Poor Bella had but one thought—Lady Julia was his mother, and gladly in that hour of woe would she have thrown her arms around her and embraced her tenderly; but Lady Julia was cold and calm in aspect and bearing as a Greek marble statue, and received her visitor without rising, and with a brief conventional pressure with one hand while motioning her to be seated with the other.
Whatever hopes Cousin Emily once had of Jerry for a husband—hopes often crushed by his indifference on the subject, and by a knowledge of the necessity that he must marry 'money'—they were gone now; and, besides, she could receive Bella Chevenix now with more equanimity than hitherto.
But her reception was common-place—chilling also—and poor Bella, feeling herself de trop, an utter intruder, felt confusion blend with the grief that oppressed her.
'After the awful news of this morning, Lady Julia,' said she, with a great effort, 'as an old friend of the family, whose ancestors have been for years upon the estate, as a neighbour, too, in a lonely part of the county—more than all—all—as—as—I conceived a great craving to see you,' said the girl, brokenly, in a weak, yet exquisitely sweet voice.
'Indeed—thanks.'
This was not an encouraging response, nevertheless Bella spoke again.
'Jerry—Wilmot, I mean—and I were such playmates in our childhood long, long ago, that—that—you know——'
Bella's voice completely failed her under the cold, inquiring eyes of Lady Julia and Emily Wilmot.
'Playmates!' said the former. 'Yes, your memory does you credit. I thought you must have forgotten all that by this time, as I am sure my poor dear boy did.'
'Forgotten!'