‘I hope it is not illness nor trouble in the family,’ Mrs. Anderson repeated, allowing a look of gentle anxiety to come over her face.
‘No, I hope not,’ said Mrs. Eldridge; ‘though I am a little anxious, I allow. But no, really I don’t think it. They would never have concealed such a thing from us; though there was actually no time to explain. I had gone upstairs to take off my things, and all at once there was a cry, “The Berties are going!” “My dear boys, what is the matter?” I said; “is there anything wrong at either of your homes? I beg of you to let me know the worst!” And then one of them called to me from the bottom of the stairs, that it was nothing—it was only that they must go to meet some one—one of their young men’s engagements, I suppose. He said they would come back; but I tell the children that is nonsense; while they were here they might be persuaded to stay, but once gone, they will never come back this season. Ah! I have only too much reason to know boys’ ways.’
‘But they looked dreadfully cast down, mamma—as if they had had bad news,’ said Lucy Eldridge, who, foreseeing the end of a great deal of unusual liberty, felt very much cast down herself.
‘Bertie Hardwick looked as if he had seen a ghost,’ said another.
‘No, it was Bertie Eldridge,’ cried a third.
Kate looked from her end of the table at her aunt’s face, and said nothing; and a deep red glow came upon Mr. Sugden’s cheeks. These two young people had each formed a theory in haste, from the very few facts they knew, and both were quite wrong; but that fact did not diminish the energy with which they cherished each their special notion. Mrs. Anderson, however, was imperturbable. She sat near Mrs. Eldridge, and talked to her with easy cheerfulness about the day’s expedition, and all that had been going on. She lamented the end of the gaiety, but remarked, with a smile, that perhaps the girls had had enough. ‘I saw this morning that Ombra was tired out. I wanted her not to go, but of course it was natural she should wish to go; and the consequence is, one of her racking headaches,’ she said.
With the gravest of faces, Kate listened. She had heard nothing of Ombra’s headache till that moment; still, of course, the conversation which Mrs. Anderson reported might have taken place in her absence; but—Kate was very much disturbed in her soul, and very anxious that the meal should come to an end.
The moon had almost disappeared when the company dispersed. Kate rushed to her aunt, and took her hand, and whispered in her ear; but a sudden perception of a tall figure on Mrs. Anderson’s other hand stopped her. ‘What do you say, Kate?’ cried her aunt; but the question could not be repeated. Mr. Sugden marched by their side all the way—he could not have very well told why—in case he should be wanted, he said to himself; but he did not even attempt to explain to himself how he could be wanted. He felt stern, determined, ready to do anything or everything. Kate’s presence hampered him, as his hampered her. He would have liked to say something more distinct than he could now permit himself to do.
‘I wish you would believe,’ he said, suddenly, bending over Mrs. Anderson in the darkness, ‘that I am always at your service, ready to do anything you want.’
‘You are very, very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with the greatest wonderment. ‘Indeed, I am sure I should not have hesitated to ask you, had I been in any trouble,’ she added, gently.