“My good, kind cousin! It is so hard to say it. I thought I had made it clear to you, that you understood.” “What should I have understood, Isabel?” “That I am not free. I have given my promise.” He relinquished her hand, after pressing it, and said, with half a smile: “Then I can only envy him, whoever he may be.” There was a motion behind the bushes, a rustling as of some one moving away. Robert looked round, but could see no one. Isabel hastily quitted him. CHAPTER XII. For a couple of days Kingcote had been too unwell to leave the house. For the most part he sat in his own room, with the windows darkened; his head was racked with pain. Mary’s anxious pleading to be allowed to send for aid drove him to angry resistance. He could not talk with her, and could not bear to have her sitting by him in silence. He wished to be alone. On the third morning he did not rise at the usual time; Mary went to his room and entered. Her coming woke him from a light slumber; he said he had been awake through the night, and felt as if now he could sleep. An hour later she returned, and again he woke. “Has any letter come this morning?” he asked. “Yes, there is one. I thought I had better leave it till----” “Let me have it at once!” he exclaimed fretfully. “You should not have kept it.” There was fever on his lips, and his eyes had an alarming brightness. When Mary returned, he was sitting in expectation, and took the letter eagerly. She left the room as he began to read it. It could not have been a quarter of an hour before Mary, who was just about to take up such breakfast as she thought he might accept, saw her brother descend the stairs. “I have to go out,” he said. “Give me a cup of tea; I want nothing more.” She turned into their sitting-room, and he followed her. “But you mustn’t go out, Bernard,” she objected timidly, looking at him in distress. “You are not fit----” “I have to go,” he repeated, in a dogged manner. “Is there tea here? If you won’t give me any I must go without it.” “But you are so ill, dear! Bernard, do, do wait till you are better! I cannot let you go out like this!” He looked at her, and spoke with perfect calmness. “I am not ill. My head is much better. I am going into the country, and it will do me good.” “Are you going to Knightswell?” she asked, laying a hand gently upon him. “Yes, I am. She goes into Scotland tomorrow; I must see her before. I am dreadfully thirsty. Give me some tea, Mary, there’s a good girl.” When she brought it from the kitchen, he had his hat in his hand. She in vain tried to persuade him to eat. He said he should have an appetite when he reached Winstoke. In a few minutes he was ready to start. “I may be late back; don’t trouble yourself about me.” “But I _shall_ trouble dreadfully about you, Bernard; how can I help?” But she was as helpless to prevent his going. He merely waved his hand, and hastened into the street.