THE TRYST.
Twas full of love--to rhyme with dove,
And all that tender sort of thing,
Of sweet and meet--and heart and dart,
But not a word about a ring!
--Hood.
Time flew much lighter with our heroine as she counted the days to
the next rendezvous with Du Meresq; anticipation is ever sweeter than
reality. The cottage was no longer dull, nor existence empty, even the
unrenewed and diminishing snow, dusky as a goose in a manufacturing town,
was the symptoms of approaching spring and verdure. Who need think of the
torrents of rain which must precede it? The little episode with Jack
outside the door afforded her secret entertainment, and although she
did not look upon it as a _bona-fide_ proposal, that did not bias her
intention of relating the anecdote for Bertie's delectation. It might be
just as well to let him see if he couldn't speak out, others could, and
if he were jealous, why so much the better.
Clouds were chasing each other in the sky, and the increased mildness
of the atmosphere inspired Bluebell with the dread that rain was
approaching, for a rendezvous under dripping umbrellas, if feasible,
was not the most desirable _pose_ for a romantic interview.
However, the morning rose clear and sunny, the snow was thawing, and in
many places the runners of the sleighs grated on bare ground.
Bluebell was exultant. The elements evidently didn't mean to oppose her,
but she was somewhat disconcerted at dinner by Miss Opie's remarks on her
Sunday dress, which, being of a becoming hue, she had rashly donned.
"Are you going visiting, Bluebell, that you are so smart?"
"Oh, dear no; only for a walk."
"How foolish to draggle that mazarin blue poplinette in sloppy snow! Once
let it get any snow stains on, and it will look quite shabby on bright
spring days."
"It's no use having things, if one doesn't wear them," returned the girl,
evasively. But when she came down ten minutes later equipped for her
walk, she encountered Miss Opie again in full marching order.
"My, dear, as you are dressed so nicely, I dare say you are going 'on
King,' and so am I; so we can walk together."
Consternation in Bluebell's face--it was only a quarter to three.
"I am going quite in the opposite direction," cried she, hurriedly, and,
without waiting to see the effect of her words, abruptly fled.
"Just Canadian independence," muttered Miss Opie; "It makes all the girls
such thoroughly bad style."
Bluebell began to feel very nervous; two or three young friends that she
met on the way, she passed with a quick nod and averted face, dreading
their joining her. Her eye swept the broad walk of the Avenue in an
instant; no familiar figure arrested her vision, and the seats placed at
regular intervals on each side were also vacant of interest.
So she was first--the Cathedral clock had struck three some minutes
before, she was perplexed to know what to do with herself, and began
walking slowly to the other end. Of all possible _contretemps_, the
non-appearance of Du Meresq had never suggested itself; but after a
couple of turns the unwelcome misgiving strengthened, and there would
be only one at the tryst that day.
In a tumult of disappointment and indignation, conjecture after
conjecture chased each other; while ever and anon her fancy was mocked
by some one turning in at the gates bearing a general resemblance to Du
Meresq, only to be dispelled by a nearer and more accurate view.
A simple explanation suddenly dawned; Bertie might have written to warn
her of an unavoidable absence. The possibility of such a letter, which,
had she had received it in the morning, would have been the bitterest
disappointment, now seemed a resurrection from despair to hope, and with
relaxed features and brightening eyes, Bluebell walked rapidly through
the gates to the Post-office.
Letters were so rare and unlooked for at the cottage, that the postman
never included it in his rounds; and the contents of the pigeon-hole
appropriated to them at the office was seldom inquired for, except on
mail-days, when there might be an off-chance of an English letter for
Miss Opie. Even Bluebell, who for the first fortnight after her
banishment from "The Maples" had been a regular applicant, had not been
near it since Bertie's visit to the cottage.
"Two letters for Miss Theodora Leigh." One she scarcely looked at; the
other instinct told her must be Bertie's handwriting; it had been lying
two days at the Post-office.
"My dearest Bluebell," ran this note, "I can't come to the Avenue
on Wednesday, being now entirely confined to the sofa with my ankle,
which has gone to the bad. I am only staying on now with sick leave,
and the Chief very sulky at that. When shall I again see those beloved,
angel-like, soft blue eyes? Don't write to me here, for, as you may
remember, the orderly fetches the letters, and my august brother-in-law
sometimes deals them round.
"Your ever devotedly attached,
"A. Du M."
Poor Bluebell, as she read these few and rather cavalier lines, felt for
the moment as if she had never suffered till now; his hinted at
departure, and apparent resignation to absence from her, was a severe
shock, and, in the first hot feeling of grief, the scales fell from her
eyes, and she began to see Bertie as he was, but she could not yet endure
the light of reason, so resumed her voluntary blindness, and re-read the
letter, and though very little of it could satisfy her expectations, she
dwelt more on the few words that did. After a while, she remembered the
other letter, and found, with awakening interest, it was from Mrs.
Rolleston. This was written in a pleasant chit-chat style, giving an
account of their every-day life since she left, and not at all avoiding
Bertie's name, the tedious effect of his toboggining accident being
one of the chief incidents mentioned. It wound up with saying that they
expected her back as soon as she liked.
Bluebell felt rather mystified at the tone of this epistle; but was much
comforted by the thought that the ban was removed, and she might go to
"The Maples" and judge for herself. This was dated prior to the other
letter, but Bertie appeared to have been ignorant of it.
The following day, our heroine, in a hired sleigh, was jingling back to
"The Maples," and curiosity and interest all centred on one question--"Is
he there still?"
As she passed through the hall, her eye glanced searchingly round on the
chance of seeing some familiar property of Bertie's. There was only a
pair of his moccasins; but they might so easily have been left behind as
useless, now the snow was evaporating.
Mrs. Rolleston and Cecil received her very cordially, but, knowing their
sentiments, that was rather an unfavourable omen, and Freddy and Lola,
who had come down to see her, kept up such an incessant chatter, that
there seemed no chance of obtaining the information she dreaded.
At last, in a momentary pause, she faltered out a leading remark in
such a low voice that no one attended to it. A minute later, she tried
again,--"I hope Captain Du Meresq is better."
"How red you have got, 'Boobell!'" said Freddy. "Look, mamma!"
"What did you say, my dear--Bertie? Oh, yes, he is very lame still; but
he was obliged to go yesterday."
The sudden colour left Bluebell's cheek, and she sat for some minutes in
a relaxed, drooping attitude, oblivious of all around, till becoming
sensible of Cecil's gaze rivetted on her. It was a cold satirical
expression, at the same time inquiring. Bluebell was very unhappy; but
this roused her, and, raising her head, she looked her enemy steadily in
the eyes, with a bitter smile.
She never, strange to say, suspected Cecil of being a rival, merely
supposing she was carrying on the family politics; and wounded by her
officiously hostile demeanour, as she considered it, resolved no trace of
her sufferings should ever be witnessed by this cold friend.
And thus it happened that the topic was jealously avoided by each;
though, with mutual occupation and amusements, they became friendly
again, now the disturber of their amicability was removed.
Bertie and Cecil had been inseparable the last week. His premature
exertion in calling at the cottage had thrown him back; and really ill,
and, in enforced inaction, he could not bear her out of his sight.
So day after day Cecil passed in the smoking-room, only hurrying out for
a short drive or constitutional; and half-repaid by the gloomy complaint,
"How long yon have been!" when she re-entered.
Du Meresq's correspondence, too, as we have before hinted, was not
calming. A half-indignant letter from a friend whose temporary
accommodation had not been repaid, a bill at three months wanting
renewing, a tailor threatening the extremest rigours of the law, and
similar literature, familiar to a distressed man, was punctually brought
by the Post-office orderly for his delectation.
"You seem interested, Cecil," said he, as, with the uncerimoniousness of
a trusted _confidante_, she glanced through the variations of the same
text. "Do you young ladies ever get up behind each other, and back each
other's bills?"
"You haven't opened some, Bertie; and they are not all bills."
"You can, if it amuses you," hobbling across the room. "Why, Cecil, my
foot is almost sound again. We'll drive somewhere this afternoon,
anyhow."
"See what the doctor says. Look here, Bertie, here's a letter marked
private, so I didn't go on."
"Where did you find that? I never saw it." As he read, his brow grew
dark, and he pondered several minutes; while Cecil, devoured with
curiosity, and half-apprehensive of evil, remained silent.
"Will you get me a railway-guide, Cecil? There's one in the dining-room."
She complied, most unwillingly.
"Are you really going, Bertie?"
"I must, to-night."
"Why?" she more looked than asked.
He glanced through the letter again, and tossed it to her. "You see I
have no secrets from you, Cecil, though I should not care for any one
else in the house to be acquainted with its contents."
It was a confidential letter from his Colonel, saying, if absolutely
necessary, he would give him more sick leave; but advising him, if
possible, to return at once and settle some of his most urgent
liabilities, which, having repeatedly come to his ears, he could no
longer avoid taking notice of, unless he took steps to get the more
serious ones shortly arranged.
"What _will_ you do, Bertie?"
"I don't know that anything but jumping into the Lachine Rapids would
solve the difficulty," returned he, lightly; "and even that must be
deferred till the river is open."
"How much is it?" impatiently.
"I dare say six hundred might soothe the chief's sense of propriety, and
give one a little breathing-time. But I can't get that, so the smash must
come a little sooner than it otherwise would."
"You tell me that, and tie my hands by refusing to let me help you.
Bertie, if you could just hold on till August, when I might draw any
cheques I pleased--"
"You dearest little angel!" interrupted Du Meresq, warmly; "what have I
done that you should be so kind to me? But all women are alike--generous
and true-hearted when a fellow is down in the world; and--"
"Then you promise? You will count on the money?" said Cecil, not much
flattered at being supposed only to act up to the inevitable instincts
of her sex.
"Good heavens, Cecil! no; I am not such an unprincipled brute as to rob
you of a penny. Under no possible circumstances could I touch--"
"Under _no possible_ circumstances?" leapt out before she could restrain
her speech. Had the meaning escaped him, the eloquent blood which rushed
over neck and brow must have betrayed it completely.
Bertie, who had been speaking without motive, was taken by surprise as
the sense of her impulsive words flashed on his brain.
"My darling Cecil!"
Cecil, the colour of a carnation, and expiring with embarrassment, raised
her eyes, and encountered his fixed on her with a fond, sad, but _not_
responsive expression. If shame could kill, she had received her _coup de
grâce_ that moment. He had understood, and yet said nothing.
The most rapturous gratitude on his part would hardly have reconciled
her to herself; not to be met half-way was ignominious rejection.
It had all been the work of one moment, and relief came in the next with
the entrance of Colonel Rolleston. Cecil, feeling as if delivered from a
spell, got out of the room, and entrenched herself in her own, where her
thoughts became almost unendurable.
In horror at what she had done, her first wish was never to see Bertie
again. Every particle of pleasure in his society must now be over since
that one mad, unguarded sentence.
"I might have known," thought she, bitterly, "that that false,
caressing manner of his never meant anything. I have seen it with a dozen
girls--even Bluebell,"--here she winced; "and yet in the face of all
probability I must needs believe myself more to him than any one, because
it suits him to make me the receptacle of his worries. Well, he is
disinterested, at any rate, since all my money has no more attractions
for him than myself."
A stormy hour did poor Cecil pass with her wounded pride, when she was
interrupted by Lola, the Mercury of the establishment, who came to tell
her that "dinner would be an hour earlier, because Bertie was going
away."
Cecil received the intelligence very shortly, and nipped in the bud her
evident intention of lingering by declaring herself "busy," which that
astute young person, seeing no signs of employment, interpreted as
"cross."
"I must face it," thought she, as the last peal of the gong jarred on her
nerves. She descended just in time to see Colonel and Mrs. Rolleston
disappear into the dining-room. Du Meresq, who had waited, eagerly placed
her hand under his arm, and drew her back a moment.
"Cecil, where have you been hiding all this afternoon?"
I suppose he had the key to the answer, for the changing hues of her
complexion, in which pride struggled with confusion, was the only one he
got.
"You utter little goose!" said Bertie, emphatically, crushing the hand
under his arm as they entered the dining-room. Curious to relate, Cecil
scarcely felt so ashamed as she had an hour ago. Not a chance would she
give him, though, of speaking a syllable in private; and very soon after
dinner he departed, taking leave of Cecil before all the rest, with no
more distinguishing mark of affection than a long hand-clasp, which
seemed as if it would never unlock.
"Only his odious flirting manner!" said Cecil to herself; but she did not
think so, and felt a good deal less self-contempt than she had before.
Next day, when Mrs. Rolleston announced Bluebell's expected return, Cecil
felt quite in charity with her, and resolved to make things pleasanter
than they had been, though this relenting mood was nearly dissipated by
her unconscious rival presuming to look miserable at the tidings of Du
Meresq's departure.