“And who is Mrs. Aymescourt?” inquired Heather.
“Oh! a friend of Miss Hope’s; at least, she used to be,” answered Mrs. Ormson, vaguely; and then she looked at Arthur, who, pulling cherries out of a basket lined with green leaves, refused either to meet her glance, or to vouchsafe any further information on the subject.
“Did you know Mrs. Aymescourt, Arthur?” asked Heather, whose curiosity was a little piqued.
“I—yes, to be sure; she used to be staying with my aunt at Copt Hall, but I have not seen her these ten years.”
“Was not there something about Mr. Aymescourt having come into another fine property?” inquired Mrs. Ormson.
“Marsden said he had,” returned the Squire; “likely enough, for we know who takes care of his own; and certainly Aymescourt had luck beyond what falls to the share of any honest man. He had a large income to begin with, or else madam never would have married him; but I dare say they were quite able to spend it all, so probably this other property fell in none too soon.”
“Where do they live?” asked Heather.
“I have not the slightest idea,” Arthur answered; “my aunt keeps up some kind of acquaintanceship, I understand, with them, as she does with everybody, but I have seen nothing of them for years;” and as he spoke Squire Dudley made another dive among the cherries, and pulled a fresh handful from amidst the green leaves.
“Give me some, Arthur, before you eat them all,” entreated Bessie; “or, stay, the moon must be up by this time; I can go into the garden and gather some for myself. Will you come with me, Alick?”
And Bessie, who was not above flirting, even with a lad of eighteen, when it suited her purpose to do so, drew Alick from the dining-room across the hall, into the drawing-room, and so out on to the long terrace-like walk which overlooked the Hollow, and all the pleasant country stretching away towards the west.