Bluebell. Mrs. G. C. Huddleston
Rolleston joined in.
"You must stay over the sleighing-party, Bertie."
"I hate driving a hired sleigh," said he. "I wish I could get mine up; but the Grand Trunk would be sure to deliver it the day after the fair."
"But you have your musk-ox robes here; they would dress up the shabbiest sleigh. I only saw one set like them on New Year's Day, when we had at least sixty sleighs up here."
"How did you enjoy that celebration?"
"I think," said Cecil, "it is rather tiresome for ladies to have to stay in all day and receive, while the gentlemen go out calling. We had a spread, of course—luncheon, tea, coffee, everything. One man, who had a large acquaintance, came before breakfast, and they were rushing in all day. It would have been well enough if they were not in such a hurry; but they just swallowed a glass of wine, and the burden of all their remarks was, 'I have been to a dozen places already, and have about thirty or forty more to do.'"
"Could not you two young ladies make them linger over smiles and wine?" laughed Bertie. "We are not such duffers at Montreal."
"No, indeed. I saw Bluebell give a man a scalding cup of coffee, with the most engaging smile. There was a nervous glance at the clock. 'Oh, thank you, Miss Leigh, how hot it is! I shall never have time to drink it,' just as if he had a train to catch."
"They have an arrear of balls and dinners to call for; that is the only day in the year a good many ever can pay visits—the civilians, I mean."
The Colonel, who had now exhausted conversation with Miss Prosody, had leisure to observe the determined flirtation of young Vavasour with Bluebell. That unformidable young person being only seventeen, of course looked upon him as a mere boy, and her chaffing manner was not at all to the Colonel's taste, whose attention was drawn to it by an expressive glance from Miss Prosody; so he telegraphed to his wife, who soon signalled her female following from the room.
Bertie got to the door, and as Bluebell passed through last of the ladies, she again met that look of interest and admiration Du Meresq had practised so often.
Shyness hitherto had been no infirmity of this young Canadian; but Bertie somehow had mesmerized her into a state of consciousness—it was a cobwebby kind of fetter, but the first she had worn.
"Come and talk to me Bluebell," said Mrs. Rolleston, "as Cecil is so studious."
The former glanced at her friend, and involuntarily whispered—"How well she looks to-night!"
Cecil was sitting apart, utterly absent as it seemed, but her eyes were shining, and there was a soft brightness about her as she turned over the pages of a book. It was "The Wanderer,"—one that Bertie had brought with him.
Mrs. Rolleston agreed and interpreted it her own way. Bluebell drew a long rocking-chair by her side, and they fell into a pleasant little talk. Mrs. Rolleston always made a pet of this child; she was the best of step-mothers, but stood a little in awe of Cecil.
Du Meresq came in shortly before the rest; the elder girl did not even look up, but her face again lit. He stood à l'Anglais, with his back to the fire, talking to his sister, and occasionally, though without any particular empressement, addressing Bluebell, who thought his voice sweeter than any man's she had ever heard. It made her unconsciously modulate her own, which as yet had the untuned accents of early girlhood; but the spell was on her, and she felt, for the first time, at a loss for words. Yet when Mrs. Rolleston shortly after sent her to the piano, it was more of disappointment than a relief. Some one was following to turn the leaves—only Mr. Vavasour—odious, officious boy! Who wanted him?
"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