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 _piêce 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-maché 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 _répertoire,_ 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'étais 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.