“You dear, romantic girl” (Cecil was chilled in a moment), “how could I take your money?  I shouldn’t have a chance of repaying it.  No, I shall last as long as I can, and then try the Colonies.  It is only my rascally self, after all, to think of.  Thank goodness, I don’t draw any delicate, fragile life after me into privation and discomfort.”

Cecil bent more closely over her drawing.

“What are you doing?” said Bertie, impatiently.  “I can’t see your face.  Come and sit by me, Cecil.  I like a ‘gentle hand in mine.’”

Cecil moved as if in a dream, and sat in a low chair near his couch.

“You have always been so kind and true to me,” stroking her hair caressingly.

A slight movement of the handle of the door made them involuntarily separate, and Mrs. Rolleston entered.

“Cecil, your father is looking for you.  He wants you to drive with him, and call on the Learmonths.”

“What an infernal bore!” said Du Meresq, energetically; “and I must lie in this confounded room, with nothing to do the whole afternoon.  Can’t you get out of it, Cecil?”

“No, no!” said Mrs. Rolleston, hastily meeting her daughter’s eye.  There was unspoken sympathy between them.  Her half eager look of inquiry passed into intelligent acquiescence, and, with a regretful glance at Bertie, she left the room.

The next day and the one after the Colonel required his daughter’s companionship; the third day, they all went out in the afternoon, as Du Meresq seemed better, and said he had letters to write.  No sooner, however, was the house quiet and deserted, than he rang the bell, and sent for a sleigh, hobbling out with the assistance of a stick and the servant’s arm.  For the information of that lingering and curious functionary, he ordered the driver to go to the Club, which address, however, was altered after proceeding a short distance.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LAKE SHORE ROAD.

But all that I care for,
And all that I know,
Is that, without wherefore,
I worship thee so. 
—­Lord Lytton.

“I suppose, Bluebell, you keep all your fine spirits for company?” said Miss Opie, tauntingly; and, indeed, she had some reason to be aggrieved.  Few things are more trying than living with a person in the persistent enjoyment of the blues; and the old, saddened by failing health and the memory of heavy sorrows, are apt to look upon gloom in youth as entrenching on their own prescriptive rights.

Bluebell was always now taking long, aimless walks, bringing home neither news nor gossip, and then sitting silent, absorbed in her own thoughts, or else feverishly expectant; while each evening she sank into deeper despondency after the day’s disappointment.

“Spirits can’t be made to order,” answered she, shortly.  “I have got nothing to talk about.”

“I am afraid you are ill, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh; “outgrowing your strength, perhaps.  You are such a great girl, Bluebell—­so different to me; and you scarcely touched the baked mutton at dinner, which was a little frozen and red yesterday, but so nice to-day.”