Part 59 (1/2)

”Because you saw the least of him, I suppose.”

”He was kind in his manner to me.”

”And they were like she-dragons. I understand it all, and can see them just as though I had been there. I felt that I knew what would come of it when you first told me that you were going to Aylmer Park.

I did, indeed. I could have prophesied it all.”

”What a pity you did not.”

”It would have done no good;--and your going there has done good. It has opened your eyes to more than one thing, I don't doubt. But tell me,--have you told them in Norfolk that you were coming here?”

”No;--I have not written to my cousin.”

”Don't be angry with me if I tell you something. I have.”

”Have what?”

”I have told Mr. Belton that you were coming here. It was in this way. I had to write to him about our continuing in the cottage.

Colonel Askerton always makes me write if it's possible, and of course we were obliged to settle something as to the place.”

”I'm sorry you said anything about me.”

”How could I help it? What would you have thought of me, or what would he have thought, if, when writing to him, I had not mentioned such a thing as your visit? Besides, it's much better that he should know.”

”I am sorry that you said anything about it.”

”You are ashamed that he should know that you are here,” said Mrs.

Askerton, in a tone of reproach.

”Ashamed! No; I am not ashamed. But I would sooner that he had not been told,--as yet. Of course he would have been told before long.”

”But you are not angry with me?”

”Angry! How can I be angry with any one who is so kind to me?”

That evening pa.s.sed by very pleasantly, and when she went again to her own room, Clara was almost surprised to find how completely she was at home. On the next day she and Mrs. Askerton together went up to the house, and roamed through all the rooms, and Clara seated herself in all the accustomed chairs. On the sofa, just in the spot to which Belton had thrown it, she found the key of the cellar.

She took it up in her hand, thinking that she would give it to the servant; but again she put it back upon the sofa. It was his key, and he had left it there, and if ever there came an occasion she would remind him where he had put it. Then they went out to the cow, who was at her ease in a little home paddock.

”Dear Bessy,” said Clara. ”See how well she knows me.” But I think the tame little beast would have known any one else as well who had gone up to her as Clara did, with food in her hand. ”She is quite as sacred as any cow that ever was wors.h.i.+pped among the cow-wors.h.i.+ppers,” said Mrs. Askerton. ”I suppose they milk her and sell the b.u.t.ter, but otherwise she is not regarded as an ordinary cow at all.” ”Poor Bessy,” said Clara. ”I wish she had never come here.

What is to be done with her?” ”Done with her! She'll stay here till she dies a natural death, and then a romantic pair of mourners will follow her to her grave, mixing their sympathetic tears comfortably as they talk of the old days; and in future years, Bessy will grow to be a divinity of the past, never to be mentioned without tenderest reminiscences. I have not the slightest difficulty in prophesying as to Bessy's future life and posthumous honours.” They roamed about the place the whole morning, through the garden and round the farm buildings, and in and out of the house; and at every turn something was said about Will Belton. But Clara would not go up to the rocks, although Mrs. Askerton more than once attempted to turn in that direction. He had said that he never would go there again except under certain circ.u.mstances. She knew that those circ.u.mstances would never come to pa.s.s; but yet neither would she go there. She would never go there till her cousin was married. Then, if in those days she should ever be present at Belton Castle, she would creep up to the spot all alone, and allow herself to think of the old days.

On the following morning there came to her a letter bearing the Downham post-mark,--but at the first glance she knew that it was not from her cousin Will. Will wrote with a bold round hand, that was extremely plain and caligraphic when he allowed himself time for the work in hand, as he did with the commencement of his epistles, but which would become confused and altogether anti-caligraphic when he fell into a hurry towards the end of his performance,--as was his wont. But the address of this letter was written in a pretty, small, female hand,--very careful in the perfection of every letter, and very neat in every stroke. It was from Mary Belton, between whom and Clara there had never hitherto been occasion for correspondence. The letter was as follows:--

Plaistow Hall, April, 186--.

MY DEAR COUSIN CLARA,

William has heard from your friends at Belton, who are tenants on the estate, and as to whom there seems to be some question whether they are to remain. He has written, saying, I believe, that there need be no difficulty if they wish to stay there. But we learn, also, from Mrs.