the grievance should he not present himself before six;—but this indulgence was cut short by the sound of the gig wheels. Mr. Amedroz and his daughter were sitting in a small drawing-room, which looked out to the front of the house and he, seated in his accustomed chair, near the window, could see the arrival. For a moment or two he remained quiet in his chair, as though he would not allow so insignificant a thing as his cousin's coming to ruffle him;—but he could not maintain this dignified indifference, and before Belton was out of the gig he had shuffled out into the hall.
Clara followed her father almost unconsciously and soon found herself shaking hands with a big man, over six feet high, broad in the shoulders, large limbed, with bright quick grey eyes, a large mouth, teeth almost too perfect and a well-formed nose, with thick short brown hair and small whiskers which came but half-way down his cheeks—a decidedly handsome man with a florid face, but still, perhaps, with something of the promised roughness of the farmer. But a more good-humoured looking countenance Clara felt at once that she had never beheld.
"And you are the little girl that I remember when I was a boy at Mr. Folliott's?" he said. His voice was clear, and rather loud, but it sounded very pleasantly in that sad old house.
"Yes; I am the little girl," said Clara, smiling.
"Dear, dear! and that's twenty years ago now," said he.
"But you oughtn't to remind me of that, Mr. Belton."
"Oughtn't I? Why not?"
"Because it shows how very old I am."
"Ah, yes;—to be sure. But there's nobody here that signifies. How well I remember this room;—and the old tower out there. It isn't changed a bit!"
"Not to the outward eye, perhaps," said the squire.
"That's what I mean. So they're making hay still. Our hay has been all up these three weeks. I didn't know you ever meadowed the park." Here he trod with dreadful severity upon the corns of Mr. Amedroz, but he did not perceive it. And when the squire muttered something about a tenant, and the inconvenience of keeping land in his own hands, Belton would have gone on with the subject had not Clara changed the conversation. The squire complained bitterly of this to Clara when they were alone, saying that it was very heartless.
She had a little scheme of her own,—a plan arranged for the saying of a few words to her cousin on the earliest opportunity of their being alone together,—and she contrived that this should take place within half an hour after his arrival, as he went through the hall up to his room. "Mr. Belton," she said, "I'm sure you will not take it amiss if I take a cousin's privilege at once and explain to you something of our way of living here. My dear father is not very strong."
"He is much altered since I saw him last."
"Oh, yes. Think of all that he has had to bear! Well, Mr. Belton, the fact is, that we are not so well off as we used to be, and are obliged to live in a very quiet way. You will not mind that?"
"Who? I?"
"I take it very kind of you, your coming all this way to see us—"
"I'd have come three times the distance."
"But you must put up with us as you find us, you know. The truth is we are very poor."
"Well, now;—that's just what I wanted to know. One couldn't write and ask such a question; but I was sure I should find out if I came."
"You've found it out already, you see."
"As for being poor, it's a thing I don't think very much about,—not for young people. But it isn't comfortable when a man gets old. Now what I want to know is this; can't something be done?"
"The only thing to do is to be very kind to him. He has had to let the park to Mr. Stovey, and he doesn't like talking about it."
"But if it isn't talked about, how can it be mended?"
"It can't be mended."
"We'll see about that. But I'll be kind to him; you see if I ain't. And I'll tell you what, I'll be kind to you too, if you'll let me. You have got no brother now."
"No," said Clara; "I have got no brother now." Belton was looking full into her face, and saw that her eyes had become clouded with tears.
"I will be your brother," said he. "You see if I don't. When I say a thing I mean it. I will be your brother." And he took her hand, caressing it, and showing her that he was not in the least afraid of her. He was blunt in his bearing, saying things which her father would have called indelicate and heartless, as though they gave him no effort, and placing himself at once almost in a position of ascendency. This Clara had not intended. She had thought that her farmer cousin, in spite of the superiority of his prospects as heir to the property, would have acceded to her little hints with silent acquiescence; but instead of this he seemed prepared to take upon himself the chief part in the play that was to be acted between them. "Shall it be so?" he said, still holding her hand.
"You are very kind."
"I will be more than kind; I will love you dearly if you will let me. You don't suppose that I have looked you up here for nothing. Blood is thicker than water, and you have nobody now so near to you as I am. I don't see why you should be so poor, as the debts have been paid."
"Papa has had to borrow money on his life interest in the place."
"That's the mischief! Never mind. We'll see if we can't do something. And in the meantime don't make a stranger of me. Anything does for me. Lord bless you! if you were to see how I rough it sometimes! I can eat beans and bacon with any one; and what's more, I can go without 'em if I can't get 'em."
"We'd better get ready for dinner now. I always dress, because papa likes to see it." This she said as a hint to her cousin that he would be expected to change his coat, for her father would have been annoyed had his guest sat down to dinner without such ceremony. Will Belton was not very good at taking hints; but he did understand this, and made the necessary change in his apparel.
The evening was long and dull, and nothing occurred worthy of remark except the surprise manifested by Mr. Amedroz when Belton called his daughter by her Christian name. This he did without the slightest hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. She was his cousin, and cousins of course addressed each other in that way. Clara's quick eye immediately saw her father's slight gesture of dismay, but Belton caught nothing of this. The squire took an early opportunity of calling him Mr. Belton with some little peculiarity of expression; but this was altogether lost upon Will, who five times in the next five minutes addressed "Clara" as though they were already on the most intimate terms. She would have answered him in the same way, and would have called him Will, had she not been afraid of offending her father.
Mr. Amedroz had declared his purpose of coming down to breakfast during the period of his cousin's visit, and at half-past nine he was in the parlour. Clara had been there some time, but had not seen her cousin. He entered the room immediately after her father, bringing his hat with him in his hand, and wiping the drops of perspiration from his brow. "You have been out, Mr. Belton," said the squire.
"All round the place, sir. Six o'clock doesn't often find me in bed, summer or winter. What's the use of laying in bed when one has had enough of sleep?"
"But that's just the question," said Clara; "whether one has had enough at six o'clock."
