Bluebell felt rather mystified at the tone of this epistle; but was much comforted by the thought that the ban was removed, and she might go to “The Maples” and judge for herself.  This was dated prior to the other letter, but Bertie appeared to have been ignorant of it.

The following day, our heroine, in a hired sleigh, was jingling back to “The Maples,” and curiosity and interest all centred on one question—­“Is he there still?”

As she passed through the hall, her eye glanced searchingly round on the chance of seeing some familiar property of Bertie’s.  There was only a pair of his moccasins; but they might so easily have been left behind as useless, now the snow was evaporating.

Mrs. Rolleston and Cecil received her very cordially, but, knowing their sentiments, that was rather an unfavourable omen, and Freddy and Lola, who had come down to see her, kept up such an incessant chatter, that there seemed no chance of obtaining the information she dreaded.

At last, in a momentary pause, she faltered out a leading remark in such a low voice that no one attended to it.  A minute later, she tried again,—­“I hope Captain Du Meresq is better.”

“How red you have got, ‘Boobell!’” said Freddy.  “Look, mamma!”

“What did you say, my dear—­Bertie?  Oh, yes, he is very lame still; but he was obliged to go yesterday.”

The sudden colour left Bluebell’s cheek, and she sat for some minutes in a relaxed, drooping attitude, oblivious of all around, till becoming sensible of Cecil’s gaze rivetted on her.  It was a cold satirical expression, at the same time inquiring.  Bluebell was very unhappy; but this roused her, and, raising her head, she looked her enemy steadily in the eyes, with a bitter smile.

She never, strange to say, suspected Cecil of being a rival, merely supposing she was carrying on the family politics; and wounded by her officiously hostile demeanour, as she considered it, resolved no trace of her sufferings should ever be witnessed by this cold friend.

And thus it happened that the topic was jealously avoided by each; though, with mutual occupation and amusements, they became friendly again, now the disturber of their amicability was removed.

Bertie and Cecil had been inseparable the last week.  His premature exertion in calling at the cottage had thrown him back; and really ill, and, in enforced inaction, he could not bear her out of his sight.

So day after day Cecil passed in the smoking-room, only hurrying out for a short drive or constitutional; and half-repaid by the gloomy complaint, “How long yon have been!” when she re-entered.

Du Meresq’s correspondence, too, as we have before hinted, was not calming.  A half-indignant letter from a friend whose temporary accommodation had not been repaid, a bill at three months wanting renewing, a tailor threatening the extremest rigours of the law, and similar literature, familiar to a distressed man, was punctually brought by the Post-office orderly for his delectation.