Mrs. George Croft Huddleston - Bluebell

M >> Mrs. George Croft Huddleston >> Bluebell

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"Pray, don't," cried she, pettishly. "You are sure to do it all wrong."

"Let me try," pleaded Jack. "If you just look at me I shall know when to
turn."

"Well, see if you can bring that book" (indicating a very heavy one at
the bottom of a pile) "without spilling the rest, or dropping it on your
toes. Thank you. Now you had better go away; this is not at all the sort
of music you would understand."

"Classical, I suppose. I am afraid my taste is too uncultivated."

"Come, Miss Leigh," said the Colonel, half-impatiently, "we are all
expectation."

Bertie had approached Cecil, and taken up the book she was reading. It
was open at "Aux Italiens," and he murmured low some of the verses:--

"I thought of the dress she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather.
Of her muslin dress, for the eve was hot,
And her warm white neck in its golden chain.
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again."

Mrs. Rolleston thought they looked very like lovers bending over the same
book, and their eyes speaking to each other, and in harmony with it went
rippling on one of the wildest and most plaintive of the Lieders under
Bluebell's sympathetic and brilliant fingers.

"What a magnificent touch that child has!" said Du Meresq, pausing to
listen.

"She has quite a genius for music;" and, mentally, she commented, "I
never heard her play better."

"She plays," said Bertie, "as if she were desperately in love."

"With Mr. Vavasour?" laughed Cecil.

"With no one, I dare say. It indicates, however, a _besoin d'aimer_."

Cecil took up "The Wanderer" again, but she soon found they were not _en
rapport_. The captain's temperament was now, ear and fancy, under the
spell of the fair musician.

Bertie was soon by the piano, but Bluebell ceased almost directly after.
He had brought from Montreal [unreadable] Minstrel Melodies, then just
out, and asked her to try one. She excused herself on the plea that it
was a man's song, so he began it himself. Who has not suffered from the
male amateur, who comes forward with bashful fatuity to favour the
company with a strain tame and inaudible as a nervous school girl's?
Bertie was no musician, and his songs were all picked up by ear, but
there was a passion and _timbre_ in the tenor voice, fascinating if
unskilful, and the refrain of "Gentle Annie,"

"Shall we never more behold her,
Never hear that winning voice again,
Till the spring time comes, gentle Annie,
Till the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?"

lingered with its mournful, tender inflection in more than one ear
that night.

Afterwards the two young men from the barracks, muffled to the chin in
buffalo robes, lit the inevitable cigar, and jingled merrily off to the
music of the bells.

CHAPTER IV.

SATURDAY AT HOME.

Unhasp the lock--like elves set free,
Flit out old memories;
A strange glow gathers round my heart.
Strange moisture dims mine eyes.
--Lawrance.

Cecil woke the next morning with the feeling that something pleasant had
happened; and then she remembered that Bertie Du Meresq was actually in
the house, and the old folly as likely as ever to begin again; but, not
possessing the self-examining powers of Anthony Trolloppe's heroines, she
made no attempt to argue herself out of her unreasonable happiness, and,
indeed, dwelt far more than necessary on the warm, sudden hand-clasp so
inopportunely witnessed by full private Bowers. She came down radiant,
and looking positively handsome; but when did a too sunny dawn escape a
cloud ere noon? Bertie seemed different somehow,--was not certain he
could get more leave,--was even doubtful about asking for it; and Cecil's
mental Mercury, which had been "set fair," went down to "change." In
reality, Du Meresq not being so etherealized by love, felt out of sorts,
and not up to the mark that morning, and, therefore, probably opined with
Moore--

"Thus should woman's heart and looks,
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night returning
Brings their genial hour for burning."

At any rate, he actually went to the barracks with the Colonel, "as if he
couldn't get enough of that," thought Cecil, "when he is not on leave."

But after severe reflections on herself for caring a straw about it,
Cecil had forgiven him, and a deceitful sunbeam peeped through in the
prospect of meeting at luncheon, only to be again overcast, as the
Colonel returned without the recreant Bertie.

This second reverse overthrew her afternoon arrangements, for she had
reckoned on Du Meresq's escort to the Rink. This being Saturday, Bluebell
always went home till the following day, and Mrs. Rolleston would not be
available even for a drive, for she hated sleighing, and was looking
forward to writing her English letters in the cozy drawing-room, and
sociably imbibing afternoon tea with any visitors hardy enough to face
the bitter northwester, happily so rare a visitant in that sufficiently
inclement climate.

But Cecil preferred facing any weather to her own thoughts, and,
encountering three Astrakhan-jacketed and fur-capped sisters under convoy
of Miss Prosody, was carried off by them to enliven their dismal
constitutional.

In the meantime, Captain Du Meresq, having lunched at the barracks, drove
with Mr. Vavasour to the Rink, expecting to find both girls there: but
speculating rather the most on the chance of having a more unrestrained
conversation with Bluebell than he cared for under the eyes of her
responsible guardians. His projects also were to prove futile, for that
young person was speeding over the frozen tract on the common at the
time. The snow was as dry and hard as powdered sugar, and her cloud was
stiff with her frozen breath; her ears felt as though she had thrust them
into a holly-bush, and the razor-like wind in that unsheltered spot must
have arrested the circulation of any less healthy and youthful
pedestrian. The morning had dawned prosperously for her, as Mrs.
Rolleston had accorded permission to join the sleigh-party, the _summum
bonum_ of her hopes; and the gratification was rendered more complete by
a charming present from Cecil of an ermine cap, muff lined with scarlet,
and ermine neck-tie, fastened by its cunning little head and tail.

Bluebell was picturing their effect on the velveteen jacket hitherto
so coldly furnished forth, and thinking that Cecil must have ordered
them from Montreal with a view to this party, as they had arrived so
opportunely. She remembered now that Lola had, apparently, been
struggling with a secret for some days; and yet, when she, Bluebell, had
been so ecstatic, Cecil had seemed more thoughtful than sympathetic and
merely acknowledging her thanks by a quiet kiss, had escaped from the
room.

Two expectant faces were peering over the blind at the cottage, watching
the gay footsteps battling across the common. Even Aunt Jane looked
forward to seeing this weekly messenger from the outer world, which,
needless to say, kept well aloof from these poor and insignificant
ladies.

Bluebell always brought every piece of gossip she could collect to feed
Miss Opie's inquisitive mind who was in no way exempt from the sin
supposed to most easily beset spinsterhood and her girlish spirits
brightened the quiet cottage and left their echo behind through the dull
week. She was by no means an unmixed good when she lived there. Her
vivacity, having nothing to expend itself on, often turned to desperate
fits of discontent and _ennui_, but now, coming home was a holiday and
change.

All the inhabitants, old ladies, and new girl (for each successive one
went away to better herself after a few weeks residence), assembled
simultaneously at the hall door, and drew their visitor from the bitter
blast into the stove lit parlour. One yet more humble welcomer was there
of the vagabond tribe--petty larceny in every curve of his ungainly form,
and his spirit so broken by adversity that he only ventured to wag his
shabby tail in recognition of his benefactress.

This was Bluebell's casual--one of a too common race in Canada of
homeless, starved animals there being no Refuge or dog tax to compel them
to live under protection or not at all.

This reclaimed cur after overcoming his strong suspicion of poison, had
supported himself for sometime on the food Bluebell placed for him in the
shed and when emboldened by hunger and the handsome treatment he had
received he ventured into the house, he was authorized to remain as watch
dog and protector.

In the summer, too, horses were added to her pensioners and invited in to
graze on the patch of enclosed grass at the back of the cottage, till it
fell short from being burned up or eaten, for the common was haunted with
gaunt, famished quadrupeds, who, in the drought of summer, were still
left to look for the mockery of subsistence on the bare, parched ground.

It was a cheerful party gathered round the tea-table, quite lavishly set
forth in honour of the guest. Scones and tea cakes were plenteously
saturated with butter, regardless of its winter price (the old ladies
would breakfast on bread and scrape the rest of the week with
uncomplaining self-denial), and a heavy plum cake formed the _piece de
resistance_.

Trove, for olfactory reasons, was accommodated with his share on a rug
in the passage. Bluebell was the chief talker, with her week's arrears
of news. Captain du Meresq's arrival created a little buzz of interest.

"Is he handsome?" asked Mrs. Leigh, sentimentally, whose thoughts had
flown back to earlier days.

Bluebell looked up with an odd, perplexed glance. "Upon my word, I don't
know."

"Ah! there were more good-looking people in my day," said her mother.
"There was Captain Fletcher, in your poor father's regiment, the
handsomest man that was ever seen,--fresh-coloured, with golden whiskers,
and long, drooping moustache. All we girls were wild about him. Is
Captain Du Meresq at all like that?"

"Not in the least. I can't describe him--fine-shaped head, such strange
eyes. Oh! I dare say you would think him hideous," with a conscious
laugh.

Miss Opie coughed suspiciously. "It is unfortunate," said she, "when you
are in such a pleasant situation, that any disturbing element should
enter. I hope, Bluebell, you will be very circumspect in your demeanour
towards this gentleman."

"What," said Bluebell, in demure imitation of her manner, "would you
consider an appropriate attitude for me to assume towards him?"

"These fine Captains are too fond of turning young girls' heads," said
Miss Opie, shaking her own; "'leading captive silly women,' as we read.
If he attempt any foolish, trifling conversation, you should check it
with cold civility."

Bluebell burst into an irreverent fit of laughter, and even Mrs. Leigh
said,--"Oh, those are your English ideas, Aunt Jane; we are not so stiff
in Canada."

Mrs. Opie having been a governess for ten years in the mother country,
was looked upon as a naturalized Briton.

"I think the old country must be very dull," said Bluebell. "Miss Prosody
is always pursing up her mouth and bridling if I laugh and talk with any
of the officers; and one day I distinctly overheard her whisper to the
Colonel,--'very forward,' and nod towards me."

"It is, however, well to profit by such remarks," returned Miss Opie;
"there is doubtless some truth in them, however unpalatable."

"But," urged the girl, "Colonel Rolleston can't _bear_ one to be silent
or dull; he always asks if one isn't well; and I shouldn't think you
could call Captain Du Meresq a flirt. Why, he has hardly spoken ten words
to me yet,"--but a sudden glow came to her cheeks as she remembered how
many he had looked.

"Well, well, I was only warning you. Fetch the backgammon board; your
mother has won seven games and I nine since you went."

Bluebell complied, and, settling the ladies on either side of a
papier-mache table, opened the piano, and began dreamily playing through
the music of the night before. Trove, finding the door ajar, had pushed
in, and lay near the instrument, listening in that strange way some dogs
do if the tones come from the heart, and not merely the fingers.

Having got through the last evening's _repertoire,_ she sat musing on the
music-stool, and then crooned rather low an old song of her mother's,
beginning,--

"They tell me thou art the favoured guest
In many a gay and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
No voice like thine to raise the song."

"Oh! that is too old-fashioned," said Mrs. Leigh, and Miss Opie coughed
dryly. But why need Bluebell have blushed so consciously, as she dashed
into Lightning galops and Tom Tiddler quadrilles, till Trove, like a dog
of taste, took his offended ears and outraged nerves off to his lair in
the lobby?

His fair mistress soon after sought her bower, a scantily furnished
retreat, but, like most girls' rooms, taking a certain amount of
individuality from its occupier. Everything in the little room was blue,
and each article a present. Photographs of school friends were suspended
from the wall with ribbons of her name-sake colour. It was in the earlier
days of the art, when a stony stare, pursed lips, and general rigidity
were considered essential to the production of the portrait.

Blue, also, were the pincushion and glass toilet implements on the
dressing-table, and a rocking-chair had its cushion embroidered in
bluebells--a tribute of affection from a late schoolfellow.

The bed was curtainless, and neutral except as to its blue valance, and
the carpet only cocoa-nut matting, which, however, harmonized fairly with
the prevailing cerulean effect.

Bluebell was writing in a book, guarded by a Bramah, some profound
reflections on "First Impressions." She never lost the key nor forgot to
lock this volume--a saving clause of common-sense protecting a farrago of
nonsence.

"Ces beaux jours, quand j'etais si malheureux." Have you ever, reader,
taken up an old journal written in early youth, and thought how those
intensely black and white days have now mingled into unnoticeable grey,
half-thankful that the old ghosts are laid, half-regretful for that
keener susceptibility to joy and sorrow gone by? Then, as "the hand
that has written it lays it aside," there is, perhaps, a pang at the
reflection of how the paths now diverge of those who once walked together
as--

"Time turns the old days to derision,
Our loves into corpses--or wives;
And marriage, and death, and division,
Make barren our lives."

But Bluebell knows nothing of that. She is at the scribbling age, and can
actually endure to describe, as if they were new and entirely original,
the dawning follies of seventeen.

In England a heroine might have wound up such sentimental exercises with
gazing out on the moonlit scene; but nine degrees below zero was
unfavourable for the wooing of Diana. The "cold light of stars" was no
poetical figure, and Bluebell, frozen back to the prosaic, piled up the
stove, and crept into bed, where her waking dreams soon merged into
sleeping ones.

CHAPTER V.

A WOODLAND WALK.

I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss,
If I tell you my reason for asking you this,
I would see you safe home (now the swain was in love),
Of such a companion if you would approve.
Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own,
But I see no great danger in going alone;
Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free
For one as another, for you as for me.

It was Sunday afternoon. Bluebell was on her way to the Maples, and had
not proceeded far when she observed a Robinson Crusoe-looking figure in
one of those grotesque fur caps and impossible hooded blankets that the
fashionable Briton in Canada so fondly affects. She was speculating idly
upon whom it could be.

"Not Mr. Gordon, though the 'Fool's-cap' is like his; and Major Simeon
has one of those. Oh, Captain Du Meresq!"

She bowed rather undecidedly, and then moved on abruptly.

But Bertie did not pass by.

"Are you returning?" asked he. "They can't get on without you. Freddy has
dropped a cinder into his nurse's tea, and set fire to the straw in the
cat's basket."

Bluebell laughed shyly.

"I have been to see mamma. Do not let me bring you out of your way,
Captain Du Meresq,"--for he had turned back with her.

"Oh, I was only going for a walk," said Bertie, innocently,--a harmless
amusement that, without any other object, he was simply incapable of
undertaking. "Hadn't I better see you home; there's a brute of a dog down
there who sprang out at me! I broke my stick across his head, and then,
of course, I had to apologize, being disarmed."

"I know that fierce dog. He belongs to a cabman; but I always speak to
him, and he never attacks me."

"Even a lion itself would flee from a maid in the pride of her purity,"
laughed Bertie. "But, Miss Leigh, must we positively go shivering across
this bleak desert again?--isn't there some sheltered way through the
wood?"

"There certainly is; but it is three miles round, and, I dare say, full
of drifts."

"Never mind, all the better fun. Up this way?"

"Oh, but isn't it late? I think they will be expecting me before."

"There's nobody at home, if that's all," said Bertie. "They have gone to
the Cathedral, and most likely will turn into tea at the Van Calmonts."

The scrambling walk was a temptation, the common hideous and cold.

"We must walk very quick, then."

"Run, if you like. Come along, there's a dear child."

Bluebell coloured furiously.

"Maybe I won't go at all now!"

"That is so like a girl," said Bertie impatiently; "standing coquetting
in the cold. Now, you are offended. What did I say? Only called you a
child."

"You had no business to speak so," said Bluebell, angry at his familiar
manner, but rather at a loss for words. "Why can't you call me Miss
Leigh, like everybody else?" and the indignant little beauty paused,
with hot cheeks, and feeling desperately awkward.

Du Meresq bit his lip to hide a smile. He was half afraid she would dash
off and terminate the interview.

"Dear me!" said he. "When you are a little older you will think youth a
very good fault. Will you forgive me this once, Miss Leigh, and I will
not call you anything else?--for the present" (_sotto voce_).

Bluebell was mollified, and rather proud of the good effects of her
reproof, notwithstanding the half-inaudible rider. Du Meresq, also,
was satisfied, for, without further opposition, they had struck into
the wood. Unused to the Britannic hamper of a chaperone, Bluebell saw
nothing singular in the proceeding. So they crunched over the snow,
keeping, as far as possible, the dazzling track marked by the wheels
of the sleigh-waggons, and plentifully powdered by the snow-laden trees;
now up to their knees in a drift, from which Bertie had the pleasure of
extricating his companion, who forgot her shyness in the difficulties of
the path, and, not being given to silence, was laughing and talking away
unreservedly.

"What a strange girl she is!" thought Bertie. "Who would think, to hear
her chattering now, she _could_ have made that prim little speech? I must
not go on too fast; it reminds me of that Irish girl who said, the first
time I squeezed her hand, 'Ah, Captain Du Meresq, but you are such a
bould flirt!'"

Sheltered from the bleak wind the walk on the crisp track was enjoyable
enough; the "strange eyes," being now on a line with and not confronting
her, were less embarrassing, and the slight awe she still felt of him
only gave a piquancy to the companionship.

"Are you not very glad we came this way?" Bertie was saying.

"If we had only snow-shoes," cried the breathless Bluebell, for the third
time slipping into a drift, but struggling out before Du Meresq could do
more than catch her hand.

"Poor little fingers! how cold they are," trying to put them in with his
own into his large beaver gloves.

"Oh, I wish you would be sensible," stammered Bluebell, much confused.

"What's the use of being sensible," retorted he, "when it is so much
pleasanter being otherwise? Time enough for that when anybody's by."

But Bluebell wrenched her hand away, bringing off the glove, which she
threw on the snow.

"Is that a challenge, Miss Bluebell? Must take up the gauntlet? Good
gracious, my dear child, you are not really annoyed? Well, we will be
sensible, as you call it. Only you must begin; I don't know how."

"Evidently," said Bluebell, very tartly, drawing as far away as the
exigencies of the track would admit. She could hold her own well enough
with the young subalterns she had hitherto flirted with, but this man was
older, and had a bewildering effect on her.

"Are you and Cecil great friends?" asked Bertie, presently, with the air
of having forgotten the fracas.

"I hope so," coming out of her offended silence at this neutral topic. "I
know I like her well enough."

"And do you tell each other everything, after the manner of young
ladies?"

"No-o," said Bluebell, reflectively; "not like the girls at school. You
see Cecil is older than I, and cleverer, I suppose, and doesn't talk much
nonsense."

"Did she ever speak of me?" asked Bertie.

"Hardly ever; the others have mentioned you often."

"Cecil is a very sensible girl," with a re-assured countenance; "and as
you never talk nonsense, I suppose you won't mention the trivial fact of
our having taken this walk?"

"Why in the world not?" opening her large violet eyes full upon him.

"'Speech is silver, but silence is golden,' you unsophisticated child,"
returned he, enigmatically.

Bluebell considered. "Why, of course, I shall tell Mrs. Rolleston what
made me so late."

"But not if she doesn't ask you?"

"But why not? There is _no harm_ in it," said the girl, persistently.

"No, no; but if you had lived as long as I, you would know that people
_always_ try and interfere with anything pleasant. I should so like to
take this walk with you every week, Bluebell."

Bluebell looked down; she was vaguely flattered by his caring to repeat
the walk which she thought must be so unimportant to him,--it would be
something to look forward to, for she _had_ enjoyed it, though she could
not tell why.

"But, Captain Du Meresq--" she began.

"Call me Bertie, when we are alone," said he.

They had entered on the street, Bluebell was wavering, but the last
sentence, "when we are alone," struck her ear unpleasantly.

"How can I?" said she; "I do not know you well enough."

"Walk with me sometimes," whispered Bertie, "and that reason will
disappear, but don't say a word about it to-day, there's a dear girl.
I had better make tracks for the club; you will be at home in five
minutes,"--and Du Meresq ceremoniously lifted his cap, for many eyes were
about, and disappeared down another block.

Bluebell on finding herself alone, went through a disagreeable reaction.
It was certainly only a few yards to her destination; but it was annoying
to be left so abruptly, and an air of secrecy thrown over her actions
too. Did she like him, or hate him? She could not determine; her fancy
and her vanity were both touched, doubtless; then, remembering Miss
Opie's exhortations, a gleam of fun twinkled in her eyes as she thought
of what her horror would have been at Bertie's affectionate ease of
manner.

All the same she crept into the house, feeling very underhand and
uncomfortable. None of the party had returned, so reprieved for the
present she went up to the nursery.

Freddy was roaring on his back, he had just thrown "Peep-of-Day" at the
nurse's head, which had been unwisely offered to him as a substitute for
his favourite trumpet, when its excruciating blasts become too
unbearable.

"Oh, I'm sure I'm glad you have come back, miss, for I don't know how to
abide that wearyin' child, as don't know what a whipping is. Here's your
governess, sir, as will put you in the corner."

"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Freddy with supreme contempt.

The _suaviter in modo_ was, indeed, the only treatment allowed in that
nursery. Bluebell retreated with a highly-coloured scrap-book to the
window, which she feigned complete absorption in. Freddy glanced at it
out of the tail of his eye.

"Show me that, Boobell."

"I don't know, Freddy," said the girl, feeling some slight moral coercion
incumbent on her. "Do you _think_ you will call nurse a fool again?"

"She shouldn't bother," said the infant, confidentially, climbing into
her lap, but declining to commit himself to any pledges of good
behaviour. "Show me the book."

Half-an-hour after, Mrs. Rolleston looking in, saw a pretty little
picture--the old nurse was nodding in a rocking-chair. Bluebell's fair
young face was bending over Freddy, seated on her lap, with as arm round
her neck, his cherubic visage beaming with interest as he listened to the
classic tale of "Three Wishes." It was easier to her to continue the
recital, while a dread of being questioned prevented her looking up.

"Bluebell is telling Freddy such a beautiful fairy story," said Mrs.
Rolleston, to some one who had followed her to the nursery.

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