Bluebell Part 41

"How generous you are, dear Captain Davidson!" was all she said. But he noticed she turned deadly pale, and two bright drops stood in her eyes.

The idea was so tempting for a moment, with the irrevocable step of the morrow hanging over her like a troubled dream. What if she could return to the old, happy, careless days, and leave this smoky, foggy England, where care and anxiety rose up at every step! But there is no going back in life. What should she do in Canada? Her connection with the Rollestons was played out, and for every one's happiness it was better severed.

There was scarcely any demand for governesses in the Dominion, as the children commonly went to school; so she would enc.u.mber her mother with the expenses of the voyage, with no prospect of contributing anything to her very slender fund.

All this pa.s.sed rapidly through Bluebell's mind; but it soon settled into an acceptance of what appeared the inevitable, while the good captain talked on, hoping to induce her to place some confidence in him, if she did know of her admirer's presence in Liverpool.

The girl fathomed the old man's drift, and most heartily wished she had not promised to conceal it from him. It would be an unspeakable relief if this fatherly captain could only countenance and witness her marriage, to say nothing of being spared the treachery of deceiving him after all his kindness. But, there!--she had promised Harry, and must abide by her word.

Only, that evening at bed-time, observing Mrs. Davidson buried head and shoulders in a cupboard she was straightening, Bluebell suddenly threw her arms round the old skipper's neck, gave him a silent hug, and glided from the room, and in the solitude of her own wrote, as fast as pen could scribble, an impulsive, affectionate letter of adieu, confessing what she was to do on the morrow, which her husband (she did not mention his name) would then write and announce to him.

"Eh! is the la.s.sie daft?" had half murmured the not ill-pleased captain; then, perceiving that the salute had been bestowed without the detection of his partner, a large slow smile expanded itself all over his broad face.

"Wha are ye girning for like an auld Cheshire cat?" inquired the unsuspicious lady.

"Nonsense, my dear; nonsense!" complacently stirring his grog and looking rather foolish. His Scotch head had disapproved of what his good heart, of no nationality, had decided with regard to Bluebell. I am not sure now, though, that he did not think the money might be worse risked than in taking this personable la.s.sie another trip across the Atlantic.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

NO CARDS.

Love will make oar cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.

--Tennyson.

A dense November fog ushered in the dawn of the following day. Bluebell had been awake for hours. Some men were mending the streets, and, as she listened to the monotonous blows of their pickaxes and hammers, a lugubrious fancy crossed her that just such sounds would a criminal hear when workmen were erecting the gallows that was to close his mortal career. By ten o'clock a new page of her life would be turned over, if, nervous and unstrung as she was, she were able to carry out the first part of the drama. Suppose the captain should object to her walking abroad, or offer again to accompany her! And even if she effected a start, might he not, his suspicions awakened, quickly follow! The eight o'clock breakfast bell rang, and Bluebell came down with a white, scared face and dark rims to her eyes. The captain appeared un.o.bservant. To tell the truth, the stolen kiss, which he probably considered "naughty, but nice," had made him somewhat conscious. So he looked demure and rather sly; but the girl had forgotten the circ.u.mstance.

The old Dutch clock ticked louder than ever, and, as usual, recorded the quarters with an internal convulsion. At half-past nine the boys would go to school, and, in the commotion of their departure, Bluebell resolved to pa.s.s from the threshold and go forth to her fate. She got her hat,--unnoticed and unquestioned was in the street, and groping her way through the fog with swift, unsteady steps. In two turnings from the door Dutton met her, a relieved, triumphant smile lighting his features as he placed her in a cab. The man, previously instructed, drove rapidly off to the register office. Bluebell, now the die was cast, felt almost fainting; but Harry's strong arm was round her, and in less than a quarter of an hour these two youthful lunatics were as securely and irrevocably married as though the ceremony had been performed by an archbishop in full canonicals. The gold circlet was on her finger, with a pearl one to guard it--of no great value, for Harry was aware there would be sundry demands on his ready money. Bluebell, of course, could have no luggage, and he had put himself in the hands of a patronizing lady in an outfitting establishment, and procured her a small stock of necessaries.

He had received his pay, and not long since a liberal cheque from Lord Bromley; so the "sinews of war" were not wanting for the present. They drove straight from the register office to the station, and were in the train and far on their journey before Bluebell had the least idea where they were going to; indeed, if she had known, she would scarcely have been wiser, all places in England being equally strange to her.

Dutton, rapturously in love, now that his schemes were successful, was in a state of exulting happiness almost overwhelming to Bluebell, secretly oppressed with a sense of the irrevocable. She even caught herself, when they stopped at stations, wishing that some one would get in. Very different was the first-cla.s.s carriage from the long cars, containing sixty or seventy persons, that she had previously travelled in. But yet there were four vacant seats, which in spite of the rush for places, continued unoccupied. Now and then their door was hastily clutched by some pa.s.senger, but a guard seemed invariably to turn up and bear the individual away to another carriage. About three o'clock they stopped at a very small station, where only one or two persons got out.

"Here we are, Bluebell," cried Harry, grasping rugs, sticks, and umbrellas, and throwing them to the porter.

She sprang up and looked around with intense interest. They were nearing her first _pied-a-terre_ as a married woman. But the journey was not yet ended, and they transferred themselves to a fly, in which an old grey horse waited sleepily.

"Lucky I thought of ordering it," said Harry; "it is the only one here, of course."

"Harry!" cried Bluebell, rubbing her eyes, as if only just thoroughly awake, "have you got a house? Where in the world are we going to?"

"I couldn't think why you didn't ask that before, you little fatalist, taking it all in such a predestined way. I hope you don't think it a case of the Lord of Burleigh over again? It is only a cottage, Bluebell; but I think it is comfortable, and one mercy is no one will be able to find us here!"

The extreme advantage of this isolation scarcely seemed so apparent to her; and as the above sentence was the only connected or rational one Harry gave utterance to, conversation, properly so called, was _nil_ during the drive. After skirting a hanging wood, and pa.s.sing some water meadows, where red Herefordshire cows with white faces grazed under the low wintry sky, they drove through a primitive village, and, turning down a bye-road, drew up at a queer gabled cottage. It was very picturesque and odd-looking, and Harry, during his last leave home, had spent a night there on a visit to an artist friend, who was making sketches in the neighbourhood.

Its proprietor, a carpenter, sometimes lived in it, and sometimes was able to let it to gentlemen coming down to fish in the river. On receiving Dutton's telegram, he and his wife, who had given up all hopes of letting it for the winter, gladly laid down their best carpets, brought out their summer chintzes, and arranged everything in apple-pie order, for the cottage was taken for a month certain.

Harry had not forgotten to order a piano to be hired from the nearest town. After their long journey it all looked very home-like and attractive. They ran about the house like two children, examining everything. The sitting-room was the prettiest, with its two bay-windows at right-angles, low roof and rafters. The artist had gone abroad, and had left some of his pictures on the wall in charge of the carpenter--a bewitched Greuze, copied in the Louvre; the inevitable study of a bird's-nest and primroses; a girl standing at a wash-tub by an open window, on the sill of which outside leaned an Irish peasant, with his handsome, blarneying face. Then there were sketches taken in the neighbourhood. "I remember this one half finished on his easel," said Harry. It was a glade of a forest; in the fore-ground a huge oak, knee-deep in bracken, and tall blue hyacinths. "Look Bluebell, here is your name-sake flower."

"Oh, that is it! Well, I never saw one before; we have none in Canada."

"I wish it were June now," said Harry; "summer weather is what this place wants;" and he glanced out of the bay-window looking on a lawn, with a spreading cedar encircled by a seat. Some pinched chrysanthemums--those flowers that always look born in adverse circ.u.mstances--and one or two hardy roses still lingered. The clematis made a bold show on the porch, though the north wind had begun to detach its clinging embrace from the masonry, and make wild work in its tangled ma.s.ses.

"It must be lovely in summer," said Bluebell, shivering, and feeling a slightly depressing influence creeping over her. They wandered out by the banks of the river to a ruined abbey, which always attracted tourists during the season. It was especially sketchable, and "bits" of it were carried away in many an artist's portfolio. But it was desolate now, and flocks of jackdaws came screaming out of holes in the walls.

I am painting from Bluebell's point of view, who could not shake off the weird feeling that possessed her, to which, perhaps, fatigue, mental and physical, not a little contributed. Yet when they came in no depression could withstand the cheery look of the lamp-lit room, with its snowy cloth laid for dinner, blazing fire, and closely-drawn curtains; and they both were unmistakably hungry, for the breakfast they had been too nervous to eat had been their only previous meal.

The carpenter waited. Bluebell felt desperately conscious. His manner was so benign and protecting, and he coughed so ostentatiously before entering the room, she was perfectly sure he had guessed that they had run away that morning. He imparted shreds of local information to Harry while changing the plates, who answered good-humouredly, but would have preferred to hear that the whole neighbourhood was wintering in Jericho.

A sociable Skye terrier, who strolled in with the first dish, was rather a resource to the new-made bride, who found it easier to bend over Archie, sitting up for bones, than to sustain with imperturbability the curious if furtive observation of the carpenter.

A day or two after this evening, Harry, coming in from a smoke, saw Bluebell, with a pleased, intent face, writing, as fast as the pen could scratch, over some foreign paper.

"Oh, Harry," cried she without looking up, "we must not forget to walk into the town this afternoon. It is mail-day, I have no stamps."

Dutton's face became suddenly overcast. He jerked the end of his cigar into the fire, and threw down his hat.

"Whom are you writing to?" he asked.

"To my mother, and everybody," said Bluebell, gleefully. "I am telling them all about it."

"The devil! My dear child, stop a little."

"Why?" looking up surprised. "Oh, do you want to put something in? It would be nicer. I'll leave half a sheet."

Harry looked the picture of vexation and perplexity. He had never realized Bluebell's relations, and here it seemed she was in regular correspondence with her mother and other friends.

"My dear girl, for goodness' sake stop! My uncle does not know it yet, and you mustn't say a word to any one."

Bluebell seemed rather bewildered. "Why don't you tell your uncle, then?

And surely my mother would be equally interested!"

Dutton sat down for a long explanation, "I shouldn't so much have cared about offending him before, but now I have you, Bluebell, it would be ruin. I have nothing but my profession and what he allows me; and he disinherited his only son for a marriage that displeased him."

She gave a half start here. "What is your uncle's name."

"Lord Bromley."

"Oh, of course; you told me so before. Well, go on."

"I shall run down to 'The Towers' presently, sound the old man, and break it to him, if possible. If I could only take you, my darling, it ought to do the business! By Jove, I have a great mind to try!"

"But," said Bluebell, reverting to her own immediate anxiety, "I must tell them at home what has become of me. Fancy, Harry, what a state they would be in, not hearing! Let me, at any rate, say I am married, but cannot tell my name for a few weeks."

"Well, mind you don't say more," very gloomily. "I dare say there will be no end of a row, and they will be sending people to try and trace us.

Impossible for a month, though," he reflected.

"And, Harry, did you write to Captain Davidson?"