Unmusical as she was, Catherine pined for her sister’s music that evening. Robert was busy in his study, and the hours seemed interminable. After a little difficult talk Langham subsided into a book and a corner. But the only words of which he was conscious for long were the words of an inner dialogue. ‘I promised to play for her.--Go and offer then!--Madness! let me keep away from her. If she asks me, of course I will go.--She is much too proud, and already she thinks me guilty of a rudeness.’ Then, with a shrug, he would fall to his book again, abominably conscious, however, all the while of the white figure between the lamp and the open window, and of the delicate head and cheek lit up against the trees and the soft August dark. When the time came to go to bed he got their candles for the two ladies. Rose just touched his hand with cool fingers. ‘Good night, Mr. Langham. You are going in to smoke with Robert, I suppose?’ Her bright eyes seemed to look him through. Their mocking hostility seemed to say to him, as plainly as possible: ‘Your purgatory is over--go, smoke and be happy!’ ‘I will go and help him wind up his sermon,’ he said, with an attempt at a laugh, and moved away. Rose went upstairs, and it seemed to her that a Greek brow, and a pair of wavering, melancholy eyes went before her in the darkness chased along the passages by the light she held. She gained her room, and stood by the window, seized again by that stifling sense of catastrophe, so strange, so undefined. Then she shook it off with an angry laugh, and went to work to see how far her stock of light dresses had suffered by her London dissipations. CHAPTER XVI. The next morning after breakfast the Rectory party were in the garden; the gentlemen smoking, Catherine and her sister scrolling arm in arm among the flowers. Catherine’s vague terrors of the morning before had all taken to themselves wings. It seemed to her that Rose and Mr. Langham had hardly spoken to each other since she had seen them walking about together. Robert had already made merry over his own alarms, and hers, and she admitted he was in the right. As to her talk with Rose, her deep meditative nature was slowly working upon and digesting it. Meanwhile, she was all tenderness to her sister, and there was even a reaction of pity in her heart toward the lonely sceptic who had once been so good to Robert. Robert was just bethinking himself that it was time to go off to the school, when they were all startled by an unexpected visitor--a short old lady, in a rusty black dress and bonnet, who entered the drive and stood staring at the Rectory party, a tiny hand in a black thread glove shading the sun from a pair of wrinkled eyes. ‘Mrs. Darcy!’ exclaimed Robert to his Wife after a moment’s perplexity, and they walked quickly to meet her.