It was a week later before Bertie came. He was brought to call by his mother and sisters in great delight and pomp; and then there ensued the strangest scene, of which only half the company had the least comprehension. The room which Kate had chosen as their sitting-room was an oblong room, with another smaller one opening from it. This small room was almost opposite the fireplace in the larger one, and made a draught which some people—indeed, most people—objected to; but as the broad open doorway was amply curtained, and a great deal of sun came in along with the imaginary draught, the brightness of the place won the day against all objections. The little room was thus preserved from the air of secrecy and retirement common to such rooms. No one could retire to flirt there; no one could listen unseen to conversations not intended for them. The piano was placed in it, and the writing-table, under the broad recessed window, which filled the whole end of it. It was light as a lantern, swept by the daylight from side to side, and the two fires kept it as warm as it was bright. When Mrs. Hardwick sailed in, bearing under her convoy her two blooming girls close behind her, and the tall brother towering over their heads, a more proud or happy woman could not be.

‘I have brought my Bertie to see you,’ she said, all the seriousness of that ‘sense of duty’ which weighed upon her ordinary demeanour melting for the moment in her motherly delight and pride. ‘He was so modest, we could scarcely persuade him to come. He thought you might think he was presuming on your acquaintance abroad, and taking as much liberty as if he had been an intimate——’

‘I think Mr. Hardwick might very well take as much liberty as that,’ cried Kate, moved, in spite of herself, to resentment with this obstinate make-believe. Her aunt looked up at her with such pain in her eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of animals, who can make us no other protest.

‘We are very glad to see Mr. Bertie again,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her hand to him with a smile. ‘He is a Shanklin acquaintance, too. We are old friends.’

And he shook hands with all of them solemnly, his face turning all manner of colours, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Ombra was the last to approach, and as she gave him her hand, she did not say a word; neither did she lift her eyes to look at him. They stood by each other for a second, hand in hand, with eyes cast down, and a flush of misery upon both their faces. Was it merely misery? It could not but be painful, meeting thus, they who had parted so differently; but Kate, who could not remove her eyes from them, wondered, out of the midst of the sombre cloud which seemed to have come in with Bertie, and to have wrapped her round—wondered what other feeling might be in their minds. Was it not a happiness to stand together even now, and here?—to be in the same room?—to touch each other’s hands? Even amid all this pain of suppression and concealment was not there something more in it? She felt as if fascinated, unable to withdraw her eyes from them; but they remained together only for a moment; and Bertie’s sisters, who did not think Miss Anderson of much importance, did not even notice the meeting. Bertie himself withdrew to Mrs. Anderson’s side, and began to talk to her and to his mother. The girls, disappointed (for naturally they would have preferred that he should make himself agreeable to the heiress), sat down by Kate. Ombra dropped noiselessly on a chair close to the doorway between the two rooms; and after a few minutes she said to her cousin, ‘Will you pardon me if I finish my letter for the post?’ and went into the inner room, and sat down at the writing-table.

‘She writes a great deal, doesn’t she?’ said Edith Hardwick. ‘Is she literary, Miss Courtenay? I asked Bertie, but he could not tell me. I thought she would not mind doing something perhaps for the “Parish Magazine.”’

‘Edith does most of it herself,’ said Minnie. (‘Oh! Minnie, for shame!’) ‘And do you know, Miss Courtenay, she had something in the last “Monthly Packet.”’ (‘Please don’t, Minnie, please! What do you suppose Miss Courtenay cares?’) ‘I shall bring it up to show you next time I come.’

‘Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind!’ said Edith, blushing. And Kate made a pretty little civil speech, which would have been quite real and genuine, had not her mind been so occupied with other things; but with the drama actually before her eyes, how could she think of stories in the ‘Monthly Packet?’ Her eyes went from one to another as they sat with the whole breadth of the room between them; and this absorption made her look much more superior and lofty than she was in reality, or had any thought of being. Yes, she said to herself, it was best so—they could not possibly talk to each other as strangers. It was best that they should thus get out of sight of each other almost—avoid any intercourse. But how strange it was!

‘Don’t you think it is odd that Bertie, knowing the world as he does, should be so shy?’ said Edith. (‘Oh! he is so shy!’ cried Minnie.) ‘He made as many excuses as a frightened little girl. “They won’t want to see me,” he said. “Miss Courtenay will know it is not rudeness on my part if I don’t call. Why should I go and bother them?” We dragged him here!’

‘We dragged him by the hair of his head,’ said Minnie, who was the wit of the family.

And Kate did her best to laugh.

‘I did not think he had been so shy,’ she said. ‘He wanted, I suppose, to have you all to himself, and not to lose his time making visits. How long is he to stay?’

Edith and Minnie looked at each other. The question had already been discussed between their mother and themselves whether Bertie would be asked to dinner, or whether, indeed, they might not all be asked, with the addition of Edith’s betrothed, who was visiting also at the Rectory. They all thought it would be a right thing for Kate to do; and, of course, as Mrs. Anderson was there, it would be so easy, and in every way so nice. They looked at each other, accordingly, with a little consciousness.

‘He is to stay till Monday, I think,’ said Edith; ‘or perhaps we might coax him to give us another day, if——’ She was going to say if there was any reason, but that seemed a hint too plain.

‘That is not a very long visit,’ said Kate. And then, without a hint of a dinner-party, she plunged into the parish, that admirable ground of escape in all difficulties.

They had got into the very depths of charities, and coals, and saving-clubs, when Mrs. Hardwick rose.

‘We are such a large party, we must not inflict ourselves upon you too long,’ said Mrs. Hardwick. She, too, was a little disappointed that there was not a word about a dinner. She thought Mrs. Anderson should have known what her duty was in the circumstances, and should have given her niece a hint; ‘but I hope we shall all meet again before my son goes away.’

And then there was a second shaking of hands. When all was over, and the party were moving off, Kate turned to Bertie, who was last.

‘You have not taken leave of Ombra,’ she said, looking full at him.

He coloured to his hair; he made her a confused bow, and hurried into the room where Ombra was. Kate, with a sternness which was very strange to her, watched the two figures against the light. Ombra did not move. She spoke to him apparently without even looking up from her letter. A dozen words or so—no more. Then there came a sudden cry from the other door, by which the mother and daughters were going ‘Oh! we have forgotten Miss Anderson!’ and the whole stream flowed back.

‘Indeed, it is Ombra’s fault; but she was writing for the post,’ exclaimed her mother, calling to her.

Ombra came forward to the doorway, very pale, even to her lips, but smiling, and shook hands three times, and repeated that it was her fault. And then the procession streamed away.

‘That girl looks very unhealthy,’ Mrs. Hardwick said, when they were walking down the avenue. ‘I shall try and find out from her mother if there is consumption in the family, and advise them to try the new remedy. Did you notice what a colour her lips were? She is very retiring, poor thing; and, I must say, never puts herself the least in the way.’

‘Do you think she is pretty, Bertie?’ said the sisters, together.

‘Pretty? Oh! I can’t tell. I am no judge,’ said Bertie. ‘Look here, mamma, I am going to see old Stokes, the keeper. He used to be a great friend of mine. If I don’t make up to you before you reach home, I’ll be back at least before it is dark.’

‘Before it is dark!’ said Mrs. Hardwick, in dismay. But Bertie was gone. ‘I suppose young men must have their way,’ she said, looking after him. ‘But you must not think, girls, that people are any the happier for having their way. On the contrary, you who have been educated to submit have a much better preparation for life. I hope dear Bertie will never meet with any serious disappointment,’ she added, with a sigh.

‘Oh! mamma, serious disappointment! when he has always succeeded in everything!’ cried the girls, in their duet.

‘For he could not bear it,’ said Mrs. Hardwick, shaking her head. ‘It would be doubly, doubly hard upon him; for he has never been trained to bear it—never, I may say, since he left the nursery, and got out of my hands.’

At this time it was nearly three o’clock, a dull Winter afternoon, not severe, but dim and mournful. It was the greyness of frost, however, not of damp, which was in the air; and Kate, who was restless, announced her intention of taking a long walk. She was glad to escape from this heavy atmosphere of home; she said, somewhat bitterly, that it was best to leave them together to unbosom themselves, to tell each other all those secrets which were not to be confided to her; and to compare notes, no doubt, as to how he was looking, and how they were to find favourable opportunities of meeting again, Kate’s heart was sore—she was irritated by the mystery which, after all, was so plain to her. She saw the secret thing moving underneath the cover—the only difficulty she had was to decide what kind of secret it was. What was the relationship between Bertie and Ombra? Were they only lovers?—were they something more?—and what had Bertie Eldridge to do with it? Kate, indignant, would not permit herself to think; but the questions came surging up in her mind against her will. She had a little basket in her hand. She was carrying some grapes and wine to old Stokes, the disabled keeper, who was dying, and whom everybody made much of. On her way to his cottage she had to pass that little nook where the brook was, and where she had first seen Bertie Hardwick. It was the first time she had seen it since her return, and she paused, half in anger and bitterness, half with a softening swell of recollection. How rich, and sweet, and warm, and delicious it had been that Summer evening, with the blossom still on the hawthorns, and the grass like velvet, and the soft little waterfall tinkling! How everything was changed!—the bushes all black with frost, the trees bare of their foliage, with here and there a ragged red leaf at the end of a bough, the brook tinkling with a sharp metallic sound. Everything else was frozen and still—all the insect life of Summer, all the movements and rustlings of grass and leaves and flowers. The flowers and the leaves were gone; the grass bound fast in an icy coat. ‘But not more different,’ Kate thought, ‘than were other matters—more important than the grass and flowers.’

She was roused from her momentary reverie by the sound of a footstep ringing clear and sharp along the frosty road; and before she could get out of the shelter of the little coppice which encircled that haunt of her childhood, Bertie Hardwick came suddenly up to her. The sight of her startled the young man—but in what way? A flush of delight rushed over his face—he brightened all over, as it seemed, eyes and mouth and every feature. He came forward to her with impetuous steps, and took her hand before she was aware.

‘I was thinking of you,’ he cried; ‘longing to meet you just here, not believing it possible—oh, Kate!—— Miss Courtenay, I beg your pardon. I—I forget what I was going to say.’

He did not give up her hand, though; he stood and gazed at her with such pleasure in his eyes as could not be misconstrued. And then the most curious phenomenon came into being—a thing most wonderful, not to be explained. All the anger and the suspicion and the bitterness, suddenly, in a moment, fled out of Kate’s heart—they fled like evil spirits exorcised and put to flight by something better than they. Kate was too honest to conceal what was in her mind. She did not draw away her hand; she looked at him full with her candid eyes.

‘Mr. Bertie, I am very glad to have met you here. I can’t help remembering; and I should be glad—very glad to meet you anywhere; but——’

He dropped her hand; he put up both his own to his face, as if to cover its shame; and then, with a totally changed tone, and a voice from which all the gladness had gone, he said slowly:

‘I know; but I am not allowed to explain—I cannot explain. Oh! Kate, you know no harm of me, do you? You have never known or heard that I was without sense of honour? trust me, if you can! Nothing in it, not any one thing, is my fault.’

Kate started as if she had been struck, and everything that had wounded her came back in sevenfold strength. She could not keep even a tone of contempt out of her voice.

‘I have heard,’ she said, ‘that there was honour among thieves: do you throw the blame upon Ombra—all the blame? I suppose it is the way men do. Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick!’ And, before he could say a word, she was gone—flying past him, indignant, contemptuous, wounded to the core.

As she came back from the keeper’s cottage, when the afternoon was duller than ever, and the sky seemed to be dropping over the tree-tops, Kate thought she saw, in one of the roads which crossed the avenue, the flutter of a lady’s shawl. The girl was curious in her excitement, and she paused behind a tree to watch. After a short time the fluttering shawl drew nearer. It was Ombra, clinging close to Bertie Hardwick’s arm—turning to him a pale face full of care and anxiety. They were discussing their dark concerns—their secrets. Kate rushed home without once stopping or drawing breath.