"You are Miss Bertram, are you not?"
"Yes—and Rosendale Manor is my home. It is not yours. Go away. Never come back here again. You are not to see my mother."
The girl rose to her feet. Her dress was dirty, her face was begrimed with the dirt of travel, but Catherine noticed that the dress was whole, not patched anywhere, also that her accent was pure, and almost refined.
"Miss Bertram," she said, "I must see the lady, your mother. I have an important message for her; I am not a spy, and I don't come in any unkindness, but I must see the lady who lives here, and who is your mother. I have waited for hours in the avenue, hours and hours. I will wait until morning. The nights are not cold, and I shall do very well. Let me see your mother then."
"You cannot. She is from home. It was you then, who bribed Tester to keep the lodge gate open?"
"I gave the man a shilling. Yes, I confess it. I am doing no harm here. Put yourself in my place."
"How dare you? How can you?" said Catherine, stepping away from the travel-stained figure.
"Ah, you are very proud, but there's a verse of Scripture that fits you. 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' I know your age—you are just seventeen, I'm only nineteen, just two years older than you. You have no feeling for me. Suppose I had none for you?"
The refinement of the girl's voice became more and more apparent to Catherine. There was a thrill and a quality in it which both repelled and fascinated. This queer waif and stray, this vagabond of the woodside, was at least as fearless as herself.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, in a less imperious tone than she had hitherto used.