"And the Rector?"
"He never said another word. He went straight back to the—what do you call it?—the Rectory or the Victory?"
"In this case," said I, "not being the victor, you call it the Rectory."
"Well, that's where he went," said she.
My last Sunday in Ballysheen was no different to the rest, no different unless I count as an integral part of it the news that was brought to us that day.
Every moment since our meeting with Clarissa's lover on the cliffs, I had been working my mind to arrive at some understanding of his coming to Ballysheen. From the look in Bellwattle's face as we passed him, I felt assured that she knew who it was and, instinctive though her knowledge must have been, I could not but feel she had some ground for her belief. It was no difficult step from such assumption to connect her knowledge with that visit which she had paid to the Miss Fennells' house. Had she then seen Clarissa? Had Clarissa told her he was coming? But if she had known so surely as that, why was her face so white? The sight of him had startled her. Why should it, if she had known?
I determined that Sunday afternoon to make an end of mystery and question her myself.
In the morning it had been raining—those sudden intermittent showers which April lends to May, when the great clouds roll up the blue highways like the dust of a vast army on its march. From the window in his little study whose walls are lined with books that talk of gardens the great gardeners have made, Cruikshank watched each shower with the happy delight of a child. Then, as the rain drops began their gentle kettle-drumming on the pane, he would look round.
"This is fine—we wanted this badly."
"It'll make tea out of doors impossible," said Bellwattle.