for another half-hour. I sat with my
eyes closed, and heard them say I was asleep. The young farm
labourer, Duff, came in at last.
"Well," said he, "it have been a useless chase. I wonder whether I
am wanted for anything else."
"Where have you been?" asked Jemima.
 "Scouring the wood, seven of us, in search of Mr. Heneage: and
them two mounted police is a-dashing about the roads. We haven't
found him."
"Duff, Mr. Heneage no more did it than you did."
"That's all you know about it," was Duff's answer. "Master says he
did."
"Have a cup of coffee, Duff?" asked the cook.
"Thank ye," said Duff. "I'd be glad on't."
She was placing the cup before him, when he suddenly leaned
forward from the chair he had taken, speaking in a covert whisper.
"I say, who do you think was in the wood, a-scouring it, up one
path and down another, as much as ever we was?"
"Who?" asked the servants in a breath.
"The young missis. She hadn't got an earthly thing on her but just
what she sits in, indoors. Her hair was down, and her neck and arms
was bare; and there she was, a-racing up and down like one
demented."
"Tush!" said the cook. "You must have seen double. What should
bring young madam dancing about the wood, Duff, at this time o'
night?"
"I tell ye I see her. I see her three times over. Maybe she was
looking for Mr. Heneage, too. At any rate, there she was, and with
nothing on, as if she'd started out in a hurry, and had forget to dress
herself. And if she don't catch a cold, it's odd to me," added Duff.
"The fog's as thick as pea-soup, and wets you worse than rain. 'Twas
enough to give her her death."
Duff's report was true. As he spoke, a bell called Jemima up again.
She came back, laid hold of me without speaking, and took me to
the drawing-room. Mrs. Edwin Barley stood there, just come in: she
was shaking like a leaf, with the damp and cold, her hair dripping
wet. When she had seen her husband leave the hall in search of
George Heneage, an impulse came over her to follow and interpose
between the anger of the two, should they meet. At least, partly
this, partly to look after George Heneage herself, and warn him to
escape. She gave me this explanation openly.
"I could not find him," she said, kneeling down before the fire,
and holding out her shivering arms to the blaze. "I hope and trust he
has escaped. One man's life is enough for me to have upon my
hands, without having two."
"Oh, Aunt Selina! you did not take Philip King's life!"
"No, I did not take it. And I have been guilty of no intentional
wrong. But I did set the one against the other, Anne—in my vanity
and wilfulness."
Looking back to the child's eyes with which I saw things then, and
judging of these same things with my woman's experience now, I
can but hold Selina Barley entirely to blame. An indulged daughter,
born when her sister Ursula was nearly grown, she had been
suffered to have her own way at Keppe-Carew, and grew up to think
the world was made for her. Dangerously attractive, fond to excess
of admiration, she had probably encouraged Philip King's boyish
fancy, and then turned round upon him for it. At the previous Easter,
on his former visit, she had been all smiles and sweetness; this time
she had done nothing but turn him into ridicule. "What is sport to
you may be death to me," says the fly to the spider. It might not
have mattered so much from her, this ridicule; but she pressed
George Heneage into the service: and Philip King was not of a
disposition to bear it tamely. His weak health made him appear
somewhat of a coward; he was not strong enough to take the law
into his own hands, and repay Mr. Heneage with personal
chastisement. Selina's liking for George Heneage was no doubt
great; but it was not an improper liking, although the world—the
little world at Mr. Edwin Barley's—might have wished to deem it so.
Before she married Mr. Edwin Barley, she refused George Heneage,
and laughed at him for proposing to her. She should wed a rich man,
she told him, or none at all. It was Mr. Edwin Barley himself who
invited Heneage to his house, and also Philip King, as it most
unfortunately happened. His wife, in her wilful folly—I had almost
written her wilful wickedness—played them off, one upon another.
The first day they met, Philip King took umbrage at some remark of
Mr. Heneage's, and Selina, liking the one, and disliking the other,
forthwith began. A few days on, and young King so far forgot his
good manners as to tell her she "liked that Coxcomb Heneage too
much." The reproach made her laugh; but she, nevertheless, out of
pure mischief, did what she could to confirm Philip King in the
impression. He, Philip King, took to talk of this to Miss Delves; he
took to watch Selina and George Heneage; there could be little
doubt that he carried tales of his observation to Mr. Edwin Barley,
which only incited Selina to persevere; the whole thing amused her
immensely. What passed between Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Barley, in
private about it, whether anything or nothing, was never known. At
the moment of the accident he was exceedingly vexed with her;
incensed may be the proper word.
And poor Philip King! perhaps, after all, his death may have been
a mistake—if it was in truth George Heneage that it proceeded from.
Circumstances, as they came out, seemed to say that he had not
been "spying," but only taking the short cut through the summer-
house on his way home from shooting; an unusual route, it's true,
but not an impossible one. Seeing them on the other side when he
entered it, he waited until they should proceed onwards; but Mrs.
Barley's sudden run up the steps sent him away. Not that he would
avoid them; only make his escape, without their seeing him, lest he
should be accused of the very thing they did accuse him of—spying.
But he was too late; the creaking of the outer door betrayed him. At
least this was the opinion taken up by Mr. Martin, later, when Selina
told the whole truth to him, under the seal of secrecy.
But Mrs. Edwin Barley was kneeling before the fire in the drawing-
room, with her dripping hair; and I standing by her looking on; and
that first terrible night was not over.
"Selina, why did you stay out in the wet fog?"
"I was looking for him, I tell you, Anne."
"But you had nothing on. You might have caught your death, Duff
said."
 "And what if I had?" she sharply interrupted. "I'd as soon die as
live."
It was one of her customary random retorts, meaning nothing.
Before more was said, strange footsteps and voices were heard on
the stairs. Selina started up, and looked at herself in the glass.
"I can't let them see me like this," she muttered, clutching her
drooping hair. "You wait here, Anne."
Darting to the side-door she had spoken of as leading to her
bedroom, she pulled it open with a wrench, as if a bolt had given
way, and disappeared, leaving me standing on the hearth-rug.
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