A WOODLAND WALK.
I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss,
If I tell you my reason for asking you this,
I would see you safe home (now the swain was in love),
Of such a companion if you would approve.
Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own,
But I see no great danger in going alone;
Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free
For one as another, for you as for me.
It was Sunday afternoon. Bluebell was on her way to the Maples, and had
not proceeded far when she observed a Robinson Crusoe-looking figure in
one of those grotesque fur caps and impossible hooded blankets that the
fashionable Briton in Canada so fondly affects. She was speculating idly
upon whom it could be.
"Not Mr. Gordon, though the 'Fool's-cap' is like his; and Major Simeon
has one of those. Oh, Captain Du Meresq!"
She bowed rather undecidedly, and then moved on abruptly.
But Bertie did not pass by.
"Are you returning?" asked he. "They can't get on without you. Freddy has
dropped a cinder into his nurse's tea, and set fire to the straw in the
cat's basket."
Bluebell laughed shyly.
"I have been to see mamma. Do not let me bring you out of your way,
Captain Du Meresq,"--for he had turned back with her.
"Oh, I was only going for a walk," said Bertie, innocently,--a harmless
amusement that, without any other object, he was simply incapable of
undertaking. "Hadn't I better see you home; there's a brute of a dog down
there who sprang out at me! I broke my stick across his head, and then,
of course, I had to apologize, being disarmed."
"I know that fierce dog. He belongs to a cabman; but I always speak to
him, and he never attacks me."
"Even a lion itself would flee from a maid in the pride of her purity,"
laughed Bertie. "But, Miss Leigh, must we positively go shivering across
this bleak desert again?--isn't there some sheltered way through the
wood?"
"There certainly is; but it is three miles round, and, I dare say, full
of drifts."
"Never mind, all the better fun. Up this way?"
"Oh, but isn't it late? I think they will be expecting me before."
"There's nobody at home, if that's all," said Bertie. "They have gone to
the Cathedral, and most likely will turn into tea at the Van Calmonts."
The scrambling walk was a temptation, the common hideous and cold.
"We must walk very quick, then."
"Run, if you like. Come along, there's a dear child."
Bluebell coloured furiously.
"Maybe I won't go at all now!"
"That is so like a girl," said Bertie impatiently; "standing coquetting
in the cold. Now, you are offended. What did I say? Only called you a
child."
"You had no business to speak so," said Bluebell, angry at his familiar
manner, but rather at a loss for words. "Why can't you call me Miss
Leigh, like everybody else?" and the indignant little beauty paused,
with hot cheeks, and feeling desperately awkward.
Du Meresq bit his lip to hide a smile. He was half afraid she would dash
off and terminate the interview.
"Dear me!" said he. "When you are a little older you will think youth a
very good fault. Will you forgive me this once, Miss Leigh, and I will
not call you anything else?--for the present" (_sotto voce_).
Bluebell was mollified, and rather proud of the good effects of her
reproof, notwithstanding the half-inaudible rider. Du Meresq, also,
was satisfied, for, without further opposition, they had struck into
the wood. Unused to the Britannic hamper of a chaperone, Bluebell saw
nothing singular in the proceeding. So they crunched over the snow,
keeping, as far as possible, the dazzling track marked by the wheels
of the sleigh-waggons, and plentifully powdered by the snow-laden trees;
now up to their knees in a drift, from which Bertie had the pleasure of
extricating his companion, who forgot her shyness in the difficulties of
the path, and, not being given to silence, was laughing and talking away
unreservedly.
"What a strange girl she is!" thought Bertie. "Who would think, to hear
her chattering now, she _could_ have made that prim little speech? I must
not go on too fast; it reminds me of that Irish girl who said, the first
time I squeezed her hand, 'Ah, Captain Du Meresq, but you are such a
bould flirt!'"
Sheltered from the bleak wind the walk on the crisp track was enjoyable
enough; the "strange eyes," being now on a line with and not confronting
her, were less embarrassing, and the slight awe she still felt of him
only gave a piquancy to the companionship.
"Are you not very glad we came this way?" Bertie was saying.
"If we had only snow-shoes," cried the breathless Bluebell, for the third
time slipping into a drift, but struggling out before Du Meresq could do
more than catch her hand.
"Poor little fingers! how cold they are," trying to put them in with his
own into his large beaver gloves.
"Oh, I wish you would be sensible," stammered Bluebell, much confused.
"What's the use of being sensible," retorted he, "when it is so much
pleasanter being otherwise? Time enough for that when anybody's by."
But Bluebell wrenched her hand away, bringing off the glove, which she
threw on the snow.
"Is that a challenge, Miss Bluebell? Must take up the gauntlet? Good
gracious, my dear child, you are not really annoyed? Well, we will be
sensible, as you call it. Only you must begin; I don't know how."
"Evidently," said Bluebell, very tartly, drawing as far away as the
exigencies of the track would admit. She could hold her own well enough
with the young subalterns she had hitherto flirted with, but this man was
older, and had a bewildering effect on her.
"Are you and Cecil great friends?" asked Bertie, presently, with the air
of having forgotten the fracas.
"I hope so," coming out of her offended silence at this neutral topic. "I
know I like her well enough."
"And do you tell each other everything, after the manner of young
ladies?"
"No-o," said Bluebell, reflectively; "not like the girls at school. You
see Cecil is older than I, and cleverer, I suppose, and doesn't talk much
nonsense."
"Did she ever speak of me?" asked Bertie.
"Hardly ever; the others have mentioned you often."
"Cecil is a very sensible girl," with a re-assured countenance; "and as
you never talk nonsense, I suppose you won't mention the trivial fact of
our having taken this walk?"
"Why in the world not?" opening her large violet eyes full upon him.
"'Speech is silver, but silence is golden,' you unsophisticated child,"
returned he, enigmatically.
Bluebell considered. "Why, of course, I shall tell Mrs. Rolleston what
made me so late."
"But not if she doesn't ask you?"
"But why not? There is _no harm_ in it," said the girl, persistently.
"No, no; but if you had lived as long as I, you would know that people
_always_ try and interfere with anything pleasant. I should so like to
take this walk with you every week, Bluebell."
Bluebell looked down; she was vaguely flattered by his caring to repeat
the walk which she thought must be so unimportant to him,--it would be
something to look forward to, for she _had_ enjoyed it, though she could
not tell why.
"But, Captain Du Meresq--" she began.
"Call me Bertie, when we are alone," said he.
They had entered on the street, Bluebell was wavering, but the last
sentence, "when we are alone," struck her ear unpleasantly.
"How can I?" said she; "I do not know you well enough."
"Walk with me sometimes," whispered Bertie, "and that reason will
disappear, but don't say a word about it to-day, there's a dear girl.
I had better make tracks for the club; you will be at home in five
minutes,"--and Du Meresq ceremoniously lifted his cap, for many eyes were
about, and disappeared down another block.
Bluebell on finding herself alone, went through a disagreeable reaction.
It was certainly only a few yards to her destination; but it was annoying
to be left so abruptly, and an air of secrecy thrown over her actions
too. Did she like him, or hate him? She could not determine; her fancy
and her vanity were both touched, doubtless; then, remembering Miss
Opie's exhortations, a gleam of fun twinkled in her eyes as she thought
of what her horror would have been at Bertie's affectionate ease of
manner.
All the same she crept into the house, feeling very underhand and
uncomfortable. None of the party had returned, so reprieved for the
present she went up to the nursery.
Freddy was roaring on his back, he had just thrown "Peep-of-Day" at the
nurse's head, which had been unwisely offered to him as a substitute for
his favourite trumpet, when its excruciating blasts become too
unbearable.
"Oh, I'm sure I'm glad you have come back, miss, for I don't know how to
abide that wearyin' child, as don't know what a whipping is. Here's your
governess, sir, as will put you in the corner."
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Freddy with supreme contempt.
The _suaviter in modo_ was, indeed, the only treatment allowed in that
nursery. Bluebell retreated with a highly-coloured scrap-book to the
window, which she feigned complete absorption in. Freddy glanced at it
out of the tail of his eye.
"Show me that, Boobell."
"I don't know, Freddy," said the girl, feeling some slight moral coercion
incumbent on her. "Do you _think_ you will call nurse a fool again?"
"She shouldn't bother," said the infant, confidentially, climbing into
her lap, but declining to commit himself to any pledges of good
behaviour. "Show me the book."
Half-an-hour after, Mrs. Rolleston looking in, saw a pretty little
picture--the old nurse was nodding in a rocking-chair. Bluebell's fair
young face was bending over Freddy, seated on her lap, with as arm round
her neck, his cherubic visage beaming with interest as he listened to the
classic tale of "Three Wishes." It was easier to her to continue the
recital, while a dread of being questioned prevented her looking up.
"Bluebell is telling Freddy such a beautiful fairy story," said Mrs.
Rolleston, to some one who had followed her to the nursery.
"I wish she would tell fairy stories to me," said Bertie.