It was weeks since she had heard from Dutton, whose first letter had never been repeated, and she begun to believe that the headlong passion that had led him to force her, almost against her will, into marriage with him was as short-lived as it had been quickly kindled.

She remembered Bertie Du Meresq, who had appeared quite as desperate at first, and then had quietly transferred his affections to Cecil.  Like the Psalmist, she could have “said in her heart, all men are liars.”

Harry near—­adoring—­exigeant, could be an evil; but Harry away, engaged every thought; and if thinking of a person is the first step to love, he ought to have been satisfied with the way Bluebell was employing herself.

One evening she was sitting in her bed-room with the window open.  There was a light breath of spring in the air though the nights were frosty.  It was near midnight, and starlight, which has ever attractions for the young; later on, a warm fireside and creature comforts are more congenial.  Archie, the dog, with his nose on his paws, bore her company; presently he gave a low growl, and pricked his ears—­a moment after, Bluebell fancied she could hear the sound of wheels on the frosty ground.  It became clearer and clearer; presently she could distinguish the red lights of a fly, and then she knew that Harry was come.

That his mission had been unsuccessful, she read at once in avoidance of her questioning eyes, yet, strange to say, it seemed of secondary importance.  Dutton himself, for the first time, was of all-absorbing interest to Bluebell.  His presence seemed to break the lethargic spell that had bound her, while no small detail of appearance and dress escaped her, even that his hair was parted differently.  Dutton, who had dreaded the first meeting, was relieved by Bluebell’s manner, and saw at once they were more en rapport.  He was only too willing to procrastinate bad tidings, so it was not till the next day that she realized the whole fatal truth.  Harry was going to the war with their marriage still unacknowledged.

He related, truthfully enough, his conversation with Lord Bromley.  Even then, in her deep interest as to its result, Bluebell vaguely noticed the curious coincidence of his uncle also having disinherited a son, but, having a more dominant idea in her mind, that was left in a vacant corner, to crop up at some future time.

Dutton was vexed that she could not see he had no other alternative but silence.

“It would have been simply giving away ‘The Towers’ to have blurted it all out then.”

To Bluebell’s unsophisticated mind, honesty seemed more importunate than expediency.

“Then, if you do get ‘The Towers’ now, it will be on false pretences.”

Harry reddened.  He had all along been goaded by a vague sense of dishonour.  “It’s useless crying over spilt milk,” exclaimed he, impatiently.  “Now would have been the very worst time—­just as he wants me to marry some one else.  But when I come back—­”