and it seems to be recognised that he is to have his own way about the place. But I don't think he'll interfere about the shooting."
"He won't, my dear, if you ask him not," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I'll ask him in a moment if Colonel Askerton wishes it."
"Oh dear no," said he. "It would be teaching the ostler to grease the horse's teeth. Perhaps he hasn't thought of it."
"He thinks of everything," said Clara.
"I wonder whether he's thinking of—" So far Mrs. Askerton spoke, and then she paused. Colonel Askerton looked up at Clara with an ill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruel that she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin,—a cousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treated with such words and such looks as these? But she was determined not to be put down. "I'm quite sure of this," she said, "that my cousin would do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike."
"There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn't take it amiss at all;—but I should simply take up my bed and walk. Pray tell him that I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing him before he goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out."
"He'll be here soon. He's to come here for me." But Colonel Askerton's horse was brought to the door, and he could not therefore wait to make Mr. Belton's acquaintance on that occasion.
"What a phœnix this cousin of yours is," said Mrs. Askerton, as soon as her husband was gone.
"He is a splendid fellow;—he is indeed. There's so much life about him! He's always doing something. He says that doing good will always pay in the long run. Isn't that a fine doctrine?"
"Quite a practical phœnix!"
"It has done papa so much good! At this moment he's out somewhere, thinking of what is going on, instead of moping in the house. He couldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is already beginning to complain because he's going away."
"Will, indeed!"
"And why not Will? He's my cousin."
"Yes;—ten times removed. But so much the better if he's to be anything more than a cousin."
"He is to be nothing more, Mrs. Askerton."
"You're quite sure of that?"
"I am quite sure of it. And I cannot understand why there should be such a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, and are fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenth cousin makes no difference. He is the nearest I have on that side; and since my poor brother's death he is papa's heir. It is so natural that he should be my friend;—and such a comfort that he should be such a friend as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under such circumstances there should be any suspicion."
"Suspicion, my dear;—suspicion of what?"
"Not that I care for it. I am prepared to love him as if he were my brother. I think him one of the finest creatures I ever knew,—perhaps the finest I ever did know. His energy and good-nature together are just the qualities to make the best kind of man. I am proud of him as my friend and my cousin, and now you may suspect what you please."
"But, my dear, why should not he fall in love with you? It would be the most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world."
"I hate talking of falling in love;—as though a woman has nothing else to think of whenever she sees a man."
"A woman has nothing else to think of."
"I have,—a great deal else. And so has he."
"It's quite out of the question on his part, then?"
"Quite out of the question. I'm sure he likes me. I can see it in his face, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But it isn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friend some of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelings to me will be always those of a brother."
"Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similar circumstances, and it has always ended in the same way."
"I hope it won't end in any way between us."
"But the joke is that this suspicion, as you call it,—which makes you so indignant,—is simply a suggestion that a thing should happen which, of all things in the world, would be the best for both of you."
"But the thing won't happen, and therefore let there be an end of it. I hate the twaddle talk of love, whether it's about myself or about any one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find that I cannot talk of myself to another woman without being supposed to be either in love or thinking of love,—either looking for it or avoiding it. When it comes, if it comes prosperously, it's a very good thing. But I for one can do without it, and I feel myself injured when such a state of things is presumed to be impossible."
"It is worth any one's while to irritate you, because your indignation is so beautiful."
"It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards of my own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything more about Mr. Will Belton."
"May I not talk about him, even as the enterprising cousin?"
"Certainly; and in any other light you please. Do you know he seemed to think that he had known you ever so many years ago." Clara, as she said this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but still she could perceive that Mrs. Askerton was disconcerted. There came a shade of paleness over her face, and a look of trouble on her brow, and for a moment or two she made no reply.
"Did he?" she then said. "And when was that?"
"I suppose it was in London. But, after all, I believe it was not you, but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He says that the lady was a Miss Vigo." As she pronounced the name, Clara turned her face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind to do so.
"Miss Vigo!" said Mrs. Askerton at once; and there was that in the tone of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right with her. "I remember that there were Miss Vigos; two of them, I think. I didn't know that they were like me especially."
"And he says that the one he remembers married a Mr. Berdmore."
"Married a Mr. Berdmore!" The tone of voice was still the same, and there was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making a vehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked at her, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact of her so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain on Mrs. Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiled as she went on speaking. "I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember that they were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more of her?"
"No; nothing more."
"There must have been some casual likeness I suppose." Mrs. Askerton was a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered her self-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and in another minute Mr. Belton was in the room. Mrs. Askerton felt that it was imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation which had just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. "Clara tells me that I am exactly like some old friend of yours, Mr. Belton."
Then he looked at her closely as he answered her. "I have no right to say that she was my friend, Mrs. Askerton," he said; "indeed there was hardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but you certainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember."
"I often wonder that one person isn't more often found to be like another," said Mrs. Askerton.
"People often are like," said he; "but not like in such a way as to give rise to mistakes as to identity. Now, I should have stopped you in the street and called you Mrs. Berdmore."
"Didn't I once see or hear the name of Berdmore in this house?" asked Clara.
Then that look of pain returned. Mrs. Askerton had succeeded in recovering the usual tone of