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but now she was once more disturbed. "I think I know the name," said she.

      "I fancy that I have seen it in this house," said Clara.

      "You may more likely have heard it, my dear. My memory is very poor, but if I remember rightly, Colonel Askerton did know a Captain Berdmore,—a long while ago, before he was married; and you may probably have heard him mention the name." This did not quite satisfy Clara, but she said nothing more about it then. If there was a mystery which Mrs. Askerton did not wish to have explored, why should she explore it?

      Soon after this Clara got up to go, and Mrs. Askerton, making another attempt to be cheerful, was almost successful. "So you're going back into Norfolk on Saturday, Clara tells me. You are making a very short visit now that you're come among us."

      "It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardly ever dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talking of coming here again about Christmas."

      "But you are going to have a farming establishment here too?"

      "That will be nothing. Clara will look after that for me; will you not?" Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would begin the work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancy might do him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence without coming to the point at once. When they were out together in the park, he went back at first to the subject of Mrs. Askerton.

      "I would almost have sworn they were one and the same woman," he said.

      "But you see that they are not."

      "It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I once saw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in company with a man who was,—who was tipsy, in fact, and I had to relieve her."

      "Dear me,—how disagreeable!"

      "It's a long time ago, and there can't be any harm in mentioning it now. It was the man she was going to marry, and whom she did marry."

      "What;—the Mr. Berdmore?"

      "Yes; he was often in that way. And there was a look about Mrs. Askerton just now so like the look of that Miss Vigo then, that I cannot get rid of the idea."

      "They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. And you hear, too, what she says."

      "Yes;—I heard what she said. You have known her long?"

      "These two years."

      "And intimately?"

      "Very intimately. She is our only neighbour; and her being here has certainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some woman near one that one can speak to;—and then, I really do like her very much."

      "No doubt it's all right."

      "Yes; it's all right," said Clara. After that there was nothing more said about Mrs. Askerton, and Belton began his work. They had gone from the cottage, across the park, away from the house, up to a high rock which stood boldly out of the ground, from whence could be seen the sea on one side, and on the other a far tract of country almost away to the moors. And when they reached this spot they seated themselves. "There," said Clara, "I consider this to be the prettiest spot in England."

      "I haven't seen all England," said Belton.

      "Don't be so matter-of-fact, Will. I say it's the prettiest in England, and you can't contradict me."

      "And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can't contradict me."

      This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of a cousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. "I see," she said, "that if I talk nonsense I'm to be punished."

      "Is it a punishment to you to know that I think you very handsome?" he said, turning round and looking full into her face.

      "It is disagreeable to me—very, to have any such subject talked about at all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolish personal compliments?"

      "What I say isn't foolish; and there's a great difference. Clara, I love you better than all the world put together."

      She now looked at him; but still she did not believe it. It could not be that after all her boastings she should have made so gross a blunder. "I hope you do love me," she said; "indeed, you are bound to do so, for you promised that you would be my brother."

      "But that will not satisfy me now, Clara. Clara, I want to be your husband."

      "Will!" she exclaimed.

      "Now you know it all; and if I have been too sudden, I must beg your pardon."

      "Oh, Will, forget that you have said this. Do not go on until everything must be over between us."

      "Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in me to love you?"

      "What will papa say?"

      "Mr. Amedroz knows all about it already, and has given me his consent. I asked him directly I had made up my own mind, and he told me that I might go to you."

      "You have asked papa? Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?"

      "Am I so odious to you then?" As he said this he got up from his seat and stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and he could assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was moved as he was moved now.

      "Odious! Do you not know that I have loved you as my cousin—that I have already learned to trust you as though you were really my brother? But this breaks it all."

      "You cannot love me then as my wife?"

      "No." She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked away from her as though that one little word settled the question for him, now and for ever. He walked away from her, perhaps a distance of two hundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leaving her. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that she might say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have said the only word that would have comforted him. At the first blush of the thing, at the first sound of the address which he had made to her, she had been angry with him. He had disappointed her, and she was indignant. But her anger had already melted and turned itself to ruth. She could not but love him better, in that he had loved her so well; but yet she could not love him with the love which he desired.

      But he did not leave her. When he had gone from her down the hill the distance that has been named, he turned back, and came up to her slowly. He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixed into the armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested on his breast. He would always assume this attitude when he was assured that he was right in his views, and was eager to carry some point at issue. Clara already understood that this attitude signified his intention to be autocratic. He now came close up to her, and again stood over her, before he spoke. "My dear," he said, "I have been rough and hasty in what I have said to you, and I have to ask you to pardon my want of manners."

      "No, no, no," she exclaimed.

      "But in a matter of so much interest to us both you will not let an awkward manner prejudice me."

      "It is not that; indeed, it is not."

      "Listen to me, dearest. It is true that I promised to be your brother, and I will not break my word unless I break it by your own sanction. I did promise to be your brother, but I did not know then how fondly I should come to love you. Your father, when I told him of this, bade me not to be hasty; but I am hasty, and I haven't known how to wait. Tell me that I may come at Christmas for my answer, and I will not say a word to trouble you till then. I will be your brother, at any rate till Christmas."

      "Be my brother always."

      A black cloud crossed his brow as this request reached his ears. She was looking anxiously into his face, watching every turn in the expression of his countenance. "Will you not let it wait till Christmas?" he asked.

      She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet she

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