Chapter 23

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.