‘I came to help you,’ he said. ‘I hope you will not give information. Nobody will know I have trespassed unless you tell, and that would be ungrateful; for I thought there was something the matter, and came to be of use to you.’
‘There is nothing the matter,’ said Kate, very gravely, making a photograph of him with the keen, inquisitive eyes, from which, by this time, all tears were gone.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said; and then, with another laugh—‘I suppose you are trespassing too. Can I help you over the fence?—or is there anything that I can do?’
‘I am not trespassing—I am at home—I am Miss Courtenay,’ said Kate, with infinite dignity, rising from the grass. She stood thus looking at him with the air of a queen defending her realm from invasion; she felt, to tell the truth, something like Helen Macgregor, when she starts up suddenly, and demands of the Sassenach how they dare to come into Macgregor’s country. But the young man was not impressed; the muscles about his mouth quivered with suppressed laughter and the strenuous effort to keep it down. He made her a bow—the best he could under the circumstances—and stood with the evening sunshine shining upon his uncovered head and crisp curls, a very pleasant object to look upon, in an attitude of respect which was half fun and half mockery, though Kate did not find that out.
‘Then I have been mistaken, and there is nothing for it but to apologise, and take myself off,’ said Bertie. ‘I am very sorry, I am sure. I thought something had gone wrong. To tell the truth I thought you were—crying.’
‘I was crying,’ said Kate. She did not in the least want him to go. He was company—he was novelty—he was something quite fresh, and already had altogether driven away her passion and her tears. Her heart quite leapt up at this agreeable diversion. ‘I was crying, and something had gone very wrong,’ she said in a subdued tone, and with a gentle sigh.
‘I am very sorry,’ said Bertie. ‘I don’t suppose it is anything in which I could be of use—?’
She looked at him again. ‘I think I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You must be the second son at the Rectory—the one whom they call Bertie. At least I don’t know who else you could be.’
‘Yes, I am the one they call Bertie,’ he said, laughing. ‘Herbert Hardwick, at your service. And I did not mean to trespass.’
The laugh rang pleasantly through all the echoes. It was infectious. Kate felt that, but for her dignity, she would like to laugh too. And yet it was a serious matter; and to aid and abet a trespasser, and at the same time ‘encourage’ the Rectory people, was, she felt, a thing which she ought not to do. But then it had been real concern for herself, the Lady of the Manor, which had been at the bottom of it; and that deserved to be considered on the other side.