Bluebell Part 18

"No, no, Bertie; pray don't! Could you walk in a week?"

"What an eternity! Well, meet me in the Avenue in the Queen's Park, at three o'clock on Wednesday. Here's this brute getting down again. Only just time to kiss those dear blue eyes. _Addio_ Leonore. How the deuce am I to get home, I wonder?"

"Bertie, you'll never be able to walk."

"Never mind me. Run back, my dearest, and throw dust in the eyes of that misguided old female, who presumes to open them on what doesn't concern her."

CHAPTER XIII.

NORTHERN LIGHTS.

Do you remember Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes?

--The Wanderer.

Bluebell sped home, and, to evade remarks, hung up her hat in the pa.s.sage, as the least embarra.s.sing way of reporting herself, then remained, perdu, in her own room, transfigured into fairy-land by her happy thoughts. Bertie was acquitted of intentional neglect. It was only the malignity of Fate that had divided them; and there was the positive antic.i.p.ation of meeting again in six days. To be sure, it involved entering on a course of deceit. Aunt Jane would, probably, be shocked, as she was at everything; mamma would not think much of it; and as for Mrs.

Rolleston, she need not consider her wishes, after telling Bertie such a bare-faced fib about Jack Vavasour, evidently in the hope of making mischief between them. She was very much astonished at such unscrupulous conduct in her friend, but what other conclusion could she come to?

To be sure, common-sense whispered that looks and language such as Du Meresq had permitted himself, ought to be followed by an offer of marriage; but with common-sense Bluebell had little to do at this period, and first love cares not to concern itself with the prosaic. The mystery and romance of interviews with her love, "undreamt-of by the world in its primness," appeared far more enchanting than any authorized attachment provided with a regulation gooseberry picker.

So she came down with a slightly defiant air; but meeting with nothing worse than a gravely knowing glance from Miss Opie, sat down to the piano to escape questioning.

Mrs. Leigh's thoughts were complacently occupied with the visitor. She only wanted further confirmation to place him in the light of a future son-in-law. Adversity had not given her the wisdom of the serpent, and she never dreamed of possible danger in the attentions of this unknown young man to her beautiful, but portionless, child.

However, her mind became unsettled again by the appearance of another suitor, in dog-skin gloves of a brilliant tan, and his usual air of cheerful confidence. No guile was there in Jack Vavasour, whose prostrate adoration of her daughter was so undisguised, that she mentally deposed Bertie (whose devotion was more problematical) in his favour. Still she thought, "I should never think of influencing dear Bluebell one way or the other, and we shall see which proposes first."

Jack's visit, as usual, was a lengthy one. His fair enslaver had recovered her spirits, and no longer metaphorically turned her face to the wall. She was glad of distraction, and not ungratified by his allegiance, though without the slightest idea of returning it.

Like the boys and the frogs, she did not consider that what was sport to the one was hard on the other, and probably would not have cared if it had struck her; for, whatever poets may say, there is no more thoroughly heartless age than sweet seventeen. When he sat on till the arrival of the unappetizing meal they called a meat-tea, Bluebell did not wince at her mother inviting him to join it, simply because his opinion was a matter of indifference to her, though she carelessly recommended him not to be late for mess.

Jack, however, with magnanimous disregard of that usually important period of his day, stayed his healthy young appet.i.te with the cold joint from dinner; and he and Bluebell amused themselves frying eggs and roasting chestnuts, which further a.s.suaged its keen demands.

Many times during the evening did Mrs. Leigh leave the room, on the principle that young people like to be alone together. But all her tactics failed to uproot Miss Opie, who clung to her book and her seat by the fire, partly from the contrary conviction that young persons should _never_ be alone together, and partly because, save in the kitchen, there was no other fire in the house.

"What shall we do?" cried Bluebell, with the faintest of yawns, tired of consuming their culinary labours. "You don't care for music, I know.

There's an old chess-board somewhere; and I can't think of anything but cat's-cradle, if you don't like that."

"I can play," said Jack, stoutly, who had not attempted it since his childhood, but only wanted an excuse to remain on. So they sat down at the spidery table, saying little; Jack quite well entertained with his hand frequently coming in contact with Bluebell's on the board. He would have liked to crush up that little member in his own, and meditated the bold _coup_ more than once, but was always discouraged by that far away, unconscious look in her eyes.

In this squalid parlour, where she was the only soft-hued thing in the room, he thought her more beautiful than ever. Perhaps she was, for the love-light burned steadily in her Irish eyes, and he could not tell it was not for him.

Never were more lenient or careless adversaries. Twice Jack's queen was in Bluebell's grasp uncaptured, and he could at any time have checkmated her, had he been as attentive to the variations of the game as to those of her countenance. Suddenly Bluebell swept her hand over the board, crying,--"I never saw such men, they don't fight. We have been playing half-an-hour, and have hardly taken any prisoners."

"It is a slow game," said Jack, equably; "let us try cat's-cradle. Or, perhaps," he continued, meeting with no response, "I ought to be saying good-night."

Bluebell was secretly tired of him, and could not conceive on what principle her mother began pressing him to stay.

"There's the nicest bit of toasted cheese coming up for supper," said she. "I know all officers like a Welsh rabbit. My poor late husband did, though he used to say, in his funny way, he only ate it because there was nothing else fit to touch."

"I fear I must go; but I hope you'll ask me to tea again, Mrs. Leigh, it is so jolly getting away from mess sometimes," said the young diplomatist.

"That I will," said she, highly flattered, "and I shall be very much offended if you don't come. I am only sorry you can't sit a little longer now."

Jack was not quite sure he couldn't, but Bluebell, pretending not to see his hesitation, held out her hand and said "good-night," so he had nothing for it but to go. In two minutes, though, his head re-appeared.

"Come and look at the Northern Lights, Miss Leigh; regular tip-top fireworks. Here's a shawl; make haste." But when she come out, only a few weak-coloured pink clouds were floating about.

"Is that all?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bluebell.

"Not quite," said Jack; "it was a western light I was trying to invoke, or, rather, the light of my eyes. When may I come and see you, Bluebell?"

"I came out to look at meteors," said she, laughing at his unwonted flowers of speech; "and I don't know who gave you leave to call me by my Christian name."

"It isn't your Christian," urged Jack.

"It will be my _nom de guerre_, then, if you say it again."

"Change it if you like," quoth he, "if you will let me change your surname too."

A startled stare of blue eyes, a smothered laugh, and Bluebell had darted into the house, clapping the door after her.

"Confound it," thought Jack, "just my luck. In another moment I should have kissed her--I _think_ I should; but, hang it, when a girl looks you straight in the face and talks to you as if you were her grandmother, it puts one off. Well, I have kissed lots of girls without proposing and now it's _vice versa_, for it was as good as an offer, and all I got by it was her nipping in just when I thought I had her to myself."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE TRYST.

Twas full of love--to rhyme with dove, And all that tender sort of thing, Of sweet and meet--and heart and dart, But not a word about a ring!

--Hood.

Time flew much lighter with our heroine as she counted the days to the next rendezvous with Du Meresq; antic.i.p.ation is ever sweeter than reality. The cottage was no longer dull, nor existence empty, even the unrenewed and diminishing snow, dusky as a goose in a manufacturing town, was the symptoms of approaching spring and verdure. Who need think of the torrents of rain which must precede it? The little episode with Jack outside the door afforded her secret entertainment, and although she did not look upon it as a _bona-fide_ proposal, that did not bias her intention of relating the anecdote for Bertie's delectation. It might be just as well to let him see if he couldn't speak out, others could, and if he were jealous, why so much the better.

Clouds were chasing each other in the sky, and the increased mildness of the atmosphere inspired Bluebell with the dread that rain was approaching, for a rendezvous under dripping umbrellas, if feasible, was not the most desirable _pose_ for a romantic interview.

However, the morning rose clear and sunny, the snow was thawing, and in many places the runners of the sleighs grated on bare ground.

Bluebell was exultant. The elements evidently didn't mean to oppose her, but she was somewhat disconcerted at dinner by Miss Opie's remarks on her Sunday dress, which, being of a becoming hue, she had rashly donned.

"Are you going visiting, Bluebell, that you are so smart?"

"Oh, dear no; only for a walk."