"Such a charming musical evening—such a treat!" said she, brisking up, and quite unaware of what had been passing round her the last two hours.

"Miss Leigh was quite untireable," sneered Janet. "One could not have asked her to exert herself so much."

"Must you really go?" interposed Crickey, fearing now the music was over the harmony might cease also.

Bluebell pleaded a promise to return early.

"I am sorry to be the means of taking away any attraction that might have induced you to stay," put in Janet, determined to give her "one" before she went.

"Thank you," said Bluebell, sweetly, declining to understand; "but I could scarcely expect you to stay to amuse me."

"That, I feel sure, would be quite out of my power!" said the other, bent on provocation; and Crickey nervously dragged Bluebell away to get her hat.

Alec lingered till she was fairly off, fearing that Bernard would try and escort her home. He, however, was thoroughly sulky at the way Gough had monopolized her the whole evening, and was quite as ready as Coey to pronounce her an arrant flirt; which so mollified the latter, that when, a few days later, she and her sister were asked to return Bluebell's visit at Lyndon's Landing, she accepted without the slightest hesitation, in a perfectly charitable frame of mind.

Alec and Janet, of course, quarrelled going home; but it being not the first time by a good many, it blew over without a rupture, the gentleman, for the future, cautiously avoiding Bluebell's name, though he tried all he knew to meet her alone, in which respect Fortune did not favour him; and there being no more efficient chaperons than children, with their sharp observation and fatal habit of repetition, they might meet every day on the blue water without his obtaining more than a saucy glance or a few commonplace words, which he would try and put as much meaning into as he could.



CHAPTER XX.

THE PRINCE PHILANDER.

A division of souls may take place without a word being exchanged. One reminded of those mists that rise into a cool stratum of air soon to redescend in flakes of snow.... —Human Sadness.

The day that the Misses Palmer were to spend at Lyndon's Landing turned to rain in the afternoon. The children had a half-holiday, and so the weather was a double misfortune; and after "What shall we do?" had been asked in every minor key of querulous despondency, they eventually grouped themselves, some sitting, some lying on buffalo robes scattered on the floor, and demanded stories from the elder girls. From the darkness of the sky, twilight had come earlier, and Freddy had closed the curtains, to give greater mystery to the fairy lore they were invoking.

Previous to this they had had a grand dressing up and a fancy ball. Crickey retained the turban and Indian table-cloth which had been her "make-up" as an "Eastern Princess." Freddy was a wild beast; and Lola, by dint of a long pair of military boots, seal-skin gloves, and "pretending very much," was "Puss in Boots." The old nurse's cap and spectacles were, with a peaked hat, the salient points of a "Mother Hubbard." But they were tired of it now, and no sound was heard except the sullen moan of the storm on the lake, and the voice of Bluebell, half-inventing and half-relating from memory.

"And so the Princess remained in the strong tower of the Giant Jealousy; for though the doors were all open, and you would suppose she had nothing to do but walk out and be free, yet if she did get a little way some invisible power always drew her back again, after which the Giant seemed more tormenting than ever. For no one could really release her but the Prince Philander, whom she loved, and he only by remaining true to her alone (which, perhaps, was not always the case, and that was how she had strayed into Castle Jealousy), and coming himself and overthrowing the Giant, who would then be instantly dissolved into smoke, and—"

But the ultimate fate of the bewitched Princess was never known, the story being arrested by a shout from the children as they caught sight of a tall, dark figure, half-concealed by a carved screen, and even in the dusk Bluebell discerned the expression of amused attention and half-satirical smile on his lips.

"I saw him first!" cried Lola, jumping up exultingly. "He has been standing there ever so long, but he made me a sign not to tell."

"I wanted to hear Miss Leigh's story," interposed Bertie; "but it is only the plain Princesses that Giant gets hold of, and then the fairy Princes are too busy with the beauties ever to come and rescue them!"

Bluebell was almost unnerved by the surprise of his unlooked-for appearance. A real Prince Philander had come at her invocation; whether he was to overthrow the Giant, or strengthen his hands, remained to be proved.

She had a dim impression of presenting him to the Misses Palmer with a mortified recollection of her own absurd "make-up," and then sat down, quite faint from the uncontrollable beating of her heart.

Perhaps it was to relieve her he was so amiably making conversation with Coey and Crickey; and exceedingly well they were getting on, she began to think, recovering rather rapidly when not the object of any particular attention.

"And you have been shut up here all day without any exercise?" she heard him say. "That's very bad. Suppose we play hide-and-seek and run about all over the house;" and, clamorously supported by the children, the motion was carried, and the game commenced.

Bluebell, who was under the influence of strong feeling, thought it most sickening folly, and wished that Mrs. Rolleston would come in and stop it; but she was charitably reading to a sick fisherman close by, and, perhaps, weather bound. Miss Prosody was taking a peaceful afternoon snooze; and if she did hear the scampering about the house, they were not unaccustomed sounds on a wet day.

It had struck Bluebell that the game might have been a ruse of Du Meresq's to get a word with her in private; but Estelle came up in fits of laughing, to tell her that Bertie and Crickey were hid together in the cupboard. This was too much, and she walked coldly downstairs and out of the game.

Coey went in search of her sister, who bounded down directly after with a very red face; and soon Mrs. Rolleston came in, full of exclamations and inquiries.

Du Meresq said,—"He and Lascelles had got a week's leave, and had come to the hotel for some duck-shooting."

"And Cecil won't be back till Thursday," said Mrs. Rolleston, regretfully.

The significance of this remark was not lost upon Bluebell, who stole a furtive glance at Bertie's face.

"I thought I had got to an enchanted hall," said he. "I daren't wind the horn lest I should fall under the spell. The portal yielded to my touch, and I entered the first room, where conceive my surprise to see, fantastically dressed, and reclining in Eastern fashion on skins and cushions, a galaxy of beauty. They were silent, too, except one, who, in a hushed, mysterious, voice, was improvising an allegory."

"In short," said Mrs. Rolleston, in a matter-of-fact tone, "the children were dressed up and telling stories." She began to wonder where Miss Prosody could be. It was no use Bertie prejudicing his chance with Cecil by getting up an idle flirtation with these Lake young ladies, who were already blushing so ridiculously at him; and would have been further confirmed in this conviction had she guessed that ten minutes ago he had tried to kiss one of them in a cupboard.

She offered him a bed, but willingly accepted his excuse that Lascelles was all alone, and he had promised to go back, but would bring him to dinner next night. And then he went away through the rain, and Bluebell was left with her thoughts.

Well she had never pictured such a meeting as that! And how disagreeable it had all been. Of course she did not mind his not having paid her much attention before the children, who repeated everything, but to go on in that silly romping away with Crickey was ineffably disgusting. She did not at all recognise it as a poetical justice on her for tampering with other people's lovers a few days before, but mentally denounced that young person as bold and unlady like to the last degree.

The evening continued so stormy, that Mrs. Rolleston kept the girls all night, and Bluebell, much against her will, had to entertain them, which was the more irksome as they were both expiring with curiosity about Bertie, and could talk of nothing but his extraordinary behaviour. Crickey hadn't even the sense to keep his impertinence in the cupboard to herself, and Bluebell, who had only suspected before, was provoked into the most trenchant expressions of condemnation.

"How could I help it?" asked Crickey, indignantly. "How should I know he would be so impudent?"

"Why need you have got into the cupboard with him?" said Bluebell. "It is just what you might have expected, in fact, it was inviting it."

"It wasn't," said Crickey, almost crying, for she had previously been inclined to take it as a tribute to her charms. "Freddy and Estelle had hid there before, and Captain Du Meresq said it was the best place in the house."

"For that, no doubt," began the other. But Coey came to her sister's assistance with a Biblical allusion to the mote and the beam, and Bluebell saw that if personalities were to be avoided, they had better go downstairs at once. So the party of ladies passed a quiet sleepy evening,—Mrs. Rolleston mentally resolving not to encourage those girls about the house while Du Meresq was at the lake, and wishing she could expedite Cecil's return. How much more danger there was from Bluebell she never suspected, Bertie had been so very cautious.

As they went up to bed, Crickey, who had become rather sobered by the dull evening, entreated Bluebell not to mention the cupboard scene in hide-and-seek, which was impatiently promised. To think that she should be asked to keep any girl's secret about Bertie! "And now," thought the poor bewildered child, "it will be almost more difficult than ever to see him alone, and I must ask him if there is anything between him and Cecil." For that seed of bitterness sown by Lilla had borne "Dead Sea fruit"; and, much as she struggled against the hateful idea, it really seemed the only clue to Bertie's inconsistencies.

The next day Mrs. Rolleston had some letters, and reading one attentively, she threw it over to Bluebell. "You didn't seem to care for this some weeks ago, but you see you can think twice of it. I did write rather enthusiastically about your music, which, really, is too good to be wasted on my children, and the result is Mrs. Leighton is quite wild to have you."

A singular expression flitted over the girl's face as she mechanically took the letter—it was only to gain time, she wasn't reading it; and the large salary and kind promises of a happy home took no effect on her mind.

She was thinking of Du Meresq. Suppose he was only trifling with her, and all those warm protestations of affection were really to end in nothing! She might even have to see him married to Cecil! The thought was unendurable, yet it was possible; and, if so, how could she remain with the Rollestons? And it would be almost as bad as returning to the cottage, once "so rich with thoughts of him." Chance had thrown Du Meresq again in her path, and she was determined to find out the truth. Chance also offered her this retreat, which would put the ocean between them if he failed her, and then no distance could be too great for her wishes.

"Can you give me till the mail after next to decide?" said she, as she arrived at this point of decision.

"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Rolleston, smiling at the almost tragic tone of resolution in which it was uttered. "You will have to consult your mother, and she might not wish you to go to England. Why child, how pale you are!"

Bluebell forced a wintry smile and escaped, for a lump was rising in her throat, and she could not but remember that she must expect no sympathy or support from Mrs. Rolleston, who had once said, "It would be a most unsuitable connection." She passed the day in reviewing the situation. This was the first time she had ever been called on to think seriously and painfully, and act for herself without a friendly word to support her. Perhaps Du Meresq's behaviour the day before had not a little braced her to the energetic course she had determined on. It was, indeed, no easy task to extort from a man who professed so much the simple question in black and white which could alone give value to his addresses. With no witnesses present, she had little doubt that he would be as ardent a lover as ever; but that would no longer satisfy her. She had arranged her plan, and relied on two feelers to settle the matter one way or the other.

The first was to repeat to Bertie what Lilla had said about himself and Cecil, and then judge of the effect of her words. If unsatisfactory, she might tell him she was going to take a situation in England, "and if he makes no effort to stop that, it will, indeed, be over, and I will go," was the necessary conclusion.

Du Meresq and his friend, Captain Lascelles, came to dinner. Were either to die, exchange, or marry, the other would doubtless feel much inconvenienced, not to say injured. In England, their hunters, rooms at Newmarket, stall at the Opera, or whatever would bear division, were all joint-stock affairs; and either would, with perfect cordiality, have lent the other money, which a long unpaid tradesman would have found exceedingly hard to extract from him.

Both were unquiet spirits in the regiment, abhorring the monotony of drill and stables, and insatiable for leave. Yet on field-days, even their most pipe clay of colonels admitted that there was no smarter turned out troop than Lascelles', and no better squadron leader than Du Meresq.

The party was so small at dinner that conversation became pretty general. Captain Lascelles at first tried to be au mieux with the only young lady present; but he didn't make much way, and began to think her rather stupid, and to wish that those lively girls his friend Bertie had told him of would swim or paddle themselves across. To Bluebell the evening was little short of purgatory. Never had she known Du Meresq so altered. Scarcely a sentence had passed between them, and his manner was conventional and guarded. Formerly he had been equally cautious in public, yet they were always en rapport, and some slight glance was certain to be exchanged in assurance of it.

This night she knew from internal consciousness that they were not, and that a palpable change had taken place. Her heroic resolutions of the morning passed away in inconsistent and impotent longing for one word or gesture to break down this impenetrable wall that seemed to have arisen between them, and to recall the old happy love-making days. Mrs. Rolleston asked her to sing. A bird robbed of its nest could not have felt more disinclined, yet she would try, though her voice sounded strange to herself, and was harsh and wiry.

Du Meresq wondered what had jarred those silvery tones, and stolen the melody from the voice he had once thought almost seraphic. Music, and especially Bluebell's, had ever a potent charm for him. She had abandoned the song at the end of the verse, and glided without stopping, into an instrumental piece. There was a subdued hum of voices, but Bertie's was not among them, and Bluebell knew he was listening as of old. She had arranged some variations to their favourite valse, and some impulse made her select that. Keeping the subject cautiously back, and only allowing suggestions of it to steal into the modulations, it seemed like fugitive snatches of an air borne on a gust of wind, and overcome by nearer sounds,—the breeze in the trees, the tinkle of sheep-bells, the brawling of a brook.

Bertie listened curiously, thought he had caught the air, lost it, and doubted, till he recognised, in the mocking melody that continually eluded him, the valse he had so often danced with Bluebell. He shot one glance of intelligence at her as she finished, but Lascelles, who could not bear the piece, was so loud in admiration, and found so much to say about it, that Du Meresq could not have got in a word had he wished it.

Bluebell turned impatiently away, and snatching up some work, went to a secluded part of the room, under cover of requiring a shaded lamp there. "If there is any truth in magnetic attraction," thought she, "Captain Lascelles shall not come near me, and Bertie shall." She excluded every other thought from her mind, and willed steadily. Du Meresq became restless, rose from his chair, and stood aimlessly looking at something on a table. Bluebell continued her mesmeric efforts, every fibre quivering. He was coasting in her direction; in another instant he would be close, and have sat down on the sofa by her. Then she looked up, and their eyes met and mingled. It might have been for half-an-hour to her overwrought sensations; the past was forgotten,—she was gazing in a trance. What impelled Mrs. Rolleston at that moment to say,—"I heard from Cecil this afternoon, Bertie, and if they catch the boat at ——, they will be here to-morrow evening?"

The passionate eyes drowning themselves in the love light of Bluebell's became thoughtful and colder. The spell was broken. Du Meresq turned away, and began talking to his sister about the expected travellers.

The reaction was painful as the killing of a nerve, and the cause of it so cruel, that she made no attempt to endure it. A swift glance round showed her she was unobserved, and springing to the door, she fled from the room, to weep out her blue eyes in senseless, hopeless repining.

No one noticed her exit but Lascelles, who, going through his social devoirs with mechanical propriety, had his powers of observation quite disengaged.

"I can't make the girl out," he soliloquized. "She is aggravatingly pretty, plays very uncanny, unpleasant music, and looks at me with about as much interest as if I had called to tune the piano or regulate the clocks. I wonder if she is expected to go to bed at ten! I fancy there is a very stringent code of rules for a companion. She was sitting in such a nice inviting corner, to. Du Meresq seemed sloping off for a spoon; but when he doubled back, and I was just ready to bear down, she shot out of the room, like Cinderella when she had 'exceeded her pass.'"

The two friends looked in next morning. They were going in a yacht as far as the Indian village, and Bertie said if the Colonel and Cecil would be likely to have arrived, he would come in on his way back. There was some discussion about trains and connecting boats, and a guide-book was fruitlessly hunted for.

"Oh, I recollect," said Mrs. Rolleston, suddenly; "I put it in the table-drawer in the next room,—right-hand drawer, Bertie," as he went to fetch it. He found a little more than he sought, for there, alone, with every appearance of being caught, was Bluebell. Du Meresq would, perhaps, have avoided the contretemps, had he been prepared for it. As it was he advanced towards her, and, clasping her in his arms, kissed the cheek from which every ray of colour had vanished, and said, tenderly,—"What has turned my Bluebell into a Lily?"

"I have heard something. I want to ask you a question," came out almost mechanically.

Du Meresq had not expected so serious an answer to a banalite, and his countenance altered.

"Why are you so grave, Bluebell? You take life too seriously, my child. A young beauty like you need never be unhappy—only make other people so."

But his theories were no longer taken as gospel.

"Oh, I am quite happy," said she, with an involuntary ironical infusion in her voice, "but I don't often see you alone, Bertie, and there are one or two things I want to ask you."

"We'll soon square that", said Du Meresq carelessly, "What do you think of Lascelles?"

"Think of him?" repeated Bluebell, with passion "What should I think of him? I don't care if he dies to morrow!"

"What, a good looking fellow like that?" said Du Meresq, jestingly, "and he admires you awfully." What a flash of those violet eyes—regular blue lightning! But a sudden gush of tears extinguished it, and, breaking from him, Bluebell rushed out of the room.

A look of extreme annoyance came over his face and he whistled thoughtfully. Lascelles shouting his name, burst into the room.

"Where is that book? 'His only books were women's looks, and folly all they taught him.' Oh Bertie I fear me you are a sly dog."

"What the devil do you mean?" said Du Meresq with much irritation.

"What do you? Keeping me here all day, while you are spooning the pretty companion. She bolted out of this so quick,—nearly ran into my arms, and seemed taking on shocking. Oh, you strangely ammoral young man!"

"By Jove!" said Du Meresq, "it is lucky it was only you. Well, let us be off now, and shut up, there's a good fellow."



CHAPTER XXI.

A PERILOUS SAIL.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. —Wordsworth.

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water wraith was shrieking, And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. —Campbell.

There was a bright moon that evening, and Colonel Rolleston and his daughter were crossing the lake. A yacht passed them, sailing rapidly before the wind. Some one on board took his hat off.

"Who was that?" asked Cecil.

"It was very like Lascelles," said the Colonel. "I wonder what he is doing up here."

Cecil's colour rose. The name of Lascelles suggested Bertie. She knew they usually hunted in couples, and her busy mind was alive with conjecture. She wondered if the same idea had occurred to her father. She thought he looked a shade grimmer; but he smoked his cigar in silence, and a few more pulls from the sinewy arm of the boatman shot them into Lyndon's Landing. And then it all seemed to Cecil as if the same scene had been enacted in a previous state of existence. Where before had she seen his dark figure thrown out just so by the moonlight? Certainly not in a dream. Could one's life be repeated? She almost felt, by an exertion of memory, she might tell what was coining next.

A deep, calm satisfaction stole over her as Bertie helped her from the boat, and his eyes sought hers under the stars. She heeded not that Colonel Rolleston's greeting was apparently cool and formal, nothing signified—life had suddenly become intense again. What could ruffle the golden content of the present? Happiness is a great beautifier, and as she sprang to shore, her graceful figure so undulating and spirited, and her soul beaming warm in her radiant eyes, he wondered that he could ever have thought Bluebell more beautiful. She often recurred to him hereafter just as she stood that night, shrouded in a crimson Colleen Bawn, under cover of which her hand remained so long in his.

Du Meresq did not stay very late. Both he and Cecil were quiet and dreamy. To be in the same room again was quite happiness enough for the present. Mrs. Rolleston also was entirely satisfied, diverted her husband's attention with creature comforts, and made no effort to detain Bertie. Given a love affair, and a certain interest in it, the most unscheming nature becomes Macchiavellian in tact and policy.

And Du Meresq unmoored a canoe and paddled himself off, unwitting of a young, desolate face pressed against an upper casement. From thence she had watched him waiting for Cecil at the landing, and, with eyes sharpened by anxiety, had detected their happiness in meeting. She could not go down to receive confirmation of what required none. Better receive the coup de grace from his own lips than to undergo gradual vivisection while looking helplessly on.

Bluebell was young and credulous, her heart had been flattered away by this man, who had had so many before and did not want it now, and yet, poor child, could she have looked beyond, she might have seen cause for thankfulness that the thing most hotly desired was withheld for this early love had not root enough for the wear and tear of life. It was a hob day romance, born of the senses, the bewildering fascination of a graceful presence and winning voice, and well for her if her guardian angel stood with even a flaming sword in the way.

The two girls did not meet till the morning, when Cecil, preoccupied as she was, could not but notice the blanched weariness of Bluebell's face which, owing a great deal of its beauty to colouring, appeared by contrast almost plain.

"You should have come up the Saguenay with us. I am sure Rice Lake cannot agree with you," said she, launching into a glowing and graphic description of their adventures. In reality, Cecil had detested the whole expedition, having been in a continual fever to return; but, now that her mind was at ease, memory brought out the notable points in a surprising way, and she quite talked herself into believing that she had enjoyed it immensely, and had witnessed everything with the utmost relish and curiosity.

They were sitting in the garden over-looking the lake, and a tiny sail shot out from the hotel landing and stood towards them. A light stole over the face of the brunette, but the features of the blonde became rigid as they marked its progress. Neither alluded to the circumstance—Cecil continued her narrative, and Bluebell made the requisite replies; but when the boat had made Lyndon's Landing, and Du Meresq and Lascelles jumped out, Cecil found she was receiving them alone.

The latter was come on a farewell call. The two friends meant to sail to a railway station five miles up the lake, where Lascelles would take the car, and Du Meresq bring the canoe back. After a short visit, Mrs. Rolleston and Cecil strolled down to see them off.

"I have never tried the canoe with a sail up," remarked the latter. "With this wind it must be absolutely flying."

"Not quite so dry," said Lascelles, laughing. "Du Meresq is such a duffer; he ships a lot of water."

"Cecil," said Bertie, giving a pre-conceived idea the air of an impromptu, "come up to Coonwood with us; it's lovely scenery all the way, and I should have a companion back."

"What do you say, mamma; may I go?" dropping her eyes and speaking in an indifferent voice, to disguise her delight in the anticipation.

"May I go?" mimicked Lascelles to himself. "Bertie is always sacrificing me to some girl or other. She will swamp the boat,—it's within an inch of the water already with my portmanteau,—and very likely make me miss my train, or get wet through pulling her out." This in soliloquy, but he looked courteous and smiling.

Mrs. Rolleston hesitated; in her heart she acquiesced; but what would the Colonel say? The younger ones took silence for consent, and Cecil was reclining on a bear-skin at the bottom of the canoe, Lascelles kneeling in a cramped attitude, with the steering paddle, in the bow, and Bertie in charge of the sail, before words of prohibition could come from her.

"Dear me! I don't half like it," said she, nervously. "How stormy it looks in the west. How long will it take you?"

"We shall have the wind back," said Bertie. "About two hours and a half—three at the outside. I'll bring her home in good time for dinner,"—and Cecil kissed her hand in laughing defiance while he spread the sail to the wind, and, catching the light breeze after a flap or two, they glided gaily on their course.

"Don't move about, Cecil," said Du Meresq; "we are rather low down in the water."

No one knew better than Cecil, who had quite appreciated the small spice of risk in weighting the frail bark with an additional person; but then it was worth it to sail back alone with Bertie.

"You are getting dreadfully wet, I am afraid, Miss Rolleston," said Lascelles. "Ease the sail a bit, Bertie."

"You shouldn't keep her head to the waves," argued the other, "as if it were a boat. Keep her broadside to them, and we shan't ship half so many."

There was a fresh breeze when they left the landing, but, after getting three miles or so on their way, the wind rose almost into a squall; white horses raced on the lake, and, in spite of every effort of the two young men, about one wave in ten flung a curl of spray over Cecil. Bertie threw off his coat, and made her thrust her arms into it as well as she could, and Lascelles followed suit by spreading his over her knees. The sky became stormier, and the wind howled ominously. They had started full of spirits, and gay talk and chaff had been bandied among them. No one could quite tell when it dropped, for it had been kept up with an effort after the threatening appearance of things had sobered them.

Cecil was drenched to the skin, but they ceased to express solicitude on that account, for a more pressing apprehension filled each mind, that the canoe so weighted could not live through it much longer.

The girl was stiffening in the rigidity of her reclining attitude. The least movement would have capsized them, and each wave larger than the rest she expected to swamp the canoe. Suddenly she remembered Du Meresq having once said he could not swim, and then, for the first time, her heart sunk, and a sickening horror came over her.

Lascelles, she supposed, in the event of their being upset, would endeavour to save her. But Bertie! He would drown before her eyes, for the water was deep, and the shore for some time had been only a nearly perpendicular rock. Probably Lascelles so laden might be unable to land even her. Looking upon Du Meresq as doomed, that contingency did not disturb her. Drowning, she had heard, was a pleasant death. It didn't look so though, with that cruel steel water lapping thirstily for its prey. After the one supreme moment when she sunk with her love, would they rise again in the land where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, with the Platonic serenity of spirits, all earthly passion etherealized away?

She looked up; Lascelles was baling out the water with his hat. "Du Meresq, you had better haul down the sail and take the paddle," said he significantly.

"Our only chance is to make Coonwood," returned the other; "there's no landing nearer. We should never get there paddling. I must keep up the sail and run for it."

He glanced at Cecil as he spoke, who met his eyes with a calm, strange smile.

A muttered consultation between Du Meresq and Lascelles alone broke the silence for some time. The latter continued to bale, rejecting Cecil's offer of assistance, only entreating her to continue perfectly still. The canoe was almost level with the water. "It must come very soon now," she thought, and, shutting her eyes, tried to realize the great change approaching.

Her favourite day-dream of sailing away to a new strange country with Bertie recurred to her. What if this was to be the fulfilment of it, and they were to explore for ever an unknown land beyond the skies! But would it be so? No sooner should the frail bark sink from under them than she would feel Lascelles clutch her in a desperate grip, and be dragged through the water, and placed alive, though half-suffocated, on the shore. But Du Meresq would be sucked down in the blue lake, and travel to that bourn alone.

Cecil shuddered, and formed a rapid resolve. "Who was Lascelles that he should separate them? Let him save himself if he thought it worth while. Whatever was Bertie's fate should be hers also."

Thus determined, Cecil waited for the end. She had only to elude Lascelle's grasp at the critical moment, and her fate was as certain as Du Meresq's. She gave a regretful thought to her father; but he had other children, and Cecil had no strong family ties.

As she waited in a state of half exaltation, a quiet little thought crept in,—how was it, after all this time, the boat still lived? Why they could not be far from Coonwood! Lascelles was still baling, but Bertie, from improved dexterity in the management of the sail, evaded the waves more successfully.

Cecil continued to watch, and the tension of her mind yielded to a flutter of hope as she saw the water no longer gained on them.

"We should be pretty near now," observed Lascelles.

"Yes, here we are!" rose in almost a shout of triumph from both, as, on rounding the point, the wished-for harbour appeared in view. With one last effort the envious waves dashed over, drenching them through and through as they landed.

"A drop more or less doesn't much matter now," cried Cecil, gaily, wringing her dripping garments. And they all shook hands in their elation of spirits, with short expressions of relief, and congratulations at their escape, which all confessed to have been in doubt of at one time.

"You are a regular heroine, Miss Rolleston," said Lascelles, heartily. "If you had jumped up, or gone into hysterics, as some girls would, we should have gone under pretty soon. As it was, I thought I had my work cut out, for do you know that Du Meresq can't swim?"

"Yes, I know," grudgingly, for she could not bear Bertie to be at a disadvantage. "But I am sure it is quite miraculous how he managed the sail through that squall."

"Only if we had swamped, Lascelles must have saved you," whispered he, regretfully; "and I would never have forgiven him!"

Cecil did not make any verbal answer, but, as usual, her face was not so reticent. Lascelles felt himself rather de trop as he concluded,—"Well, if they are on for a spoon already, I may as well be looking after my car."

"There's your Bullgine," cried Du Meresq, with some alacrity. "I daresay it has been there an hour: no fear of losing a train in this leisurely country!"

"Well, adieu, Miss Rolleston; I trust you will not suffer from your soaking. You will have an hour or two to wait, I am afraid, before the gale goes down, and Du Meresq will hardly fulfil his promise of getting you home in good time for dinner."

"We are only too lucky to require another dinner; but I suppose we shall be in an awful scrape," answered Cecil, speaking quickly and nervously, for somehow she began to half dread being alone with Bertie. "Good-bye, Captain Lascelles. Here's your coat, which you were so good as to spare me; I am afraid it is not a valuable acquisition in its present spongy state;" and "Good-bye, old man," from the two friends as Lascelles ran off; shooting a momentary humorous glance of intelligence at Du Meresq.

The former, as he settled himself in the locomotive, thought rather seriously of the "situation" he had left his friend in. He rather wondered at Bertie, who appeared dangerously in earnest this time. To be sure, she was a nice enough girl, and very "coiny," he believed; but though convinced that such a marriage would be a piece of good fortune for his friend, remembering the convenience of their mutual partnership, he sincerely hoped he would "behave badly," and get out of the scrape somehow.



CHAPTER XXII.

AT LAST.

The breeze was dead, The leaf lay without whispering in the tree; We were together. How, where, what matter? Somewhere in a dream, Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream. —The Wanderer.

"It is just as well," said Du Meresq, laughing, "we have not got to take him back again. The experiment of three in that birchen bark is too expensive to repeat; and we could not throw him over as a Jonah, since he is the only one of us who can swim."

"I ought never to have come! And, now we can think of wordly things again, only fancy what a rage papa will be in about it all. It is a curious fact, Bertie, the very last time we were out together, an accident made us late—at the tobogganing party, you know."

They had entered the station, which appeared perfectly deserted. The last official had gone up with Lascelles' train. A fire, however, was still burning, and the coal-box only half empty.

Du Meresq threw the coals on the waning embers, which responded with a cheerful fizz to the needed aliment, and then began unlacing Cecil's wet boots as she sat before the fire.

These two had often been alone together without the slightest embarrassment, but now, perhaps from the reaction, and being a little unstrung, she felt a most distressing sensation of it, besides which the anti-climax of his occupation after her overwrought anticipations of their mutual fate, gave her an hysterical inclination to a peal of laughter.

He did not speak, and silence was too oppressive to be endured, so she cast about desperately for a topic of conversation. The entourage was not particularly suggestive,—four white-washed walls and the chair she was sitting on comprised the furniture. Clearly she could not take in ideas with her eyes, which, indeed, were fixed with a magnetic persistence on the mathematically straight parting of Bertie's back hair, which would scarcely furnish subject for remark.

"There go a ruined pair of Balmorals," said he, placing them in the fender. "Your stockings are wet through, too; why don't you take them off?"

"I prefer them wet," said Cecil, rather scandalized.

"Shall I go and walk about outside while you dry them?" asked he, with a smile.

"Yes, do. Walk away altogether if you like."

"But you might drown yourself going home alone, and haunt my remaining days.

'They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true, And all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe,'"—

quoted Bertie, jestingly.

Cecil disliked his manner, and felt irritated; but there she was, imprisoned, bootless, in her chair, while those appendages smoked damply in the fender.

"Dear me," she said, impatiently, "will that wind never drop! When shall we be able to start, I wonder?"

"Don't you think we are more comfortable here?" said he, lazily. "Remember what a row there'll be when we get home."

"Yes, you always get me into scrapes. Why did you bother me into this idiotic expedition?"

"Didn't you ask me to take you?" provokingly. "I am sure I understood you wished to come."

Cecil coloured angrily, and then burst out laughing.

"I can't afford to quarrel with you in this disgusting desolation, it would be like the two men in the lighthouse; but remember, sir, it goes down to your account when I am restored to my friends."

"The captive should not use threats. I am not intimidated. What should now forbid that I whirl you away on the next car to Ne Yock, and marry you right off? and then you would have to obey me ever afterwards."

"Bertie, you forget yourself," with great dignity and rising colour.

"I can't help my unselfish nature. I never do think of myself. Seriously, Cecil, would it not be a good plan?"

"I hardly understand how you would effect it in broad daylight against my will."

"Nothing more easy. I shouldn't put you into the train till it was just going, and I am sure you would have too much self-respect to make a disturbance. If you did, I would point to my forehead, and shake my head expressively. Then, probably, the guard would assist me. After we were married, I should shut you up for a time to reconcile you to the situation, and by degrees, if you pleased me, I would allow you more liberty."

"Suppose I ran away and never returned."

"Oh, you would always be watched, I should, perhaps, let you get a little distance to encourage you, and then bring you back again."

Cecil would not vouchsafe a retort. She thought Bertie's behaviour in the very worst taste, and had never known him so little agreeable. But there they were incarcerated, and the wind still howled. "How was it they were so little in tune," she wondered, "wasting time with this tactless badinage?" Bertie, too, whose greatest charm was his lightning perception of all her thoughts and feelings, could he possibly think—and here a hot glow mounted to her cheeks, which were not cooled by feeling her hand suddenly captured by Du Meresq, as he whispered in her ear,—

"As we always get into scrapes together, don't you think, Cecil, for the future we had better only be responsible to each other?"

"I think," said she, flaming up at last, and her bright eyes flashing indignantly upon him, "that your conduct is idiotic and ungentlemanly: What right have you to make me the subject of your silly jokes?"

"I have made you look at me at last," cried he, "though I am almost 'blasted with excess of light.' Dearest Cecil, you must know what I have come to Rice Lake for, and that you can make me the happiest or most miserable fellow breathing."

Bertie's eyes were glowing with earnestness, and his whole manner was as eager as it had before been inert. Cecil was dumb from contending emotions, love, pride, and doubt, all at war; yet a small voice in her heart kept repeating "At last!"

"You must have known my wishes ever since we parted at Montreal," pleaded Bertie. ("I was by no means so certain," thought Cecil.) "I could not speak then; your father will, perhaps, think I oughtn't to now. Yet, at least I can say honestly, will you marry me, my dearest little Cecil?"

At the asseveration, "I can say honestly," a sudden illumination came over her face, as if every cloud had been instantaneously swept away.

Persons conversant with such subjects maintain that the plain words, "I will," are generally first used by the bride in church, when she promises to worship M. or N. with her body. No doubt, Bertie was answered somehow; but as there are no reporters in Paradise, so happiness requires no chronicler, and we drop the curtain while Cecil becomes engaged to her ideal and only love—a fate sufficiently uncommon in this world of contradictions.

The wind was lulled to a whisper, and a golden sunset was reddening the lake, ere our lovers remembered, with a start, that they had to get home.

"Now comes the rude awakening," cried Du Meresq. "Dinner spoiled, and a very stern expression of paternal opinion to you, my poor Cecil. Very grumpy to me. By Jove, I won't tell him to-night! Here's your half-baked boots. We shall never get them on. Shall I carry you to the boat, and roll your feet in the bear-skin?"

"I feel as if a hundred years had passed since we were last in the canoe," said Cecil, evading this obliging proposal. "But how the lake has calmed itself down; it seems sleeping, and the shore and the islands cast long shadows on it."

"'Tis one of those ambrosial eves A day of storm so often leaves,"

began Bertie, with his incurable propensity for quoting. "What made you so shy at the station, Cecil? I was obliged to put you in a rage to get you natural again."

"After the pleasing picture you draw of our domestic felicity, I can't think how I ever accepted you."

"I was just going to begin when I was unlacing your boots, but the idea struck me that to propose holding a lady's foot instead of her hand, would be too ludicrous a variation from all precedent. What a sensitive girl you are, Cecil! I am sure you knew what was coming, for I felt you drawing into a shell of consciousness, that would have made me nervous too, if I had not been impertinent instead"

Cecil was not far from a relapse, for dreamily happy as she was, she had already begun to torment herself. She had accepted Du Meresq so readily,—good Heavens! she might almost say thankfully,—and, disguise it as he might, he must know it. Could a thing be really valued that was so easy of attainment? When Cecil was shy she was usually dumb, it never revealed itself by hasty, foolish speech, or an artificial laugh. Her countenance, however, was not so silent; and Bertie, as he watched her changing hues and varying expression, thought how much more he admired that mobile, sensitive face, than the pink and white of a soul-less beauty.

"Where is your hand, Cecil?" stretching out a long arm to feel for it. "I am sure a dragon of propriety might trust a loving pair in this wabbly little craft, which an attempt at osculation would upset."

There was just breeze enough to fill the little sail, which bore them swiftly and gently along. A pale star came out in the sky. Though dusk, it was far from dark, night in a Canadian summer being of very abbreviated duration. The lovers had relapsed into dreamy reverie, but, as they began to approach more familiar objects, stern reality resumed its sway. Cecil was the first to give evidence of it, by saying, in rather a subdued voice,—

"Don't you think, Bertie, as you must go away to-morrow, you had better get it over to night?"

"Heaven forbid!" cried he, rousing up, "let us have this evening in peace. You see, my dearest little Cecil, he will hate it anyhow, and to-night will be awfully put out at my bringing you home so late; so this would be the very worst opportunity to choose. To-morrow, after dinner, I'll try what I can do with him. I am a shocking bad match for you, Cecil, and that's the fact. But when I went back to Montreal, thinking of nothing but you, I considered and pondered over every possibility of putting my prospects in a fair light to your father. To the amazement of my creditors, I asked for their accounts. Then I made a little arrangement with Green, the senior lieutenant. He is the son of a money-lender, and very sick of being a subaltern; so he paid the over-regulation down on account for my troop, and will shell out the rest, with an extra thousand, directly my papers are in. The over-regulation money, with a little stretching, covered my debts. To be sure, Green had to part pretty freely, but his pater will get it out of some one else. Now, my idea is to realize what remains of my slender fortune, and try my luck in Australia. You see, my darling, you are all right, for all your money will be settled on yourself; so that if I smash up there, the worst that can happen will be your having to maintain me till I can 'strike ile,' or bring out a patent horse-medicine, or become riding-master to young ladies."

"I put my veto on the last," laughed Cecil. "But really, Bertie, I can hardly believe such good news as your being actually cleared up at last; indeed, I almost feel a sentimental attachment to your debts, for it was about them you first got confidential that Spring you stayed with us in England."

"That visit did my business for life," said Bertie, with a wooer's usual disregard of veracity. "But you are far more beautiful now, Cecil, than you were then."

Not even Du Meresq could persuade Cecil that she had any claims to boast of on that score; indeed, she had once overheard him say that he hardly ever admired dark women, so she passed it by with a half smile of incredulity, as she observed,—

"I really begin to have some faint hope of papa consenting. Your being out of debt will weigh tremendously with him."

"And I am sure you will like Australia," cried he, enthusiastically. "It is the most charming climate, and the life delightful. I will send you up a lot of books on the subject."

Cecil was ashamed to confess how many she had read already. "You must go by that boat to-morrow night, I suppose?" said she, meditatively.

"Yes; no help for it. But as I shall send my papers in at once, most probably I can get leave till I am gazetted out."

"Oh! I wish that mauvais quart-d'heure with papa were over," sighed Cecil. "All to-morrow in suspense!"

"Cecil," said Du Meresq, in his most persuasive tones, "it is better to be prepared for the worst. I know you are true as steel, and far firmer than most girls. Promise that you will marry me,—with his consent, if possible; if not, without."

They had landed just before, and were walking up to the house. What presentiment checked the unqualified pledge he would have imposed on her?

"I promise," she cried, "to marry no one else while you are alive."



CHAPTER XXIII.

LOLA'S BIRTHDAY.

She is not fair to outward view, As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love—a spring of light —Hartley Coleridge.

Mrs. Rolleston had passed a terrible day of anxiety. The sudden rising of the wind so soon after their departure first aroused her alarm, which, as the utmost limit of the time they were to be away passed, became augmented tenfold. The absence of the Colonel, who had gone inland, at first a relief, now increased her desperation, for there was no one to make an effort for their preservation or to ascertain their fate. She and Bluebell, who suffered scarcely less, could only rush to the boatmen for either consolation or assistance. They got little of the former, for with the usual propensity of the lower classes to make the worst of everything, they expressed a decided opinion that the canoe so overladen could not have weathered the squall.

"But they might have put in somewhere," cried Bluebell, seeing Mrs. Rolleston speechless with consternation.

"How far would they be got, ma'am?"

"They must have been gone nearly an hour before the wind began to howl."

"Then they'd be nigh the black rocks, and no place to land closer than Coonwood, unless they turned back and got on to Sheep Island."

"Oh! go and see!" cried Mrs. Rolleston, beside herself with terror, palling out her purse in answer to the mute unwillingness on the man's face.

"It won't be no manner of use; but if it will be a satisfaction to you, ma'am," looking expressively at the purse, "and my mate will come with me, I'll go out for them. They ought to come down 'ansome," he muttered, "if I finds the bodies."

The two ladies waited to see him off, fretting inwardly at the delay of repairing a plank in the boat and fetching his mate. It was a good substantial old tub, very different from the fairy canoe freighted with those precious human lives. Then they returned to their weary watch in Cecil's bird's-nest of a room, which commanded the most extensive view of the lake. Bluebell's young eyes were the first to discern the tiny white bunting, and hope battled with suspense till they could be sure it was the sail they sought. With the field glass they made out two forms.

"Cecil is safe!" cried Mrs. Rolleston, recognising her large, shady hat. "But still," she thought, "Bertie might be drowned, and Captain Lascelles bringing her home. Oh, Bluebell! can you recognise him?" for the girl had the glasses. They were very strong ones, and her vision keen. A spasm passed over her face.

"Captain Du Meresq is quite safe," said she, bitterly. She had looked at the moment when Bertie stretched out his arm for Cecil's hand, and was carrying it to his lips.

Mrs. Rolleston's raptures were too oppressive just then. Bluebell felt thankful to hear a slight disturbance, which betokened that the Colonel had returned. His wife, quite unnerved by the transition from despair to joy, could conceal nothing, and, rushing down, poured into his ear all the dread and relief of the past hours. The Colonel hearing it thus abruptly, and unsoftened by previous anxiety, only felt intense anger at Cecil's having gone alone with these two men; and the danger and exposure to the storm that she had undergone aggravated the offence considerably. He felt too strongly to say much to his wife, who, indeed, had suffered quite enough already; and the sting of it all—his growing fear of Du Meresq's influence over Cecil—he was not disposed to confide to her.

"I have been too careless," he reflected, "and I cannot trust Bella, who will never see a fault in her brother. However, he will be gone to-morrow, and I will take care they never meet again till Cecil is married."

Mrs. Rolleston, in the restless activity of a lightened heart, had hurried away to order large fires to be lit in their rooms, and hot cordials and everything imagination could suggest placed ready. Indeed she racked her brains to remember what restoratives were usually applied to drowned persons. Holding them up by the heels or not doing so (whichever it was), and hot blankets, were the only prescriptions she could recollect; and then the culprits themselves came in, looking particularly fresh and pleased with themselves.

Cecil she proposed instantly to consign to a warm bed, but the girl laughed her to scorn, and would not hear of being shelved in that manner; and, finally, they all came down to dinner, talkative from a delightful sense of reaction. This superfluous effervescence, however, was soon flattened by the unsympathetic gloom of the head of the family. It was very unlike his usual manner, and not a good augury, thought two of the party, who ascribed it to the right cause.

Cecil, however, was determined to resist the damping influence as long as she could. She rattled off lively French airs at the piano, and challenged her father to chess; but he only drily remarked "that after having passed the day in wet clothes, she had better take some ordinary precautions and go to bed." Indeed, her slightly feverish manner perhaps warranted the advice.

"Good night, then, Bertie, and mind you are here early to-morrow for Lola's picnic."

It was the child's birthday, and she had written roundhand invitations to all of them, to spend the day on Long Island and lunch there.

"Tell Lola," said Bertie, smiling, "I would not miss it for the world. She will think me very shabby, but I can't get her a present at Rice Lake."

He went away himself a few minutes after, half hoping to obtain from Cecil a second and more affectionate farewell, but could see nothing of her. Just as he stepped out, though, a casement shot open, and her bright face appeared for an instant as she threw down a rose, round the stalk of which was a slip of paper with the word "Courage?" scratched upon it. She put a finger on her lips warningly, then kissed her hand, and vanished.

Bertie picked up the rose. It was one she had plucked as they entered the garden, and worn in her dress that evening.

As he got into one of the various canoes at the landing, another one passed, paddled by a good-looking youth, who half stopped, and gazed intently at Du Meresq, then catching sight of the flower in his button-hole, an expression of baffled rage came over his boyish face, and he shot away.

It was Alec Gough prowling around with his flageolet, intent upon addressing some minstrelsy to Bluebell, and much disconcerted by the sight of Du Meresq coming from that house with a trophy in the shape of a faded rose.

About two hours after, Cecil, too feverish from the exciting events of the day to sleep, became sensible of some strains of music, apparently from the lake. She sat up to listen. Could it possibly be Bertie? No; he was too good a musician for that barrel-organ style; some wandering person from the hotel it must be. The air was familiar to her, though she could not immediately recall the name. At last she recollected it was one of Moore's melodies, and a verse of it, really intended by Alec for an indignant expostulation to Bluebell, came into her head.—

"Fare thee well, thou lovely one, Lovely still, but dear no more; Once the soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er."

One is more prone to fancies and superstitions in the night-time, and something in the sentiment saddened her. The unknown musician did not weaken the effect by playing another air; and Cecil towards morning fell into an unrefreshing slumber, in which her dreams seemed to parody the day's adventures.

Sometimes she was struggling in the water; and then the scene changed—she was being married in a small church, or rather it more resembled the white-washed room at the station. Bertie was presenting her with a rose instead of a ring, while she was trying to conceal 'neath the folds of her bridal dress her feet encased in shapeless Balmorals. Then Colonel Rolleston suddenly appeared and forbade the ceremony to proceed, while the bridegroom seemed to have changed into Fane, and Bertie, as best-man, slowly chanted—

"Fare thee well, thou lovely one. Lovely still, but dear no more."

"Cecil," cried a gay voice, "are you singing in your sleep? Get up. It's my birthday," said Lola, energetically shaking her shoulder.

"Oh, Lola, is it you? I am so glad you woke me! Many happy returns, my child. Have you had any presents?"

"Oh, yes, pretty good ones. I put my stocking out last night, and it was stuffed. A white mouse from Fred in it, too. It ran away and up the bell-rope, and we have been catching it ever since; but," hanging her head, "there was nothing from you, Cecil."

"Well, Lola," remorsefully, "it is never too late to mend. Would you like a locket? Fetch my dressing-case and you shall choose one."

Cecil was too happy herself that morning not to be amiable to others, and Lola was her favourite; so she would not hurry her, and waited patiently the child's indecision and chatter as she turned over the trinkets.

"Actually Miss Prosody gave me a dictionary; horrid of her, wasn't it? Perhaps she'll ask me to say a column a morning. I think I'll leave it by accident on one of the islands."

"I'll buy it of you," said Cecil, smiling. "I don't think I learned columns enough when I was a child."

"Likely you'd do it now, though, as you are not obliged! Well, Cecil, I think I'll take this dear little blue one with a pearl cross on. It is such a hot day! What dress are you going to wear? It must be a pretty one, because it is my birthday."

Cecil smiled contentedly. It was the birthday of something besides Lola—the dawn of a new life to herself. "Here, miss will this do?" asked she, holding up a fresh grey muslin for her sister's inspection.

"Middling," discontentedly, "Bluebell looks well in those cool, simple dresses; but you are never really pretty, Cecil, except in a grand velvet dress, and then you are splendid."

"Fine feathers make fine birds," replied the other, rather hurt. It was not a morning on which she could bear to be told that her attractions must depend on her toilette; but, half-an-hour afterwards, as she knotted some carnation ribbon on the grey dress and in her dusky hair, a shy smile came over her face, for she saw she was beautiful with the light of love. A warm tinge coloured the usually pale cheek, the lips had taken a deeper red, and were parted with a rare fin smile—the velvet eyes were softer and of liquid brightness.

So thought Bertie, as his expressive glance but too well revealed when they met at breakfast. He made no attempt to conceal his devotion; his eyes scarcely left her face, and his voice took a different tone in addressing her. Fortunately for Bluebell's peace of mind, she was not present. Mrs. Rolleston noticed it, and rejoiced; the Colonel was equally perceptive, and made an inward resolve.



CHAPTER XXIV.

LITTLE PITCHERS.

If aught in nature be unnatural, It is the slaying, by a spring-tide frost, Of Spring's own children; cheated blossoms all Betrayed i' the birth, and born for burial, Of budding promise; scarce beloved ere lost. —Fables In Song.

The whole party were gathered on the lawn after breakfast, preparing for the start, and continually running backwards and forwards for something forgotten. Du Meresq and Cecil were talking apart: the Colonel was to be told that evening after dinner; and Bertie had to get to Cobourg, and catch the night steamer there.

"If we are late back, there will be hardly any time," said the girl.

"Long enough to explain my magnificent prospects, or rather projects. Oh, Cecil, you will be firm, anyhow!"

Her answer was prevented by a clinging sister rushing up. She hummed the words of a favourite air. "Loyal je serai durant ma vie."

Bertie picked a rose and gave it to her. "It exactly matches your ribbons," said he.

It reminded Cecil of her dream, when he gave her a rose instead of a ring, and turned into Fane, and a superstitious chill came over her. At this moment Colonel Rolleston stepped out.

"It is time you people were off. I am only coming with you as far as the hotel to get a trap. I find I must go to Cobourg for letters. I wish, Cecil you would drive with me."

What? give up all those hours with Bertie! His last day, too, and the first of their happiness!

In utter consternation, Cecil cast a most imploring glance at her father; but he, appearing not to see it, continued nonchalantly,—

"It is a long, dull drive, and I shall really be glad of your company."

Du Meresq ground his heel into the gravel with vexation, and Mrs. Rolleston attempted a feeble remonstrance. "The children will be disappointed if Cecil goes away,"—which sentiment they eagerly chorussed.

"Well, you must spare her to-day," said their father, "for I want her too. It will be much better for Cecil to take a quiet drive after her exposure yesterday, than to grill on those islands all day."

It was quite evident opposition would be useless. In sullen resignation she entered a boat with the Colonel, and, taking the rudder lines, steered a course away from Long Island, which the picnic party were now making for. She had seen Bertie standing angry and irresolute, and, apparently, not going; and then he must have changed his mind, for as they were just pulling off, he stepped into the vacant place of a boat containing Mrs. Rolleston, Freddy and Bluebell. Not for a moment was she deceived as to the Colonel's motive in causing her to forego her day's amusement. It was not her society that he wanted—it was to separate her from Du Meresq; and who could tell that he might not intend to bring her back too late to see him before he went?

This she determined to resist to the utmost. She did not feel as if she could endure the suspense, if Du Meresq lost this opportunity of speaking, however doubtful might be the result.

Revolving the difficulties in her path only made Cecil more resolute. She would never give Bertie up, neither would she wait to grow prematurely old with the sickness of hope deferred.

If her father refused consent, would a long secret engagement, promising to remain faithful to each other, be their only resource? Cecil smiled at the idea. She did not forget she was an heiress and of age. Love is for the young, and she was far too proud to meditate bestowing herself upon Bertie when years should have quenched hope and spirit, and stealthily abstracted every charm of youth. And as to him? Well, his antecedents had certainly given no promise of the long suffering fidelity of a Jacob.

Colonel Rolleston was pretty well aware of what was passing in his daughter's mind, for his eyes were now fully opened; but he did not choose to show it.

They arrived at Cobourg, where he found his letters; and then the horses were put up to bait, and they went to the hotel for luncheon.

Cecil expressed a hope that they would be able to return when the horses were rested.

"Certainly," said her father; "we will drive back to dinner."

And, much relieved, she brightened up considerably.

Now the Colonel would rather have detained her long enough there to ensure passing Du Meresq on the road; but the ennui of spending so many hours in so uninteresting a place, and the absence of any excuse for waiting, favoured Cecil's wishes.

Still the time seemed interminable to her in that dusty inn parlour, with its obsolete Annuals, cracked pianoforte, and ugly prints on the walls. Surely no horses ever required so long a rest, and when her father suggested ordering her some tea, it seemed almost like malice prepense to occasion a further delay.

However, they were off at last, and as they rattled along in their shaky conveyance, she became painfully conscious of its discomfort. Every jolt was anguish, and her head and all her limbs were aching. Was it the ducking yesterday, or only this dreadful springless buggy?

They reached the landing before any of the party had returned, and Cecil sought her gable and threw herself on the bed, trusting to rest to remove some of her unpleasant sensations.

As she closed her eyes, she fell into a not unhappy reverie. True, there were opposition and difficulties to contend with, but Bertie was her own, and she would never doubt him more. How disinterested and straightforward he had been in freeing himself from debt before he spoke at all? Even her father must acknowledge that; also that he had sufficient money for the career he had chosen, and only valued her fortune as a security and comfort to herself.

The unutterable luxury of being able to think of him unrestrained only dated from yesterday; for before there was always the humiliating dread that her idolatry was only returned in the same measure in which it was distributed among his somewhat numerous loves. But now distrust had all melted away, and she cared not for the many who had hooked, and lost, since she had landed him.

Aroused by the splash of oars on the lake, Cecil tried to spring from the bed, but her limbs were stiff and heavy, and she dragged herself languidly to the window. They were all on the landing but Du Meresq, and the quick pulsation stilled again.

"I suppose he went first to the hotel," thought she, and began arranging her hair, disordered by the pillow. She heard Lola running upstairs, and called her as she passed.

"I am coming, Cecil. I have got a message for you from Bertie, which is, that he has only gone up to the hotel, and will be here in ten minutes."

Cecil kissed the welcome Mercury, and drew her into the room shutting the door.

"Well, dear, and did you have a pleasant day? What did you do?"

"Oh, yes," said Lola, whose eyes were glittering with excitement, and who had altogether rather a strange manner. "That is to say, pretty well. We didn't do much."

"How was that?"

"Why, Bertie and Bluebell were so stupid. They went away by themselves for ever so long."

Cecil felt as if a hand had suddenly clutched her heart and frozen the blood in her veins. Could that pale face, with wildly gleaming eyes, be the same so sweet and tranquil, that was carelessly smiling at the child an instant before?

"And do you know, Cecil," pursued Lola, warming with her subject, and speaking with intense excitement, "Bertie kissed Bluebell. I saw him do it."

A pause, and the child, apparently gratified by the interest she had awakened, continued,—

"I think Bluebell was crying, and he trying to console her; at any rate, I heard him say he 'loved her very much.'"

One has noticed some years warm weather set in delusively early, and blossoms of fruit and flowers nursed in its smiles peep prematurely forth; and then a biting frost and northeast wind will spring up, the sun all the while treacherously shining, and in one hour destroy the bud and promise for ever. No less swift was the scathing power wielded by that innocent executioner. Every word, fraught with conviction and crushing evidence, sank deep down into her heart. She sat so still that Lola got frightened, and entreated her to say what was the matter; but Cecil appeared unconscious of her presence, and, scared and bewildered, the child shrank away.

Then the girl rose up, and with rapid, uneven steps paced the room. After a while, first bolting the door, she unlocked a sandal-wood box, where, tied with a ribbon and carefully dated, was a packet of Bertie's letters. One by one she patiently read them through, noting and comparing passages, then tying them up, wrote the day of the month and the hour on a slip of paper, and finally enclosed all in an outer cover, which she sealed with her signet-ring, and directed to Du Meresq. This done, the restless walk was resumed. Her head was burning, and throbbed almost too wildly to think. One line seemed ceaselessly to ring in it, that had mingled with her dreams last night, and recurred with hateful appropriateness,—

"Once the soul of truth is gone, love's sweet life is o'er."

Contempt of herself for having been so duped added bitterness to these thoughts. How long and easily had Bertie and Bluebell hoodwinked her to be on the terms they were, and doubtless had often laughed over her simplicity and short-sightedness! But Lola had described her in tears, not smiles; and then Bertie appeared baser than ever. He loved Bluebell, yet would sacrifice her for Cecil's fortune; for the unhappy girl no longer believed in his disinterested professions of the day before. No! she was dark and unlovely, and her rival beautiful, in his favourite style! And Du Meresq was black and treacherous, as a smothered instinct had sometimes warned her.

Mrs. Rolleston came to the door and begged her to come down. Lola's account had startled her. Cecil entreated to be left alone; "she had a splitting headache, and wished to be quiet;" and on her step-mother effecting an entrance, the sight of her face left no doubt of the validity of the excuse.

"Bertie will be so disappointed if he does not see you to-night," cried she regretfully. A bitter smile, and the reiteration, "I cannot come down."

"Your hand is burning, child. You are in a fever. What is the matter?"

Cecil coldly withdrew it, in the same somnambulistic manner, and said she would lie down; and Mrs. Rolleston went out, hurt by her want of confidence, and much bewildered by many events of that day.

Lola next invaded her, sent by Bertie to entreat for admission. "He only just wants to come in for a minute, and see how you are."

"I can't see any one, my head is too bad; tell Bertie so. I am going to lock the door, and go to bed."

But she only threw herself on it. The light waned and darkened, and the moon arose. Then Cecil stole cautiously to the window and watched. Presently Du Meresq came out alone, and she knew he was on his way to the boat. He would look up, she was sure, and she entrenched herself behind the curtain. By the light of the moon she saw his gaze rivet itself on her window, as though it would pierce the gloom. His face was strangely pale, and even sad, and her rebellious heart throbbed wildly as she felt how perilously dear he still was to her. He turned away. Whatever he wore or did, there was a picturesque grace about him, thought Cecil; and as his boat became smaller and smaller in the distance, she wished, in the bitterness of her heart, they had both sunk in the squall of yesterday, e'er she had discovered how falsely he had lied to her.

Lola again disturbed her. "Papa says he is coming up in ten minutes to see you. Bertie told me to tell you he was very sorry you would not speak to him, or say good-bye."

Lola had dined late, it being her birthday, and wore Cecil's locket on a ribbon, but she looked scared and depressed. "It was so dull downstairs," she said. "Mamma had gone away after dinner, and talked a long time to Bluebell. Bertie had not come out of the dining room till it was time to go, and she had had no one to speak to but Miss Prosody—not a bit like a birthday."

"Lola," said Cecil, much too preoccupied to attend to her complaints, "has the letter bag gone down to the boat yet?"

"I saw it still open in the passage."

"Then run down quick with this big letter—you understand? Don't stop to speak to any one, but put it in the bag and come back and tell me when it is done."

The child looked at the address "Why, Cecil," said she, curiously, "this is for Bertie! What a pity I couldn't have given it to him before he went! What a lot of postage stamps it takes!"

"Never mind, dear, run away with it," anxiously.

Lola was but just in time before the Colonel came out, locked the bag, and went upstairs to his daughter.

Pre-occupied as he was, he was startled at her changed appearance. A shawl was thrown around her, and she appeared shivering, while a fever spot burned on either cheek. The Colonel was alarmed and irritated. "It is all that folly yesterday. Have your fire lit, and go to bed, but I must say a word or two first."

No assistance from Cecil, he took a turn or two about the room, surprised at her apathy. It was very difficult to begin, he wished to be kind, but was determined to be firm. How indifferent she seemed. Perhaps she would not care so very much.

"Cecil," he began, "you will guess what I wish to speak about. I don't know whether I was more surprised or annoyed at Du Meresq's preposterous proposal for you to-night."

"What did he say, papa?"

"Why," perplexed at her unusual manner, which exhibited no surprise and little curiosity, "all he had to say was, that he wished to abandon his profession, and take you on a wild goose chase to the Antipodes. That in itself would have been quite sufficient, but there are other reasons, I have not a good opinion of Du Meresq, and I had almost rather see you in your grave than married to him." Cecil made no sign, and the Colonel continued,—"It may seem hard now, but you will live to thank me. I wish you, Cecil, since he will not be satisfied with less, to write a few lines and tell him all must be at an end between you."

She rose mechanically, brought her writing-desk, and took out pen and paper.

"What shall I say?" she asked, tranquilly.

The Colonel, who was prepared for determined opposition from his strong willed daughter, knew not whether to be most relieved or confounded by this apathetic submission. "I will leave the composition to you," said he, gently.

"Thank you," said Cecil "I should prefer writing it from your dictation."

"Say, then," returned her father, not ill pleased to get it expressed strongly "that you find I am so irrevocably opposed to your marriage with him, that you have no alternative but to give up all thoughts of it for the future, and that he must understand this decision to be final."

Deliberately, and with the same stony indifference, she wrote it word for word, handed it to her father to read then sealed the letter with her own signet-ring, and returned it to him.

"It will be Fane yet," thought the bewildered Colonel, with a secret glow of hope. "I was mistaken, her heart is not in this business—if she has one," was the irrepressible doubt, for though Bertie's ardent suit had left him inflexible, his daughter's insensibility almost disgusted him.

Muttering to himself, "That job's over," with a lightened heart he sought his wife, and directed her to go to Cecil, whom he thought far from well. But an interview with Bertie's sister just then was too distasteful to the unhappy girl, and she only answered Mrs. Rolleston's request, that she would open the door, by entreaties to be left in peace and allowed to sleep.

It would have been better had she admitted her not only into her room, but her confidence for the kind lady knew what even Cecil might have acknowledged to be extenuating circumstances, but she now felt completely alienated and distanced by the forbidding reserve of her step daughter, of whom she was not altogether devoid of awe.

The next day an express was on its way to Peterboro' for a doctor. Cecil was down with rheumatic fever, and delirious.



CHAPTER XXV.

CHANGES.

I remember the way we parted. The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken hearted; I knew we should both forget.

A hand like a white wood-blossom You lifted, and waved and passed With head hung down to the bosom, And pale, as it seemed at last. —Swinburne.

Du Meresq in indignant dismay at the abduction of Cecil on the day of the picnic stood awhile silent and bitter, deaf to the impatience of the children, who wanted to be off. While thus irresolute, he chanced to glance at Bluebell, whose countenance betrayed an agony of suspense. The entreating look in her eyes she was probably unconscious of, for the child had not yet learned to command her face. Bertie yielded to it by a sort of magnetism, and flung himself into the boat where she and Mrs. Rolleston were already seated, but remained silent and thoughtful as they floated monotonously along. His sister was equally occupied with uneasy reflections, and Bluebell seemed as spell-bound as the rest. For one soul deeply moved and agitated often affects by electricity another in a receptive condition. Does not the atmosphere in a tempestuous mood thrill and disturb our nervous system?

She was next to Bertie, and noted that, though concealed by rugs and waterproofs, his hand did not seek hers as of yore.

They were joined on Long Island by the rest of the party, and all kept pretty much together at first. There was luncheon to be unpacked, the fire to be made and some fish to be grilled in a frying-pan. Du Meresq partially shook off his gloom, and assisted the children in their preparations; and, from the noise that ensued, a stranger would not have suspected the mental disquietude of three of the number.

After luncheon, Bluebell wandered away in search of wild flowers, the children hunted for cray-fish, Miss Prosody spudded up ferns, and Mrs. Rolleston drew from her pocket her favourite point-lace.

Du Meresq, hungering for that exclusively masculine solace, tenderly brought forth the pipe of his affections, nestling next his heart. There was too much air on the beach, and he sauntered away in search of a more sheltered situation in which to woo his divinity.

Some "spirit in his feet" must have led him "who knows how," for ere long he found himself seated on a log beside Bluebell. I cannot tell what spell that syren had used to attract his footsteps so unerringly, for, little accustomed as he was to resist female influence, in thought at least Du Meresq was loyal enough to Cecil.

He made no attempt to kiss her, as he would have done before in a similar situation, but talked a while in that half-fond, half-bantering manner that had misled the inexperienced child. The sun poured its level rays upon them, and a little brown snake, with a litter of young, crawled from beneath the log. This occasioned a hasty change of quarters, and they found another seat o'ershadowed by a tangle of blackberries. It was very secluded and still, and here, with her whole soul, in her eyes, Bluebell abruptly asked Bertie her dreaded question.

Rather taken back, he answered evasively. But the ice once broken, she was not to be turned from her purpose, and repeated, as if it were a stereotyped form of words she had been practising, "I only wish to ask one single thing, are you engaged to Cecil?"

Du Meresq was no coxcomb. He was distressed at the repressed agitation in Bluebell's voice, her hueless face, and the hopeless look in eyes he remembered so beaming, and for the moment heartily wished he had never seen her.

"How young she looks, with her lap full of flowers. Like an unhappy child," thought he remorsefully. "I must tell her the truth; she'll soon get over it."

Very gently he took her hand, and said, gravely,—"I asked Cecil yesterday to marry me, and she said yes."

Bluebell staggered to her feet, with perhaps a sudden impulse of flight, but so unsteadily that Du Meresq involuntarily threw a supporting arm round her. At that moment Lola, in search of blackberries, and herself concealed by the bush she was rifling, peeped through the brambles, and remained a petrified and curious observer.

Bluebell, struggling for composure, tried to speak, but the effort only precipitated an irrepressible flood of tears, and Du Meresq, grieved and self-reproachful, in his attempts to console her, used the fatal words that Lola afterwards repeated to Cecil. The child escaped without her presence being detected.

Bluebell's emotion had passed over like a storm that clears the atmosphere. It left her calm and cold, and only anxious to be away from Du Meresq.

There is a bracing power in knowing the worst. He had gained her affections without the most distant intention of matrimony, and resentment and shame restored her to composure.

She turned her large child-like eyes on him with mute reproach.

"You should have told me before," were her first articulate words. "No wonder Cecil hated me when you were pretending to care for me behind her back."

Bertie murmured,—"There was no pretence in the matter."

"Then why do you marry Cecil?" asked Bluebell, with the most uncompromising directness. "Is it because she is rich?"

"Confound it," thought Du Meresq; "I trust she won't suggest that to Cecil."

"Can't I love you both?" cried he, somewhat irritated; and just then Miss Prosody and her brood appeared in sight.

"I return you my share," exclaimed Bluebell, breaking abruptly from him, and, running down the path, joined the governess and children.

Du Meresq had rather a bad quarter of an hour over the pipe which this sentimental episode had extinguished; but he could not regret, in the face of his new engagement, the finale of a past and now inopportune love-affair.

Bluebell did not come down to dinner that day nor see Du Meresq again; but afterwards, Mrs. Rolleston, who was in nobody's confidence, and had the uneasy conviction that something was going desperately wrong, came into her room.

Bluebell's state of repression could endure no longer. She began by entreating Mrs. Rolleston to accept Mrs. Leighton's situation, and let her go to England at once; and after that it did not take much pressing to induce her to make full confession of all that had passed.

It must be remembered that Bluebell was under the impression that her friend had always known of the flirtation between herself and Bertie; but now for the first time the horror-stricken Mrs. Rolleston had her eyes opened to what had been passing before them.

Everything burst on her at once. Recollection and perception awoke together. To keep it from Cecil seemed the most urgent necessity, and the removal of Bluebell the thing most to be wished for.

Bluebell was disposed to keep back nothing, and answered every question with frank recklessness. She told of their first walk in the wood, their frequent interviews at "The Maples," and Bertie's visit to the cottage, laughing at the idea of having ever seriously cared for Jack Vavasour.

Mrs. Rolleston remembered that Cecil had not shared her delusion on that subject, and anxiously inquired if she had ever acknowledged to her her penchant for Bertie.

Bluebell answered in the negative, giving as a reason that, though unable to guess the cause, her manner had always repelled any approach to confidence on that subject.

Mrs. Rolleston remembered Cecil's strange behaviour that afternoon, but she had not even seen Bluebell since the picnic. It remained unaccountable.

She reflected with vexation on the fatality that had made her refuse the child's confidence so many months before; but yet she hoped no harm was done, since Bluebell averred that Bertie and Cecil were engaged.

The letter to Mrs. Leighton was written that night ready for the morning mail; another was also despatched to Mrs. Leigh at Bluebell's request, who was anxious that Mrs. Rolleston should break the rather summary measures to her—not that the latter anticipated much difficulty there. All Canadians have a great idea of a visit to England, which they tenaciously speak of as "home," and "the old country." And she would probably be glad that Bluebell should see her father's birthplace.

At the child's express wish, it was also arranged for her to go home at once, as companionship with Cecil could now be agreeable to neither of them.

Mrs. Rolleston had only seen Du Meresq for a moment before he went away, yet his manner, no less than her step-daughter's, clearly indicated that something was wrong. Even Colonel Rolleston had taken up an attitude of impenetrable reserve, and his wife was completely at fault. Next day, however, the shock and terror of Cecil's illness fell upon them, turning her mind to a more immediate subject of anxiety.

Bluebell could not do less than offer to remain, and share the vigils in the sick room; but even in delirium Cecil became palpably worse when her rival approached, so, in a few days, with much sadness, she bade farewell to those who had made the world of her "most memorial year."

While Cecil was hovering on the borderland of mental darkness, a note came for her from Bertie, written on receipt of the packet that Lola had posted and was as follows:—

"What can I imagine, Cecil, from this parcel of my letters returned without a word beyond the date and hour? You must have packed them up at the very time I, as we had agreed, was asking for you from your father. I shall not speak of the almost insulting way in which he received my proposals, for that we had anticipated; but you had promised in any event to be true to me. You could not have changed in a summer day, I know your nature, my dearest little Cecil, and you would not have deserted me in this crisis unless your vulnerable side, jealousy, had been awakened. Indeed you have no cause for it. I cannot come back to the Lake, for your father would not receive me, but shall make no plans till I hear from you.

"Yours, as ever, devotedly,

"B."

It was three weeks before Cecil could read this letter, and the following day Du Meresq got hers, written at her father's dictation.

It was not a soothing one for an ardent lover to receive, and Bertie was at first furious, and considered himself very ill used. With it all, though, he never believed that Cecil had really changed. He thought very probably his unfortunate flirtation with Bluebell had come out; returning his letters looked like an acces of jealousy, and the one she had written was probably prompted by the same cause.

Any way, though, he was at a dead lock. Her father, of course, would not allow her to see him, and while she was in this mood writing was useless. His papers were in, and tired of inaction at Montreal, he obtained leave to go to England. He lingered time enough to have received an answer to his letter, and, none coming, he took the first steamer homeward-bound.

Du Meresq had not acquainted his sister of his engagement to Cecil; for being aware of the Colonel's inimical disposition, he did not wish to draw her into any difficulty about it. She did not even know that he had written to Cecil since he left, as the letter had fallen into her husband's hands, who, though not intending to withhold it altogether, considered it a document that might very well wait her convalescence.

Mrs. Rolleston wished to apprise Bertie of Cecil's dangerous illness, but she had allowed one mail to pass, and they only recurred once a week, so that Du Meresq was embarking at Quebec the day her letter arrived at Montreal.

Cecil made a slow recovery. The rheumatic fever, caused by sitting so many hours in wet clothes, and aggravated by the shock she had since received, hung about her many weeks, and as soon as she could be moved they took her back to Toronto. Then her father most unwillingly gave her Du Meresq's letter. He was too honourable to destroy it; but, looking upon him as the frustrator of his plans for Cecil, and the indirect cause of her illness, viewed with impatience any chance of a renewal of intercourse.

Cecil read it repeatedly; but though her heart longed to believe, her mind remained unconvinced. She shrank from all mention of the subject with her step-mother, knowing how one-sided a partisan she would be, but could not deny herself the self-torture of questioning Lola again. The child relentlessly stuck to her text, painting the scene with a vividness that did credit to her descriptive powers; and being one of those vivacious and ubiquitous children never to be sufficiently guarded against, was able to mention one or two other occasions on which she had "popped on them."

And all that time Bertie had apparently been devoted to herself! This was decisive. Lola could have no interest in deceiving her. She must not answer his letter or be his dupe again.

Bluebell's approaching departure to England still further corroborated Lola's story. At that picnic on Long Island, Bertie had evidently acknowledged his engagement to herself, which she now fully believed to be a mercenary one, as, doubtless, he had also assured her rival. But perpetual lonely walks and rides were unfavourable to oblivion, and had Du Meresq been but on the spot, I think even then the mists between these two lovers would soon have been drawn aside.

Mrs. Rolleston wondered that she had not heard from Bertie, but imagined he was somewhere on leave. Cecil would not speak on the subject, but she mentioned it sometimes to Bluebell with surprise, who was much perplexed to guess what could have divided them. Her own conscience was easy; she had told Cecil nothing—indeed, they had never met since the latter's illness. Bluebell was now with her mother, preparing for her journey to England, and had persistently avoided going to "The Maples."

A very cordial acceptance had come from Mrs. Leighton, who said Evelyn was all impatience for her musical friend. Mrs. Rolleston, who was now a frequent visitor at the cottage, laughed a little at the letter, which was very gushing, and told Bluebell they were an emotional pair. Evelyn was strangely brought up,—every fancy, however extravagant, gratified, partly on account of her delicate health, and partly from the sentimental sympathy of her mother. One whim was, she would never learn from ugly people, and the supply of beautiful governesses being limited, her education was proportionably so also.