Маргарет Олифант
Ombra
CHAPTER LXVI
It is hard to be oppressed with private anxiety and care in the midst of a great house full of people, who expect to be amused, and to have all their different wants attended to, both as regards personal comfort and social gratification. Kate had entered upon the undertaking with great zeal and pleasure, but had been suddenly chilled in the midst of her labours by the strange accidents which disturbed her first dinner-party. She had been so excited and confused at the moment, that it had not occurred to her to remember that Mr. Sugden’s information was quite fragmentary, and that he did not tell her where to find her cousin, or give her any real aid in the matter. His appearance, and disappearance too, were equally sudden and mysterious. She ascertained from Spigot when he had come, and it was sufficiently easy to comprehend the noiseless way he had chosen to appear before her, and convey his news; but why had he disappeared when he saw the telegram? Why had he said so little? Why, oh! why had they all conspired to leave her thus, with painful scraps of information, but no real knowledge—alone among strangers, who took no interest in her perplexities, and, indeed, had never learned Ombra’s name? She could not confide in Mrs. Hardwick, for many reasons, and there was no one else whom she could possibly confide in.
She got so unhappy at last that the idea of consulting Lady Caryisfort entered her mind more and more strongly. Lady Caryisfort was a woman of the world. She would not be so shocked as good Mrs. Hardwick would be; and then she could have no prejudice in the matter, and no temptation to betray poor Ombra’s secret. Poor Ombra! Kate was not one of those people who can dismiss an offender out of their mind as soon as his sin is proved. All kinds of relentings, and movements of pity, and impulses to help, came whispering about her after the first shock. To be sure Ombra had her mother to protect and care for her, and how could Kate interfere, a young girl? What could she do in the matter? But yet she felt that if she were known to stand by her cousin, it would be more difficult for the husband to keep her in obscurity. And there was in her mind a longing that Bertie should learn that she knew, and know what her opinion was, of the concealment and secresy. She did as women, people say, are not apt to do. She threw all the blame on him. Her cousin had concealed it from her—but nothing more than that. He had done something more—he had insulted herself in the midst of the concealment. If Kate had followed her own first impulse, she would have rushed forth to find Ombra, she would have brought her home, she would have done what her husband had failed to do—acknowledged, and put her in her right place. All these things Kate pondered and mused over, till sometimes the impulse to action was almost too much for her; and it was in these moments that she felt a longing and a necessity to consult some one, to relieve the pent-up anxieties in her own heart.
It happened one afternoon that she was alone with Lady Caryisfort, in that room which had been her sitting-room under Mrs. Anderson’s sway. That very fact always filled her with recollections. Now that the great drawing-room and all the house was open, this had become a refuge for people who had ‘headaches,’ or any of the ethereal ailments common in highly-refined circles. The ladies of the party were almost all out on this particular afternoon. Some had gone into Westerton on a shopping expedition; some had driven to see a ruined abbey, one of the sights of the neighbourhood; and some had gone to the covert-side, with luncheon for the sportsmen, and had not yet returned. Kate had excused herself under the pretext of a cold, to remedy which she was seated close by the fire, in a very low and comfortable easy-chair. Lady Caryisfort reclined upon a sofa opposite. She had made no pretence at all to get rid of the rest of the party. She was very pettish and discontented, reading a French novel, and wishing herself anywhere but there. There had been at least half an hour of profound silence. Kate was doing nothing but thinking; her head ached with it, and so did her heart. And when a girl of twenty, with a secret on her mind, is thus shut up with an elder woman whom she likes, with no one else within hearing, and after half an hour’s profound silence, that is the very moment in which a confidential disclosure is sure to come.
‘Lady Caryisfort,’ said Kate, faltering, ‘I wonder if I might tell you something which I have very much at heart?’
‘Certainly you may,’ said Lady Caryisfort, yawning, and closing her book. ‘To tell you the truth, Kate, I was just going to put a similar question.’
‘You have something on your mind too!’ cried Kate, clasping her hands.
‘Naturally—a great deal more than you can possibly have,’ said her friend, laughing. ‘But, come, Kate, you have the pas. Proceed—your secret has the right of priority; and then I will tell you mine—perhaps—if it is not too great a bore.’
‘Mine is not about myself,’ said Kate. ‘If it had been about myself, I should have told you long ago—it is about—Ombra.’
‘Oh! about Ombra!’ Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders, and the languid interest which she had been preparing to show suddenly failed her. ‘You think a great deal more about Ombra than she deserves.’
‘You will not think so when you have heard her story,’ said Kate, with some timidity, for she was quickly discouraged on this point. While they were speaking, a carriage was heard to roll up the avenue. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘I thought we were safe. I thought I was sure of you for an hour. And here are those tiresome people come back!’
‘An hour—all about Ombra!’ Lady Caryisfort ejaculated, half within herself; and then she added aloud, ‘Perhaps somebody has come to call. Heaven send us some one amusing! for I think you and I, Kate, must go and hang ourselves if this lasts.’
‘Oh! no; it must be the Wedderburns come back from Westerton,’ said Kate, disconsolate. There were sounds of an arrival, without doubt. ‘They will come straight up here,’ she said, in despair. ‘Since that day when we had afternoon tea here, we have never been safe.’
It was a terrible reward for her hospitality; but certainly the visitors were coming up. The sound of the great hall-door rang through the house; and then Spigot’s voice, advancing, made it certain that there had been an arrival. The new-comers must be strangers, then, as Spigot was conducting them; and what stranger would take the liberty to come here?
Kate turned herself round in the chair. She was a little flushed with the fire, and she was in that state of mind when people think that anything may happen—nay, that it is contrary to the order of Nature when something does not happen, to change the aspect of the world. Lady Caryisfort turned away with a little shrug, which was half impatience, half admiration of the girl’s readiness to be moved by anything new. She opened her book again, and went nearer the window. The light was beginning to fade, for it was now late in October, and Winter might almost be said to have begun. The door opened slowly. The young mistress of the house stood like one spell-bound. Already her heart forecasted who her visitors were. And it was not Spigot’s hand which opened that door. There was a hesitation, a fumbling and doubtfulness—and then–
How dim the evening was! Who were the two people who were standing there looking at her? Kate’s heart gave a leap, and then seemed to stand still.
‘Come in,’ she said, doubtful, and faltering. And just then the fire gave a sudden blaze up, and threw a ruddy light upon the new-comers. Of course, she had known who it must be all along. But they did not advance; and she stood in an icy stupor, feeling as if she were not able to move.
‘Kate,’ said Ombra, from the door, ‘I have been like an evil spirit to you. I will not come in again, unless you will give me your hand and say I am to come.’
She put herself in motion then, languidly. How different a real moment of excitement always is from the visionary one which you go over and over in your own mind, and to which you get used in all its details! Somehow all at once she bethought herself of Geraldine lifted over the threshold by innocent Christabel. She went and held out her hand. Her heart was beating fast, but dull, as if at a long distance off. There stood the husband and wife—two against one. She quickened her steps, and resolved to spare herself as much as she could.
‘Ombra,’ she said, as well as her quick breath would let her, ‘come in. I know. I have heard about it. I am glad to receive you, and—and your husband.’
‘Thanks, Kate,’ said Ombra, with strange confusion. She had thought—I don’t know why—that she would be received with enthusiasm corresponding to her own feelings. She came into the room, leaning upon him, as was natural, with her hand within his arm. He had the grace to be modest—not to put himself forward—or so, at least, Kate thought. But how much worse this moment was than she had supposed it would be! She felt herself tremble and tingle from head to heel. She forgot Lady Caryisfort, who was standing up against the light of the window, roused and inquisitive; she turned her back upon the new-comers, even, and poked the fire violently, making the room full of light. The ruddy blaze shot up into the twilight; it sprang up, quivering and burning into the big mirror. Kate saw the whole scene reflected there—the two figures standing behind her, and Ombra’s black dress; black!—why was she in black, and she a bride? And, good heaven!–
She turned round breathless; she was pricked to the quick with anger and shame. ‘Ombra,’ she said, facing round upon her cousin, ‘I told you I knew everything. Why do you come here thus with anybody but your husband? This is Mr. Eldridge. Did anyone dare to suppose– Why is it Mr. Eldridge, and not him, who has brought you here?’
Ombra’s ice melted as when a flood comes in Spring. She rushed to the reluctant, angry girl, and kissed her, and clung to her, and wept over her. ‘Oh! Kate don’t turn from me!—Bertie Eldridge is my husband—no one else—and who else should bring me back?’
No one but Ombra ever knew that Kate would have fallen but for the strenuous grasp that held her up—no one but Ombra guessed what the convulsion of the moment meant. Ombra felt her cousin’s arms clutch at her with the instinct of self-preservation—she felt Kate’s head drop quite passive on her shoulder, and, with a new-born sympathy, she concealed the crisis which she dimly guessed. She kept whispering into her cousin’s ear, holding her fast, kissing her, terrified at the extent of the emotion which had been so carefully and so long concealed.
‘Now let Kate shake hands at least with me,’ said Bertie, behind, ‘and forgive me, if she can. It was all my fault. Ombra yielded to me because I would not give her any peace, and we dared not make it known. Kate, she has been breaking her heart over it, thinking you could never forgive her. Won’t you forgive me too?’
Bertie Eldridge was a careless, light-hearted soul—one of the men who run all kind of risks of ruin, and whom other people suffer for, but who always come out safe at the end. At the sound of his ordinary easy, untragical voice, Kate roused herself in a moment. What had all this exaggerated feeling to do with him?
‘Yes,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘Bertie, I will forgive you; but I would not have done so half an hour ago, if I had known. Oh! and here is Lady Caryisfort in the dark, while we are all making fools of ourselves. Ombra, keep here; don’t go away from me,’ she whispered. ‘I feel as if I could not stand.’
‘Kate, mamma is in your room: and one secret more,’ whispered Ombra. ‘Oh! Kate, it is not half told!—Lady Caryisfort will forgive us—I could not stay away a day—an hour longer than I could help.’
‘I will forgive you with all my heart, and I will take myself out of the way,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I daresay you have a great deal to say to each other, and I congratulate you, at the same time, Lady Eldridge; one must take time for that.’
‘Lady Eldridge!’ cried Kate. Oh! how thankful she was to drop out of Ombra’s supporting arm into a seat, and to laugh, in order that she might not cry. ‘Then that was why I had the telegram, and that was why poor Mr. Sugden disappeared, that you might tell me yourself? Oh! Ombra, are you sure it is true, and not a dream? Are you back again, and all the shadows flown away, and things come right?’
‘Except the one shadow, which must never flee away,’ said Bertie, putting his arm round his wife’s waist. He was the fondest, the most demonstrative of husbands, though only a fortnight ago– But it is needless to enlarge on what was past.
‘But, Kate, come to your room,’ said Ombra, ‘where mamma is waiting; and one secret more–’
CHAPTER LXVII
Mrs. Anderson was waiting in Kate’s room, when Maryanne, sympathetic, weeping, and delighted, introduced her carefully. ‘Oh, mayn’t I carry it, ma’am?’ she cried, longing; and when that might not be, drew a chair to the fire—the most comfortable chair—and placed a footstool, and lingered by in adoring admiration. What was it that this foolish maiden wanted so much to go down upon her knees before and do fetish worship to? Mrs. Anderson sat and pondered over this one remaining secret, with a heart that was partly joyful and partly heavy. This woman was a compound of worldliness and of something better. In her worldly part she was happy and triumphant, but in her higher part she was more humbled, almost more sad, than when she went away in what she had felt to be shame from Langton-Courtenay. She felt for the shock that this discovery would give to Kate’s spotless maiden imagination, unaware of the possibility of such mysteries. She felt more for Kate than for her own child, who was happy and victorious. She sent Maryanne away to watch, and waited very nervously, with a tremble in her frame. How would Kate take it? How would she take this, which lay upon Mrs. Anderson’s knee? She would not have the candles lighted. The dark, which half concealed and half revealed her, was kinder, and would keep her secret best. A film seemed to come over her eyes when she saw the two young women come into the room together. The first thing she was sure of was Kate’s arms, which crept round her, and Kate’s voice in her ear crying, ‘Oh! auntie, how could you leave me—oh! how could you leave me? I have wanted you so!’
‘Take it!’ cried Mrs. Anderson, with sudden energy; and when the white bundle had been removed from her knee, she clasped her second child in her arms. It is not often that a mother gets to love an adopted child in competition with her own; but during all this past year, Kate had appeared before her many a day, in the sweet docility and submission of her youth, when Ombra was fretful, and exacting, and dissatisfied. The poor mother had not acknowledged it to herself but she wanted those arms round her—she wanted her other child.
‘Oh!’ she said, but in a whisper, ‘my darling! I can never, never tell you how I have wanted you!’
‘Here it is!’ cried Ombra, gaily. ‘Mamma, let her look at him; you can kiss her after. Kate, here is my other secret. Light the candles, Maryanne—quick, that your mistress may see my boy.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ cried Maryanne, full of awe.
A little laugh of unbounded happiness and exultation came from Ombra’s lips. To come back thus triumphant, vindicated from all reproaches; to have the delight of showing her child; to be reconciled, and at last at liberty to love her cousin without any jealousy or painful sense of contrast; and, finally, to hear herself called my lady—all combined to fill up the measure of her content.
Up to this moment it had not occurred to Kate what the other secret was. Mrs. Anderson felt the girl’s arms tighten round her, felt the sudden leap of her heart. Who will not understand what that movement of shame meant? It silenced Kate’s very heart for the moment. This shock was greater than the first shock. She blushed crimson on her aunt’s shoulder, where happily no one saw her. Her thoughts wandered back over the past, and she felt as if there was something shameful in it. This was absurd, of course; but it was some moments before she could so far overcome herself as to raise her head in answer to her cousin’s repeated demands.
‘Look at him, Kate!—look at him! Mamma will keep—you can have her afterwards. Look at my boy!’
Ombra was disinterring the baby out of cloaks and veils and shawls, in which it was lost. Her cheeks were sparkling, her eyes glowing with happiness. In her heart there was no sense of shame.
But we need not linger over this scene. Kate was glad, very glad, to get free from her duties that evening—to escape from the dinner and the people, as well as from the baby, and get time to think of it all. What were her feelings when she sat down alone, after all this flood of new emotions, and realised what had happened? The shock was over. The tingling of wonder, of pleasure, of pain, and even of shame, which had confused her senses, was over. She could look at everything, and see it as it was. And as the past rose out of the mists elucidated by the present, of course it became apparent to her that she ought to have seen the true state of affairs all the time. She ought to have seen that there was no affinity between Bertie Hardwick and her cousin, no natural fitness, no likelihood, even, that they could choose each other. Of course she ought to have seen that he had been made a victim of, as she herself had been made a victim of, though in a less degree. She ought to have known that Bertie, he whom she had once called her Bertie, in girlish, innocent freedom (though she blushed to recall it), could not have been disrespectful to herself, nor treacherous, nor anything but what he was. She owed him an apology, she said to herself, with cheeks which glowed with generous shame. She owed him an apology, and she would make it, whenever it should be in her power.
As for all the other wonderful events, they gradually stole off into the background, compared with this central fact that she owed an apology to Bertie. She fell asleep with this thought in her mind, and, waking in the morning, felt so happy that she asked herself instinctively what it was. And the answer was, ‘I must make an apology to Bertie!’ Ombra and her mysteries, and her new grandeur, and even her baby, faded off into nothing in comparison with this. Somehow that double secret seemed to be almost a hundred years old. The revelation of Bertie Hardwick’s blamelessness, and the wrong she had done him, was the only thing that was new.
Sir Herbert and Lady Eldridge stayed at Langton-Courtenay for about a week before they went home, and all the minor steps in the matter were explained by degrees. He had rushed down to Loch Arroch, where she had been all this time, to fetch his wife, as soon as his father’s death set him free. With so much depending on that event, Bertie Eldridge could scarcely, with a good grace, pretend to be sorry for his father; but the fact that Sir Herbert’s death had been a triumph, and not a sorrow to him, was chiefly known away from home, and when he went back he went in full pomp of mourning. The baby even wore a black ribbon round its unconscious waist, for the grandpapa who would have disinherited it had he known of its existence. Probably nobody made much comment upon ‘the Eldridges.’ They were accepted, all things having come right, without much censure, if with a great deal of surprise. It was bitter for Mrs. Hardwick to realise that ‘that insignificant Miss Anderson’ was the wife of the head of her house, the mistress of all the honours and riches of the Eldridges; but she had to swallow it, as bitter pills must always be swallowed.
‘Heaven be praised, my Bertie did not fall into her snares! Though I always said his taste was too good for such a piece of folly!’ she said, taking the best piece of comfort which remained to her.
Bertie Hardwick came down to spend Christmas with his family, and it was not an uncheerful one, though they were all in mourning. It was not he, but his cousin, who had sent the telegram to Kate, in the confusion of the moment, not remembering that to her it would convey no information. But when the little party who had been together in Florence met again now, they talked of every subject on earth but that. Instinctively they avoided the recollection of these confused months, which had brought so much suffering in their train. The true history came to Kate in confidential interviews with her aunt, and was revealed little by little. It was to shield Bertie Eldridge from the possibility of discovery that Bertie Hardwick had been forced to make one of their party continually, and to devote himself, in appearance, to Ombra as much as her real lover did. He had yielded to his cousin’s pleadings, having up to that time had no thought nor desire which the other Bertie had not shared. But this service which had been exacted from him had broken his bonds. He had separated from his cousin immediately on their return, and begun his independent life, though he had still continued to be, when it was not safe for them to meet, the mode of communication between Ombra and her husband.
All this Kate learned, partly from Mrs. Anderson, partly at a later period. She did not learn, however, what a dreary time had passed between the flight of the two ladies from Langton-Courtenay and their return. Her aunt did not tell her what wretched doubts had beset them, what sense of neglect, what terrors for the future. Bertie Eldridge had not been so anxious to shield his wife from the consequences of their imprudence as he ought to have been. But all is well that ends well. His father had died in the nick of time, and in Ombra’s society he was the best of young husbands—proud, and fond, and happy. There was no fault to be found in him now.
When ‘the Eldridges’ went to their house, in great pomp and state, they left Mrs. Anderson with Kate; and to Kate, after they were gone, the whole seemed like a dream. She could scarcely believe that they had been there—that all the strange story was true. But she had perfectly recovered of her cold, and of her despondency, and was in such bloom, when she took leave of her departing guests, that all sorts of compliments were paid to her.
‘Your niece has blossomed into absolute beauty,’ said one of the old fogies to Mr. Courtenay. ‘You have shut her up a great deal too long. What a sensation she will make with her fortune, and with that face!’
Mr. Courtenay shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace.
‘I don’t see what good that face can do her,’ he said, gruffly. He was suspicious, though he scarcely knew what he was suspicious of. There seemed to him something more than met the eye in this Eldridge business. Why the deuce had not that girl with the ridiculous name married young Hardwick, as she ought to have done? He was the first who had troubled Mr. Courtenay’s mind with previsions of annoyance respecting his niece. And, lo! the fellow was coming back again, within reach, and Kate was almost her own mistress, qualified to execute any folly that might come into her head.
There was, however, a lull in all proceedings till Christmas, when, as we have prematurely announced, but as was very natural, Bertie Hardwick came home. Mr. Courtenay, too, being suspicious, came again to Langton-Courtenay, feeling it necessary to be on the spot. It was a very quiet Christmas, and nothing occurred to alarm anyone until the evening of Twelfth Day, when there was a Christmas-tree in the school-room for the school-children. It had been all planned before Sir Herbert’s death; and Mrs. Hardwick decided that it was not right the children should suffer ‘for our affliction—with such an object in view I hope I can keep my feelings in check,’ she said. And indeed the affliction of the Rectory was kept very properly in check, and did not appear at all in the school-room. Kate enjoyed this humble festivity, with the most thorough relish. She was a child among the children. Her spirits were overflowing. To be sure, she was not even in mourning; and when all was over, she declared her intention of walking home up the avenue, which, all in its Winter leaflessness, was beautiful in the moonlight. It was a very clear, still Winter night—hard frost and moonlight, and air which was sharp and keen as ice, and a great deal more exhilarating than champagne to those whose lungs were sound, and their hearts light. Bertie walked with her, after she had been wrapped up by his sisters. Her heart beat fast, but she was glad of the opportunity. No appropriate moment had occurred before; she would make her apology now.
They had gone through the village side by side, talking of the school-children and their delight; but as they entered the avenue they grew more silent. ‘Now is my time!’ cried Kate to herself; and, though her heart leaped to her mouth, she began bravely.
‘Mr. Bertie, there is something I have wished to say to you ever since Ombra came back. I did you a great deal of injustice. I want to make an apology.’
‘An apology!—to me!’
‘Yes, to you. I don’t know that I ever did anybody so much wrong. I do not want to blame Bertie Eldridge. It is all right now, I suppose; but I thought once that you were her–’
Bertie Hardwick turned quickly round upon her, as if in resentment; his gesture felt like a moral blow. Wounded surprise and resentment—was it resentment? And somehow, though the white moonlight did not show it, Kate felt that she blushed.
‘Please don’t be angry. I am confessing that I was wrong; and I never felt that you could have done it,’ said Kate, in a low voice. ‘I believed it, and yet I did not believe it. That was the sting. To think you could have so little faith in me—could have deceived me, when we are such old friends!’
‘And was that all?’ he said. ‘Was it only the concealment you thought me incapable of?’
‘The concealment was the only thing wicked about it, I suppose,’ said Kate, ‘now that it has turned out all right.’
Bertie took no notice of the unconscious humour of this definition. He turned to her again with a certain vehemence, which seemed to have some anger in it.
‘Nay,’ he said, almost sharply, ‘there was more than that. You knew I did not love Ombra—you knew she was nothing to me.’
‘I did not—know—anything about it,’ faltered Kate.
‘How can you say so? Do you mean that you have ever doubted for a moment—that you have not known—every day we have been together since that day at the brook-side? Bah! you want to make a fool of me. You tempt me to put things into words that ought not to be spoken.’
‘But, Mr. Bertie,’ said Kate, after a pause to make sure that he had stopped—and her voice was child-like in its simplicity—‘I like things to be put into words—I don’t like people to break off in the middle. You were saying since that day by the brook-side?’
He turned to her with a short, agitated laugh. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember about it,’ he said. ‘I do—everything that happened—every word that was said—every one of the tears. You don’t cry now as you used to do, or open your heart.’
‘I don’t cry when people can see me,’ said Kate. ‘I have cried enough, if you had been in the way to perceive it, this last year.’
‘My poor, sweet–’ Here he stopped; his voice had melted and changed. But all of a sudden he stopped short, with quite a different kind of alteration. ‘Should you be afraid to go the rest of the way alone?’ he said, abruptly. ‘I will stand here till I see you on the steps, and you can call to me if you are afraid.’
‘I am not in the least afraid,’ said Kate, proudly. ‘I was quite able to walk up the avenue by myself, if that was all.’ And then she laughed. ‘Mr. Bertie,’ she said, demurely, ‘it is you who are afraid, not I.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ he said. ‘Well, then, as you are strong, be merciful—don’t tempt me. If you like to know that there is some one to be dragged at your chariot wheels, it would be easy to give you that satisfaction. Perhaps, indeed, as we have begun upon this subject, it is better to have it out.’
‘Much better, I think,’ said Kate, with a glibness and ease which surprised herself. Was it because she was heartless? The fact was rather that she was happy, which is a demoralising circumstance in some cases.
‘Well,’ he said, with a hard breath, ‘since you prefer to have it in plain words, Miss Courtenay, you may as well know, once for all, that since that day at the brook-side I have thought of no one but you. I don’t suppose it is likely I shall ever think of anyone else all my life in that way. It can be no pleasure to me to speak, or to you to hear, of any such hopeless and insane notion. It is more your fault than mine, after all; for if you had not cried, I should not have leaped over the hedge, and trespassed, and–’
‘What would you do?’ said Kate, softly, ‘if you saw the same sight again now?’
‘Do?’ he said, with an unsteady laugh—‘make an utter fool of myself, I suppose—as, indeed, I have done all along. I am such a fool still, that I can’t bear to be cross-examined about my folly. Don’t say any more about it, please.’
‘But, if I were you, I would say a great deal more about it,’ said Kate, growing breathless with her resolution. ‘Look here, Bertie—don’t start like that—of course I have always called you Bertie within myself. I wonder how the Queen felt, when– I am very, very much ashamed of myself; but you can’t see me, which is one good thing. Is it because I am rich you are afraid? For if that is all–’
‘What then?—what then, Kate?’
Half an hour after, Kate walked into the little drawing-room, where so many things had happened, where her aunt was sitting alone, waiting for her return. Her eyes were like two stars, and blazed in the light which dazzled them, and filled them with moisture. A red scarf, which had been wrapped round her throat, hung loosely over her shoulders. Her face was all aglow with the clear, keen night air. She came in quietly, and came up to Mrs. Anderson, and knelt down by her side in front of the fire. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘don’t be angry. I have been doing a very strange thing. I hope you will not think it wicked. I have proposed to Bertie Hardwick.’
