His eyes were grave and sweet;
Methought he said, "In this far land,
Oh, is it thus we meet!
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here,
I have no place—no part
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thine heart!"
Bertie Du Meresq, after lingering a while in London, without any tidings of Cecil, began to weary of inaction, and turn his thoughts again to Australia. But just then warlike rumours were becoming rife, and forced his mind into another channel. Good heavens! with such a prospect, possibility even, how could he let his papers be sent in? There was just time to recall them. He rushed to the Horse Guards, despatched a letter to his Colonel, and his retirement, not having yet been gazetted, was cancelled.
But how appease the injured Green, who had advanced the over regulation money for the troop? That must be returned, however expensive it might be to raise the necessary sum. One possible resource remained. He possessed a maiden aunt—of means, whose patience and purse he had completely exhausted some years ago; added to which she had become "serious," and a gentleman of the Stiggens order now diverted her spare cash into the coffers of little Bethlehem.
Du Meresq was aware that he had been predestined to doom by the Rev. Mr. Jackson, and that his aunt had been assured she could not touch pitch without being defiled. "Nevertheless," he thought, "I must try and carry her by a coup de main, if I have to pitch her clerical friend out of the window first."
Lady Susan had abandoned the more fashionable precincts of London to be nearer her chapel and districts, and the Hansom cabman who drove Bertie to Hammersmith had quartered nearly every yard of it before their combined intelligence hit off a square stone house on a bit of a common.
Lady Susan was within, and Du Meresq followed the depressed-looking footman upstairs with as much ease as if he had not been particularly forbidden the house five years ago. He embraced his aunt affectionately before she had collected herself sufficiently to prevent him, and bowed with the utmost grace to a rather vulgar-looking, self-sufficient lady to whom he was presented. This person, however, he contrived to sit out in spite of her curiosity.
"And now, Bertie," said Lady Susan, austerely, "what is it you want? I know from past experience it is not I alone you come to see. I warn you though your hopes are vain. I have, happily, now a more edifying way of spending my poor income than in aiding you in your godless courses."
"I have come to you, my dear aunt, as the kindest-hearted person I know. I am in an awful hole. But let me explain." And then he told how he had sold his troop to pay his debts, but had now, war being eminent, recalled his papers, and so owed all the over regulation money obtained in advance.
For once Du Meresq had a good case. Against her principles almost, Lady Susan listened, and, though pre-determined not to believe a thing he said, his words were making an impression.
"Of course I can get the money; but, going on active service, I should have to pay enormously for it. And, anyhow," he continued, "I thought I should like to say good-bye to you, whether you can let me have it or not."
Bertie's Irish blarney always peeped out in his dealings with women, and Lady Susan of late had been so unaccustomed to anything of the sort, that her heart began to warm to her scape-grace nephew. He was so distinguished-looking, too, with the beauty which comes of air and expression, and a certain winning manner, none of which were conspicuous attributes of the disciples of little Bethlehem. She made him stay to dinner, and Du Meresq, who thought things were looking up, gladly dismissed his Hansom, which had been imparting an unwonted appearance of dissipation to the locality for the last hour. He could make himself quite as agreeable to an old lady as a young one, and this one was a soldier's daughter, and Irish into the bargain. What wonder that her heart beat responsively and her blood fired at the idea of another of her race lending his life to his country! Bertie, to be sure, would have preferred not having to make capital of that, and objected strongly to being treated as a hero in advance. However, it was no use quarrelling with the means that had brought his aunt into so promising a frame of mind; and, before he left that evening, he had actually received the promise of a cheque to the amount of Mr. Green's claims in a few days.
Soon after this, he heard the welcome news that his regiment was ordered home immediately, evidently in consequence of the disturbances in the East. This caused Du Meresq great delight. His corps was, then, certain to be in it, and he would go into action with Lascelles and all his old friends, instead of exchanging into a strange regiment, as he had determined to do if his own were not for service.
With all this other thoughts were associated. Somehow he had never looked upon his rupture with Cecil Rolleston as final, having pretty well fathomed the motif of her renunciation of him, which he considered would bear explanation when occasion offered; but now, rather sadly reviewing the past, he said to himself that, after all, it was well for her they had not married.
I do not know that Cecil would have been of the same opinion. She had a brave spirit, that could bear up against known evils, but fretted and suffered in suspense. She was much altered since her illness. Once the most attentive and docile of daughters, she became irritable and uncertain in temper-difficile, as the French call it, or, according to a Scotch expression, "There was no doing with her" some days; and Mrs. Rolleston, unhappy about both Cecil and Bertie, looked upon her husband's prejudice against the latter as the cause of all this unsatisfactory state of things.
As to Colonel Rolleston, he was in the condition of a man whose "foes are those of his own household." No one appreciated more the "pillow of a woman's mind"; but really now the pillow might have been stuffed with stones, so many corners and angularities had developed themselves in his feminalities.
The regiment had been ordered to Quebec almost immediately after Bluebell had gone to England; and, as Mrs. Rolleston there heard of Evelyn Leighton's death, the fate of their protegée became naturally a subject of anxious speculation. Yet not a line had been received from her; and, after a time, the subject was avoided, for all felt that Bluebell had been ungrateful.
Then Mrs. Leighton wrote out the strange story of her elopement, and having since entered a family as governess in her maiden name. Mrs. Rolleston was painfully shocked; for, coupling it with the girl's silence, she could not but imagine the worst, especially when, as they gazed at each other in mute dismay, she read in Cecil's face a suspicion that Bertie had had some hand in her disappearance, he had not written either; but, unless he were in correspondence with Bluebell, could not have been aware that she was in England. Of course, therefore, it was only the wildest conjecture. Yet how could Cecil believe that a girl who had once cared for Bertie should so utterly have forgotten him as to sacrifice herself to any one else within a few weeks? But a letter from Du Meresq himself did much to banish these gathering doubts and suspicions. It appeared quite open and above-board, and was written to Mrs. Rolleston on the eve of embarking with his regiment for the Crimea. He mentioned one or two houses he had been staying in, related the successful visit to his aunt and wound up in a postcript with the words,—"Give my dearest love to Cecil, if she cares to have it."
Mrs. Rolleston silently put the letter into her hand, and left the room. But the privacy of four walls was insufficient for Cecil while permitting herself the dear fascination of perusing Bertie's handwriting. She was missing for the next two hours, which Lela was able to account for, having observed her going downstairs dressed for walking.
She did not remember to return Du Meresq's letter, nor did Mrs. Rolleston ask for it. Very soon afterwards they also went to England, though the Colonel's regiment was not sent to the Crimea for some months later. It was quartered near London, and he took a house for his family in Kensington. And now a strange fancy possessed Cecil. It happened one day, when they were out driving, that a little boy drifting across the street with the suicidal insouciance of his kind, got knocked down by their horses, and, of course, had to be driven straight to the hospital to have his injuries investigated. It was necessary to detain the child, and Cecil walked down most days to bring him toys and inquire into his progress. There she became acquainted with some members of a sisterhood, who were employed in nursing in the accident ward, and, after the boy had been dismissed, convalescent, and ready to be run over again, she still continued her visits.
What the attraction was, neither of her parents could conceive, for, although the sisterhood was of the High Church order, they observed no particular religious enthusiasm or ritualistic tendencies in their daughter. "Cecil's mystery" it was called in the family, for she never spoke of what she had been doing all day, though it was apparently satisfactory, as her spirits were far more even than they had been of late. It was generally supposed that a charitable fervour had seized her, and that she was visiting among the poor; indeed Mrs. Rolleston had little curiosity to spare at present. She was living in dread and daily expectation of Colonel Rolleston being sent to the East; and he was engaged, as a calm, brave man might, in arranging his affairs to provide for his family in any event.
The order came at last; it was almost a relief from the continual suspense, and there were a few days for preparation. On one of these last evenings some of the officers were dining at the Colonel's, and among them—which was unusual now—Fane, who, though believing that Cecil's love affair with Du Meresq must have been broken off, still honourably abstained from her society till she should, by some sign, absolve him from his promise. On this occasion though, to her dread, he appeared sentimentally inclined, and Cecil, to whom a Sir Lancelot even would have been intolerable had he attempted to take the place of the lover she had outwardly discarded and inwardly enshrined, took refuge with Jack Vavasour, who regarded the approaching campaign in about the same light as a steeple-chase—a delightful piece of excitement, with a spice of danger in it.
His cheerful chatter amused and relieved the tension of her mind.
"I shall be sure to come across Du Meresq," he observed, with simple directness. "I shall tell him I saw you the last thing. How glad he will be to hear of any one at home! Have you any message, Miss Rolleston?" looking straight in her face, which was glowing as he spoke.
"Tell him," said Cecil, who liked Jack, and trusted him more than any one, "to be sure and write very often to his sister, who is dreadfully anxious, as, indeed, we all are."
"Oh, yes, of course," cried Vavasour; "but is that all? Let me give him that glove," which Cecil had been absently pulling off and on.
"Certainly-not!" flaming up in a moment. "Give it to me back directly, Mr. Vavasour!"
Jack thought she was offended. "I didn't mean to be impertinent, Miss Rolleston. You know this is not like an ordinary occasion; and I am sure I didn't think there would be much in it."
"I know, I know. But don't invent anything from me to Bertie Du Meresq." Then, with a softer manner, and most cordial squeeze of the hand as she saw the other men rising to go,—"Good-bye, and come back safe, you dear, true-hearted boy!"
Next day the mystery came out. She had been qualifying as a hospital nurse, with the view of joining Miss Nightingale's staff at Scutari.
Cecil had quite anticipated the antagonism and ridicule with which this announcement would assuredly be met. A craze to go out to the East possessed many romantic young ladies of the period, too adventurous to be satisfied with merely knitting socks and comforters for their frost-bitten heroes. Colonel Rolleston had frequently expressed a profound contempt for this mania, refusing to perceive any more exalted motive for it than a desire to follow their partners. So his horror may be imagined when his own daughter, whom he had always credited with a certain amount of sense, thus enrolled herself in the ranks of these fair enthusiasts.
Cecil allowed the first torrent of words to expend itself, but, in reply to the contemptuous query of "What earthly use could she be?" reiterated the fact of her having received a certificate of competency from the hospital, and adding, that as five of the sisterhood were shortly to be taken out to Scutari, it would be easy for her to accompany them as a volunteer. Then, evading further discussion by leaving the room, she calmly left the idea to work.
It was not certainly innate love of the occupation that had made Cecil so diligent an attendant of the accident ward. At first she shuddered and faltered at the simplest operation in which her assistance was called for, but it was essential to test her own nerve before dressing gun-shot wounds, besides which, a certificate from the hospital would much facilitate her chance of being taken out to Scutari. And, moreover, she was desperately unhappy, and rushed into anything to escape from herself.
I don't know how it was that Cecil prevailed in the end. A year ago, if she had proposed such a thing, Colonel Rolleston would have a considered her a fit subject for a maison de sante, but he had been thinking for some time that his daughter was "odd." She was evidently turning out one of those unmanageable beings, an eccentric woman. Of age, and with an independent income, if baulked in this, she might only do something else equally perverse, and, though a most extraordinary fancy for a girl so brought up, he would not oppose it further.
And then Cecil, when she had got her wish, with a strange inconsistency seemed almost inclined to give it up again. But the Colonel, being in ignorance of her vacillating purpose, took her passage in the same ship as the other nurses.
Work enough was there for every one when that vessel reached its destination. The battle of the Alma had just been fought, and the wounded were being brought in daily to Scutari.
In the mean time, Colonel Rolleston had sailed with his regiment, and Mrs. Rolleston fell into such a state of nervous depression, that Cecil saw it would be cruel to abandon her—another opportunity for going out would soon occur, and defering her journey till then, she remained at home to fulfil the more obvious duty of supporting the sinking spirits of her step-mother.
And so passed many weary weeks. The battle of the Alma had been won, and none of their belongings had appeared in the long list of killed and wounded. Mrs. Rolleston, becoming more accustomed to suspense, bore up with greater fortitude. Letters from the seat of war were, of course, waited for with fearful anxiety, and on the few and far between occasions when these arrived, they were all comparatively happy.
One evening Cecil was sitting alone in her own room, and, being very tired after a long day at the hospital, dropped asleep in her chair. She awoke with a feeling of deadly chilliness. The moon was shining into the room, and the figure of Bertie Du Meresq, keen clearly by its rays, was standing quietly gazing at her.
"Bertie!" shrieked Cecil "Oh, when did you come?"—and she tried to rush forward to greet him, but her limbs seemed paralyzed, and he did not move either, though a sad, sweet smile seemed to pass over his face. Was it himself, or only a quivering moonbeam? for when she was able to move there was nothing else to be seen.
A ghost itself could not have been whiter than Cecil, as she fled to the drawing room, and almost inarticulately described what she had beheld.
The very horror it inspired made Mrs. Rolleston repel the ghastly idea almost angrily.
"Good heavens, Cecil, why do you frighten me so! You had fallen asleep, and were dreaming. You say yourself," and she shuddered, "it was gone when you awoke."
"You know," said the girl, not apparently attending, "I have never seen Bertie in uniform, but this is what he wore," (describing the dress of the —— Hussars), "and his tunic was torn."
"That is too absurd, Cecil. All Hussar uniforms are more or less alike, and you must have seen many. It is this dreadful idea of going to Scutari that has filled your mind with horrors, and hospital work here has been too much for you, and told on your nerves."
But Cecil sat unheeding, as if turned to stone, with such a grey look of despair on her face, that Mrs. Rolleston longed to rouse her in any way.
"Forgive me, Cecil," she cried; "you do care for poor Bertie, I see."
She looked up with a vague, uncomprehending glance.
"Who was so brilliant—who so brave—with that sympathetic voice, and warm, endearing manner? He was wicked, I dare say!—he was not cold enough for a saint."
Mrs. Rolleston listened painfully.
"How every one adored him!" pursued Cecil. "I don't mean women—of course they did: but all his friends would have done anything for him. I have seen his letters; and who could touch him in countenance, manner, grace? And such a poetic, original mind! But he cared for me most,—he must, don't you think?" (looking up with dry, tearless eyes), "or he would not have come to me to-night."
"Then why, oh, why, Cecil, did you give him up?"
Her brow contracted for an instant. "I could not bear my sun to shine on any one else," she cried, passionately "I grudged every glance of his eye, every tone of his voice given to another."
"Then, Bluebell was the cause—" began Mrs. Rolleston.
"'My eyes were blinded;' he cared no more for her than the rest. Had I believed him, we might have been happy five months, for we should have married the day I came of age."
"It will happen yet!" cried Mrs. Rolleston. "Shake off this fearful dream, my dearest child. I know that Bertie cares only for you."
"We have met to-night, we never shall again."
"She will have a brain-fever," thought Mrs. Rolleston, distractedly, "if tears do not come to her relief." They did eventually, convulsively and exhaustingly, till she dropped into a death-like sleep far into the next morning.
The sun had been shining for hours. Mrs. Rolleston did not disturb her, but the superstitious terror she had battled against the night before returned daring that long day, in an agony of impatience for news.
But no submarine telegraph then existing, nothing was heard for a time. Mrs. Rolleston might have shaken off the gruesome impression, but for the immovable conviction of Bertie's death that actuated Cecil. She assumed the deepest mourning, and passed whole hours alone with her grief, perfectly indifferent to the opinion of any one. Indeed, since his spiritual presence had, as she believed, appeared to her, he seemed nearer than before, when they were parted and unreconciled.
One day, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Rolleston was agitated by that weird sound to anxious ears, the shouting voices of men and boys hawking evening papers, and proclaiming startling news. She saw from the balcony her servant dart down the street for the gratification of his curiosity. He bought a paper, and perused it as he slowly returned. He got "quite a turn," as he afterwards described it, when his mistress, pale as a sheet, met him at the door, and, without a word, snatched the evening journal from his astonished hands.
No occasion to seek far. The sensational paragraph was in capital letters, and contained the intelligence of the battle of Balaklava, and famous charge of the six hundred, with its fearful losses. The cavalry regiments engaged were named. Among them was Bertie Du Meresq's, and mentioned as one that had suffered heavily. The returns of killed and wounded did not appear.
Mrs. Rolleston had a friend at the Horse Guards, and instantly despatched the servant there, with a letter requesting further particulars as early as possible. Ill news does not lag. A letter from General—soon arrived, with its warning black seal. Captain Du Meresq was among the casualties. He had been shot through the heart during the charge.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE.
Where the dead and the dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Mrs. Rolleston completely sank under this dreadful blow. Bertie had been her darling and pride from his infancy, and her own misery was redoubled, in anticipation of the even greater anguish of Cecil.
Strange to say, though, she experienced no new shock. That Du Meresq was dead, she had never doubted, or that his spirit, in the moment of departure, had hovered for an instant near the one who loved him best. It seemed to connect her with that other world whither he had gone. It did not appear so far away, now Bertie was there, and her thoughts were ever in communion with her spirit love.
The hour in which he had, as she believed, appeared to her, she regularly passed alone in the same room, and even prayed for another sign of his presence.
But if such prayers were answered, what mourners would remain unvisited by their dead?
This room became her "temple and her shrine," in which Bertie, all his sins forgotten, was canonized. How incessantly she regretted having parted with those letters, so impulsively affectionate and so entirely confidential! To be sure, they were chiefly about himself; but what subject could be so interesting to Cecil? His normal condition of picturesque insolvency was only a proof of generosity of disposition and absence of meanness. Now she had nothing but a letter not her own, and that one last message, "Give my dearest love to Cecil."
Whether or no the vision was really but a dream, we leave to the decision of our readers. It was not unnatural that the dominant idea should impress that unreasoning moment between sleeping and waking; but Cecil's fervent faith knew no doubts, and thus it was that Du Meresq dead influenced her as much as when living.
They soon heard from Colonel Rolleston. Part of his regiment had been sent to seek and bring in the wounded; his brother-in-law's body had been found and brought back by Vavasour, and he sent his wife Bertie's watch. The newspapers were full of the disastrous but glorious charge of the cavalry, and of their immense loss.
In Du Meresq's regiment all the senior had been cut off. Had he lived, he would have been Colonel of it, a position which Lascelles survived to fill.
There appeared no respite from anxiety for those who had relatives in the East. Within two months the battles of the Alma, Balaklava, and Inkermann had been fought. Colonel Rolleston seemed to bear a charmed life; for, though repeatedly under fire, he had come out unscathed. Many of his officers were killed, Fane slightly wounded, and Jack Vavasour had lost an arm.
In the ensuing spring Cecil roused herself. Though all her hopes were dead, the native energy of her character asserted itself, and rebelled against utter stagnation. Some letters she had received from the nurses in the Crimea rekindled her former enthusiasm, and she determined to execute her original project, and go out to the aid of her suffering countrymen.
Mrs. Rolleston was now more hopeful, and, far from opposing Cecil's wishes, cheerfully forwarded them. She looked upon hers as so cruelly exceptional a lot, that any absorbing occupation capable of distracting her mind was only too welcome. And so when
Came forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
Cecil, turning "from all she brought," was far on her way to the East, and wishing, as she assumed the black serge hospital dress, that she could as easily transform her internal consciousness as her outward identity.
Hers was not a nature to do anything by halves, and every faculty of mind and body became absorbed in these new duties. The patient who fell into Cecil's hands had little to complain of. She struggled for his life when even the shadow of death had fallen on him, and sometimes, by arduous exertions and devoted nursing, saved one in whom the vital flame had wasted almost to the socket. And then a nearly divine content came to her as she imagined she might have spared some distant heart the pangs that had almost broken her own.
But to follow her through the daily routine of duties, often painful, often touching, would be too long for the present history, so we pass abruptly to one event, a necessary link in it.
Cecil was attending a fever case, and looking anxiously for the doctor, as she fancied her patient was sinking. He was a young man, and had been more or less unconscious ever since he was brought in.
The surgeon came, and shook his head as he felt the feeble pulse.
"Is there no hope?" asked Cecil, sorrowfully.
"Scarcely any. Give him this stimulant whenever you can get him to swallow it; but there seems no reserve of strength." And he passed on to others.
She lost no time in attending to his directions, and a large pair of melancholy brown eyes opened on her. They watched her about persistently, and seeing their gaze, though languid, was rational, she asked "if there was anything she could do for him."
His voice was so inaudible she could but just catch the sentence, "So he gives me over!"
"I don't think he would if he could see you now. Indeed, you seem better."
"I don't think I shall die; but, in case of accidents, will you write something for me?"
Cecil nodded, while holding rapid communion with herself. Ought she to let him exhaust his little strength in dictating probably an agitating letter?
"Will you wait till you are a little stronger?" she said doubtfully.
"If I ever am, it will not be necessary to write; if otherwise I cannot do it too soon."
Cecil, judging by her own feelings that opposition to any strong wish would be more injurious than even imprudent indulgence, glided from the room, and soon returned with writing materials.
She sat down by the bed, and casually felt the attenuated wrist as she did so. The sick man gazed gratefully at her, but waited some minutes for breath to commence. His first words made her almost bound from her chair, and, as he continued in low feeble tones, with long pauses between, Cecil was wrought into an agony of suspense and interest.
The communication was to be addressed to an uncle, and began abruptly:—
"I was married to Theodora Leigh at a register office at Liverpool in November, 1853, and I make it a dying request to you to acknowledge my widow, who will otherwise be destitute both of money and friends. Forgive, if you can, my deception, and the poor return made for all the benefits lavished on your, notwithstanding, grateful nephew,
"HARRY DUTTON.
"P.S.—My wife is a governess in the family of Mr. Markham, Heatherbrae, Wimbledon."
It was sealed, directed, and the patient had sunk into a heavy stupor; but Cecil felt her heart stirred as she had never expected to do again.
Here, if she had required it, was complete exoneration of any subsequent intercourse having taken place between Du Meresq and Bluebell. The latter evidently had been far otherwise engaged, and, for the first time, she felt her long-cherished resentment melting away.
She gazed with some curiosity at the man who could so soon supplant Bertie, and smiled with irrepressible bitterness at the singular coincidence that she should be striving to preserve a husband to Bluebell, who had deprived her of her own early love.
But where could she have met this man, whom she had married almost immediately on landing in England? Cecil looked again at the address—"Right Honourable Lord Bromley." She had heard that name somewhere, but could not recall any connecting associations.
Harry lingered some time, his life frequently despaired of; and he would probably have succumbed had it not been for the untiring energy and care of the hospital nurse. Her anxiety could not have been exceeded by Bluebell herself, for Cecil's disposition was generous, and she never more truly forgave her ci-devant enemy than when thus labouring to return good for evil.
At last the turning-point was reached and Dutton lifted from the very gates of the grave. A wound in his leg was now the chief retarding circumstance; and as it seemed incapable of healing at Scutari, he was ordered on sick leave to England.
In the mean time, a lively friendship had arisen between him and Cecil. Directly she admitted her name and former intimacy with Bluebell, Harry took her entirely into his confidence, and, encouraged by the evident interest with which she listened, related how he had first met and fallen in love with Bluebell on the steamer, and subsequently persuaded her to elope with him.
He did not deny the interested motives which had afterwards induced him to conceal the marriage; but Cecil's upright mind recoiled at the unworthy deception, and the strong view she took of it made short work of the extenuating circumstances advanced by Harry.
The dying appeal to Lord Bromley had, of course, been burnt since its writer's recovery; but Dutton, now thoroughly ashamed of his shabby policy, vowed to Cecil that he would abandon all thoughts of inheritance, and boldly acknowledge his marriage to Lord Bromley as soon as he should set foot in England.
This was their last interview; for, as he had now approached convalescence, she had no further excuse for ministering to Harry.
It was some time since he had received tidings from his wife, having purposely kept her in ignorance when he volunteered into Peel's brigade. Then he was wounded and laid up at Scutari, so whatever letters she might have written would be on board the "Druid."
Now he must apprise her of his approaching return and explain his long silence. As it happened, a homeward-bound steamer sailed within a few days of the one which carried this letter, and Dutton, obtaining a passage in the former, which happened to the faster of the two, arrived in England almost simultaneously.
Without further notice, he rushed down to Wimbledon, and, had she been there, would speedily have solved the mystery that had so exercised Mrs. Markham. But, lo! on reaching Heatherbrae, he beheld with a sinking heart a conspicuous board on the garden-gate, with the words, "To be let, furnished," legibly inscribed thereon.
Weak from his illness and the disappointment, Harry leant against the railings to consider and recover. He had been so secure of finding Bluebell there, and during the whole hurried journey was picturing the meeting. How would she look? He knew so well the fluttering colour that changed in any emotion, pleasurable or otherwise: but would he see a true loving welcome in those transparent eyes? He had considered every probability or improbability of this sort, but not how he should act in such a dead lock as the present.
Repeated rings at the bell at last brought out the woman in charge, her arms covered with soap-suds, and gown drawn through a placket-hole.
"The family had gone abroad," she said. "No, she did not know where. The agent might, perhaps. She was only there to show visitors the house."
Harry turned away in listless perplexity; it was quite evident this person could tell him nothing. Doubtless their change of plans had been communicated to him by post, but he had not waited to send for letters. There was nothing for it but to obtain from the woman the address of the house-agent, get Mr. Markham's from him, and send another letter to Bluebell.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS.
Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away,
When I did not love thee a near?
We must now see whither the vicissitudes of fortune have conducted Mrs. Dutton. Her pleasant home at the Markhams' was gone. They had lost heavily in the failure of a bank, and were living abroad to retrench, while Mr. Markham pursued his profession in London.
Bluebell was the first luxury to be cut off, though, as a home during Harry's absence was what she chiefly required, she would willingly have remained for nothing. It was unspeakable grief to part with Mrs. Markham, who alone understood how oppressively her secret weighed on her, and her incessant anxiety for news from the seat of war.
One day,—it was after the battle of Balaklava,—when shuddering over, in the Times, the ghastly "butcher's bill," Bluebell came upon Du Meresq's name among the killed, and the shock to nerves that had scarcely yet recovered their equilibrium nearly brought on a relapse of her former illness.
Yet, as her mind cleared from its first horror, she was amazed to find it was not Cecil she was most feeling for, and that the cry, "Thank Heaven, it is not Harry!" had arisen spontaneously to her heart. I suppose Bertie's neglect had effected its own cure; but certainly some secret influence was turning the tide of her affections into its legitimate channel.
Yet their correspondence was not only desultory, but constrained. Dutton, never convinced of possessing her heart, and angry with himself at the part he had acted, had no pleasure in writing; and Bluebell was as shy of her new-found feelings as though he were still an unacknowledged lover.
But whenever a ship came in without bringing a letter, she was filled with foreboding and dread. Still, there was always the consolation that he was public property, and as long as she did not see his death reported, might conclude him to be safe.
And he never did write anything to excite alarm. No more perils or hair-breadth escapes could be inferred from his letters than if he were merely residing abroad from choice.
Mrs. Markham obtained her another situation. She had never succeeded in discovering to whom Bluebell was married; but having persuaded herself it was unnecessary to let that stand in the way, simply recommended her in her maiden name.
"I look upon your governessing as a farce, you know, Bluebell, though any one would gladly snap you up for your music alone. But when this war is over, the mysterious husband will return, and you will pay me a visit in your true colours."
And so they parted, with many promises of correspondence.
Bluebell's next venture was at Brighton, and she drove to Brunswick Square one chilly afternoon in March, rather dejected at the prospect of being again thrown among strangers.
"Not at home," said the servant. "Mrs. Barrington is hout-driving."
"Oh, it's all right," said a pert maid, tripping downstairs. "This way, miss. I was to show you your room, and the children's tea will be ready directly."
So saying, she preceded Bluebell upstairs to a chilly, fireless apartment. Houses in Brighton are not generally very substantially built, and the room was furnished on the most approved governess pattern,—just what was barely necessary, no more. Bluebell was impressionable, perhaps fanciful, for hitherto her "lines had fallen in pleasant places," and she shivered a little at the forbidding exterior, but was somewhat cheered by a suggestion of welcome conveyed by a bunch of violets on the dressing-table. "There's some kind person in this house," thought she, yet lingering awhile in a purposeless manner, unwilling to walk alone into the school-room and face the strange children. While thus hesitating, a demure little person came to fetch her, with tight plaited hair, irreproachable pinafore, and stockings well drawn up. Two younger duplicates were in the school-room. The table was laid for the evening meal,—thick wedges of bread-and-butter, calculated to appease but not to allure the appetite, and a large Britannia-metal teapot, with not injuriously strong tea.
There were a couple of globes, an old piano, and book-cases well stocked with grammars and histories, and the fire was guarded by a high fender, effectually dissipating any frivolous notion of sitting with the feet on it. There was neither dog nor cat, nor even a stray doll, to distract attention from the serious business of education.
Such was the impression conveyed to Bluebell, who was instantly filled with well-grounded misgivings as to whether her qualifications might be quite up to the standard expected. Good gracious! those children looked capable of obtaining female scholarships, as they sat, with their keen impassive faces, calmly adding her up, so to speak.
Mrs. Barrington and her eldest daughter had just come in. "Oh, so Miss Leigh has arrived!" cried the former, observing Bluebell's box in the hall. "Dear me, what a bore new people are! I really must rest, as we dine out. Couldn't you go up, Kate, and say I hope she is comfortable, and will ring for the school-room maid whenever she wants anything, and all that?"
"That would console her immensely, I should think," said Miss Barrington, laughing. "Well, I will go and look her over, mamma, and report the result."
As Kate entered, her little set speech, that "mamma was lying down, but hoped," etc., was almost suspended on her lips, as she gazed with unfeigned curiosity at the new governess. Seated pensively behind the urn was a fair girl, dressed in black, with an Elizabethan ruff round a long white throat. Shining chestnut hair contrasted with a complexion of the purest pink and white, while a pair of dewy violet eyes looked shyly up at her. "Good heavens!" thought Kate, "she is the loveliest creature in Brighton at this moment."
"I have also come to ask for a cup of tea. No, thank you, Adela, none of that! What buttered bricks! Goodness, children! don't you ever have cake, or jam, or anything?"
"Miss Steele used to say it would give us muddy complexions, and spoil our digestion."
"Poor little victims! Never mind, you'll come out some day. I must make haste and get married, Mabel, if you grow like that. But Miss Leigh must be starved. Do you like eggs and bacon?" with her hand on the bell.
"Very much," said Bluebell, smiling back, more in gratitude for the good intentions than anything else.
"Poor thing!" cried Kate, impulsively, quite vanquished by the smile; "you will be so dull when the children go to bed. I wish we were not going out to-night. I'll collect the newspapers, and send you up a capital novel I got yesterday from the library."
Bluebell was cheered in a moment. "I am sure it was you whom I have to thank too, for those violets," said she, touching a few transferred to her waist-belt, and beaming up at her new acquaintance.
Kate nodded pleasantly. "Do you like flowers? I bought them in the King's Road this morning." A few minutes later she burst into her mother's room.
"Where does this rara avis hail from? I never clapped eyes on such a beauty—Miss Seraphin is not a patch on her!"
"Don't be so noisy, dear—Miss Leigh? Yes I heard she was nice-looking."
"Nice-looking!" echoed Kate, contemptuously. "Just wait till you see her. She will be focused by every eye-glass in Brighton when she takes the children out for their constitutional."
"Dear me! I hope she is a proper kind of person."
"She looks rather in the Lady Audley style—and such a complexion! I could have sworn it was painted if it had not varied so. Now I think of it," said Kate, with malice prepense, "she is not at all unlike the photographs, of—,"—naming some one of whose existence she had no business to have been aware.
"It really is too bad of Mrs. Markham not having mentioned this," cried Mrs. Barrington, as if Bluebell had been convicted of a crime. "It is most unpleasant having so voyante a person about the children!"
"Oh, what does it matter," said Kate, heedlessly; "you have no grown up sons. And she seems awfully nice. She has a face with a history in it, though. I shall try and make her out to-morrow. No one is ever so innocent as she looks."
Kate's admiration was still further excited next day as she listened to Bluebell's singing.
"You never heard anything like it, mamma—she could fill Covent Garden; and she composes too. I wonder if she has ever been on the stage?"
Less appreciative was the judgment of the erudite Mabel, who reported Miss Leigh unable to continue her arithmetic beyond the decimal fractions she had attained to with Miss Steele. "In fact," said the child, with deep contempt, "I don't believe she has ever-gone beyond the rule of three herself."
Indeed, the exact sciences were not Bluebell's spécialite, who now employed many a perplexed hour trying with Sievier's Arithmetic to work herself up a little ahead of this precocious pupil. Fortunately she was tolerably strong in history, having gone through a regular course with the little Markhams; but it was evident, notwithstanding, that Mabel and Adela pretty accurately gauged her acquirements, and held them proportionably cheap.
Kate, too, had become somewhat of a tease. I don't know what led her to suspect that the governess had something to conceal, but she was perpetually putting questions most difficult for her to answer; the incitement being the pleasure of watching, from an artistic point of view, the beauty of Bluebell's ever-ready blushes while essaying to parry her tormentor's inquisitorial efforts.
This cat-and-mouse game would go on till the victim, turning to bay, was on the point of desperately asking, "What she wished to find out?" Then Kate would veil her eyes, and look all innocent indifference. Observing the avidity with which she pounced on newspapers, Miss Barrington one day secreted them, much entertained by watching the governess circling round the room, glancing on every table or couch they were likely to have been thrown on.
"Try behind the sofa cushion, Miss Leigh."
Bluebell started, vexed at being observed, and also at this proof of espionnage on her actions, but a little later she fell into more serious self betrayal. They were trying over songs in a locked manuscript book.
"Dear me, what is this air? I know it so well," she cried, incautiously humming it.
"A sea song of my cousin, Harry Dutton's. I had no idea any one else possessed a copy."
There was no answer. She looked up, the blood had rushed over Bluebell's cheek and brow, her lips were apart, and eyes wide open and bright with wonder. Before she could drop a mask over the too eloquent face, Kate's keen eyes were reading her off.
"You know him, I see," with emphasis.
Bluebell, recovering presence of mind, with a desperate effort, replied calmly,—"There was a Mr. Dutton, who came home in the same steamer. Probably I may have heard him whistling the air."—then sat down, and plunged into an instrumental piece, feeling quite unequal to endure further questioning.
But the notes all the time seemed incessantly repeating, "So this is the Cousin Kate he was always talking about."'
Miss Barrington's mind was equally busy.
"I bet Harry flirted with her all the way across, and he never told me a word of it—never so much as mentioned that there was a pretty girl in the ship, and yet she admitted knowing his favourite air 'so well.'"
Then Kate remembered the many unaccounted for weeks between his landing in England and arrival at "The Towers," and her former suspicion that some love affair had intervened.
At first she had only been provoked to curiosity by Bluebell's reserve, but now there really was food for imagination to work on, and perhaps the clue to much that was perplexing in Harry. How curiously it had come out!
The artless Kate smiled re-assuringly at her victim. She was on the track now, and the rabbit might have as much chance of ultimately evading the weasel hunting him by scent.
"What perverse fate has brought me here?" sighed Bluebell, laying her tormented head on the pillow that night. "Miss Barrington will be sure to find out everything. She was so friendly at first; but Harry always said he never trusted her. Then those children! I am sure they are more capable of teaching me. Whenever shall I be extricated from this false position?"
A night's rest did not allay Bluebell's perplexities; on the contrary, more and more complications suggested themselves. Harry must know where she was by this time, and would be frantic at her having dropped into such an ants'-nest. They would recognise his handwriting, too, if a letter came. To be sure that would also strike him. Nevertheless she got into the habit of calling for her letters at the post-office,—a proceeding which the children did not fail to mention, with the rider, "That they wondered at Miss Leigh taking the trouble when she never got any."
Kate was rather inclined to patronize Bluebell. She persuaded her mother to give a musical party for the exhibition of her wonderful voice, and was, on that occasion, quite as solicitous about the young artiste's toilette as her own; and, being not averse to having a girl of her own age to chatter to, bestowed a good deal of her society on Bluebell out of school-hours, which might have been more appreciated were it not for the excessive caution it entailed on the latter.
One day she heard that Mrs. and Miss Barrington were going to Bromley Towers for some theatricals and other gaieties. After her discovery of whose house she was in, that was only a matter of course, and she had only to conceal all interest in it.
Kate was to take a part in one of the plays, and passed the intervening time in getting it by heart, and rehearsing with Bluebell, while the necessary costume was animatedly discussed between them. The latter fancied she had attained sufficient self-command to listen unconcernedly to any conversation about Lord Bromley or "The Towers," but she could not quench the beaming delight in her eyes when Kate one day observed, carelessly,—
"I believe you will see the play, after all, Miss Leigh, as mamma has decided to take Mabel and Adela, which means you also; for Uncle Bromley has rather a horror of children, and would no more have any of the juveniles of the family without a keeper, than he would admit a pack of hounds into the house. Why, Miss Leigh, you look delightful! Do you really care to go?" Then her suspicions awakening, she set a trap like lightning.
"I wonder" (carelessly) "if poor Harry Dutton will get back in time. He is invalided home from Scutari."
Self-command—everything—vanished.
"How did you hear that?" with crimson cheeks and suspiciously dimmed eyes.
"How?" with marked emphasis. "Would it not be stranger if one had not heard it? Uncle Bromley named it in his letter. He was wounded," bringing out the words slowly, "and almost died in the hospital. I hope he will survive the voyage home."
"That girl's a fiend," thought Bluebell, rushing off to her own room in a paroxysm of terror. Then, as she tried to think it out, it became quite evident Harry could not be aware of her change of residence, perhaps had received no letters at the hospital, and would not even know where to find her when he returned. Still, she would be in the right direction, for no doubt he would go to Bromley Towers. But what a place to meet in! And, being ignorant of his address, she could not even send a line of warning.
Romantic notions of fascinating Lord Bromley, and thus facilitating confession when Harry returned, stole through her brain. Kate's play paled in dramatic interest to the possible "situations" that seemed impending. One drawback to taming the lion was the probability of scarcely being on speaking terms with him. Her mission, indeed, seemed to be to keep the children out of his way. But there were the theatricals; children, servants, governesses even, would be privileged to look on that one night. The coquette nature, dormant from want of practice, awoke again. Lord Bromley was only a man! Why couldn't she make him like her?
Kate observed renewed smiles and animation, and set it down to the hope of seeing Dutton at "The Towers," especially as she also detected her doing what maids call "a little work for myself," and effecting wonders with a few yards of muslin and ruffling.