Weak from his illness and the disappointment, Harry leant against the railings to consider and recover.  He had been so secure of finding Bluebell there, and during the whole hurried journey was picturing the meeting.  How would she look?  He knew so well the fluttering colour that changed in any emotion, pleasurable or otherwise:  but would he see a true loving welcome in those transparent eyes?  He had considered every probability or improbability of this sort, but not how he should act in such a dead lock as the present.

Repeated rings at the bell at last brought out the woman in charge, her arms covered with soap-suds, and gown drawn through a placket-hole.

“The family had gone abroad,” she said.  “No, she did not know where.  The agent might, perhaps.  She was only there to show visitors the house.”

Harry turned away in listless perplexity; it was quite evident this person could tell him nothing.  Doubtless their change of plans had been communicated to him by post, but he had not waited to send for letters.  There was nothing for it but to obtain from the woman the address of the house-agent, get Mr. Markham’s from him, and send another letter to Bluebell.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS.

  How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
    Whom that day I held not dear? 
  How could I know I should love thee away,
    When I did not love thee a near? 
                              —­Jean Ingelow.

We must now see whither the vicissitudes of fortune have conducted Mrs. Dutton.  Her pleasant home at the Markhams’ was gone.  They had lost heavily in the failure of a bank, and were living abroad to retrench, while Mr. Markham pursued his profession in London.

Bluebell was the first luxury to be cut off, though, as a home during Harry’s absence was what she chiefly required, she would willingly have remained for nothing.  It was unspeakable grief to part with Mrs. Markham, who alone understood how oppressively her secret weighed on her, and her incessant anxiety for news from the seat of war.

One day,—­it was after the battle of Balaklava,—­when shuddering over, in the Times, the ghastly “butcher’s bill,” Bluebell came upon Du Meresq’s name among the killed, and the shock to nerves that had scarcely yet recovered their equilibrium nearly brought on a relapse of her former illness.

Yet, as her mind cleared from its first horror, she was amazed to find it was not Cecil she was most feeling for, and that the cry, “Thank Heaven, it is not Harry!” had arisen spontaneously to her heart.  I suppose Bertie’s neglect had effected its own cure; but certainly some secret influence was turning the tide of her affections into its legitimate channel.

Yet their correspondence was not only desultory, but constrained.  Dutton, never convinced of possessing her heart, and angry with himself at the part he had acted, had no pleasure in writing; and Bluebell was as shy of her new-found feelings as though he were still an unacknowledged lover.