"Upon my word, I cannot compliment you. But there is something so much better than grace, that I can forgive you. You know, at any rate, how thoroughly I wish you well."
Upon this Clara got up to take her leave, and the demonstrative affection of an embrace between the two women afforded a remedy for the awkwardness of the previous conversation.
"God bless you, dearest," said Mrs. Askerton. "May I write to you?"
"Certainly," said Clara.
"And you will answer my letters?"
"Of course I will. You must tell me everything about the place;—and especially as to Bessy. Bessy is never to be sold;—is she, Will?" Bessy was the cow which Belton had given her.
"Not if you choose to keep her."
"I will go down and see to her myself," said Mrs. Askerton, "and will utter little prayers of my own over her horns,—that certain events that I desire may come to pass. Good-bye, Mr. Belton. You may be as ungracious as you please, but it will not make any difference."
When Clara and her cousin left the cottage they did not return to the house immediately, but took a last walk round the park, and through the shrubbery, and up to the rocks on which a remarkable scene had once taken place between them. Few words were spoken as they were walking, and there had been no agreement as to the path they would take. Each seemed to understand that there was much of melancholy in their present mood, and that silence was more fitting than speech. But when they reached the rocks Belton sat himself down, asking Clara's leave to stop there for a moment. "I don't suppose I shall ever come to this place again," said he.
"You are as bad as Mrs. Askerton," said Clara.