CHANGES.
I remember the way we parted.
The day and the way we met;
You hoped we were both broken hearted;
I knew we should both forget.
A hand like a white wood-blossom
You lifted, and waved and passed
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed at last.
--Swinburne.
Du Meresq in indignant dismay at the abduction of Cecil on the day of the
picnic stood awhile silent and bitter, deaf to the impatience of the
children, who wanted to be off. While thus irresolute, he chanced to
glance at Bluebell, whose countenance betrayed an agony of suspense. The
entreating look in her eyes she was probably unconscious of, for the
child had not yet learned to command her face. Bertie yielded to it by a
sort of magnetism, and flung himself into the boat where she and Mrs.
Rolleston were already seated, but remained silent and thoughtful as they
floated monotonously along. His sister was equally occupied with uneasy
reflections, and Bluebell seemed as spell-bound as the rest. For one soul
deeply moved and agitated often affects by electricity another in a
receptive condition. Does not the atmosphere in a tempestuous mood thrill
and disturb our nervous system?
She was next to Bertie, and noted that, though concealed by rugs and
waterproofs, his hand did not seek hers as of yore.
They were joined on Long Island by the rest of the party, and all kept
pretty much together at first. There was luncheon to be unpacked, the
fire to be made and some fish to be grilled in a frying-pan. Du Meresq
partially shook off his gloom, and assisted the children in their
preparations; and, from the noise that ensued, a stranger would not have
suspected the mental disquietude of three of the number.
After luncheon, Bluebell wandered away in search of wild flowers, the
children hunted for cray-fish, Miss Prosody spudded up ferns, and Mrs.
Rolleston drew from her pocket her favourite point-lace.
Du Meresq, hungering for that exclusively masculine solace, tenderly
brought forth the pipe of his affections, nestling next his heart. There
was too much air on the beach, and he sauntered away in search of a more
sheltered situation in which to woo his divinity.
Some "spirit in his feet" must have led him "who knows how," for ere long
he found himself seated on a log beside Bluebell. I cannot tell what
spell that syren had used to attract his footsteps so unerringly, for,
little accustomed as he was to resist female influence, in thought at
least Du Meresq was loyal enough to Cecil.
He made no attempt to kiss her, as he would have done before in a similar
situation, but talked a while in that half-fond, half-bantering manner
that had misled the inexperienced child. The sun poured its level rays
upon them, and a little brown snake, with a litter of young, crawled from
beneath the log. This occasioned a hasty change of quarters, and they
found another seat o'ershadowed by a tangle of blackberries. It was very
secluded and still, and here, with her whole soul, in her eyes, Bluebell
abruptly asked Bertie her dreaded question.
Rather taken back, he answered evasively. But the ice once broken, she
was not to be turned from her purpose, and repeated, as if it were a
stereotyped form of words she had been practising, "I only wish to ask
one single thing, are you engaged to Cecil?"
Du Meresq was no coxcomb. He was distressed at the repressed agitation in
Bluebell's voice, her hueless face, and the hopeless look in eyes he
remembered so beaming, and for the moment heartily wished he had never
seen her.
"How young she looks, with her lap full of flowers. Like an unhappy
child," thought he remorsefully. "I must tell her the truth; she'll soon
get over it."
Very gently he took her hand, and said, gravely,--"I asked Cecil
yesterday to marry me, and she said yes."
Bluebell staggered to her feet, with perhaps a sudden impulse of flight,
but so unsteadily that Du Meresq involuntarily threw a supporting arm
round her. At that moment Lola, in search of blackberries, and herself
concealed by the bush she was rifling, peeped through the brambles, and
remained a petrified and curious observer.
Bluebell, struggling for composure, tried to speak, but the effort only
precipitated an irrepressible flood of tears, and Du Meresq, grieved and
self-reproachful, in his attempts to console her, used the fatal words
that Lola afterwards repeated to Cecil. The child escaped without her
presence being detected.
Bluebell's emotion had passed over like a storm that clears the
atmosphere. It left her calm and cold, and only anxious to be away
from Du Meresq.
There is a bracing power in knowing the worst. He had gained her
affections without the most distant intention of matrimony, and
resentment and shame restored her to composure.
She turned her large child-like eyes on him with mute reproach.
"You should have told me before," were her first articulate words. "No
wonder Cecil hated me when you were pretending to care for me behind her
back."
Bertie murmured,--"There was no pretence in the matter."
"Then why do you marry Cecil?" asked Bluebell, with the most
uncompromising directness. "Is it because she is rich?"
"Confound it," thought Du Meresq; "I trust she won't suggest that to
Cecil."
"Can't I love you both?" cried he, somewhat irritated; and just then Miss
Prosody and her brood appeared in sight.
"I return you my share," exclaimed Bluebell, breaking abruptly from him,
and, running down the path, joined the governess and children.
Du Meresq had rather a bad quarter of an hour over the pipe which this
sentimental episode had extinguished; but he could not regret, in the
face of his new engagement, the _finale_ of a past and now inopportune
love-affair.
Bluebell did not come down to dinner that day nor see Du Meresq again;
but afterwards, Mrs. Rolleston, who was in nobody's confidence, and had
the uneasy conviction that something was going desperately wrong, came
into her room.
Bluebell's state of repression could endure no longer. She began by
entreating Mrs. Rolleston to accept Mrs. Leighton's situation, and let
her go to England at once; and after that it did not take much pressing
to induce her to make full confession of all that had passed.
It must be remembered that Bluebell was under the impression that her
friend had always known of the flirtation between herself and Bertie; but
now for the first time the horror-stricken Mrs. Rolleston had her eyes
opened to what had been passing before them.
Everything burst on her at once. Recollection and perception awoke
together. To keep it from Cecil seemed the most urgent necessity, and the
removal of Bluebell the thing most to be wished for.
Bluebell was disposed to keep back nothing, and answered every question
with frank recklessness. She told of their first walk in the wood, their
frequent interviews at "The Maples," and Bertie's visit to the cottage,
laughing at the idea of having ever seriously cared for Jack Vavasour.
Mrs. Rolleston remembered that Cecil had not shared her delusion on that
subject, and anxiously inquired if she had ever acknowledged to her her
_penchant_ for Bertie.
Bluebell answered in the negative, giving as a reason that, though unable
to guess the cause, her manner had always repelled any approach to
confidence on that subject.
Mrs. Rolleston remembered Cecil's strange behaviour that afternoon,
but she had not even seen Bluebell since the picnic. It remained
unaccountable.
She reflected with vexation on the fatality that had made her refuse the
child's confidence so many months before; but yet she hoped no harm was
done, since Bluebell averred that Bertie and Cecil were engaged.
The letter to Mrs. Leighton was written that night ready for the morning
mail; another was also despatched to Mrs. Leigh at Bluebell's request,
who was anxious that Mrs. Rolleston should break the rather summary
measures to her--not that the latter anticipated much difficulty there.
All Canadians have a great idea of a visit to England, which they
tenaciously speak of as "home," and "the old country." And she would
probably be glad that Bluebell should see her father's birthplace.
At the child's express wish, it was also arranged for her to go home at
once, as companionship with Cecil could now be agreeable to neither of
them.
Mrs. Rolleston had only seen Du Meresq for a moment before he went away,
yet his manner, no less than her step-daughter's, clearly indicated that
something was wrong. Even Colonel Rolleston had taken up an attitude of
impenetrable reserve, and his wife was completely at fault. Next day,
however, the shock and terror of Cecil's illness fell upon them, turning
her mind to a more immediate subject of anxiety.
Bluebell could not do less than offer to remain, and share the vigils in
the sick room; but even in delirium Cecil became palpably worse when her
rival approached, so, in a few days, with much sadness, she bade farewell
to those who had made the world of her "most memorial year."
While Cecil was hovering on the borderland of mental darkness, a note
came for her from Bertie, written on receipt of the packet that Lola had
posted and was as follows:--
"What can I imagine, Cecil, from this parcel of my letters returned
without a word beyond the date and hour? You must have packed them up
at the very time I, as we had agreed, was asking for you from your
father. I shall not speak of the almost insulting way in which he
received my proposals, for that we had anticipated; but you had
promised in any event to be true to me. You could not have changed in
a summer day, I know your nature, my dearest little Cecil, and you
would not have deserted me in this crisis unless your vulnerable side,
jealousy, had been awakened. Indeed you have no cause for it. I cannot
come back to the Lake, for your father would not receive me, but shall
make no plans till I hear from you.
"Yours, as ever, devotedly,
"B."
It was three weeks before Cecil could read this letter, and the following
day Du Meresq got hers, written at her father's dictation.
It was not a soothing one for an ardent lover to receive, and Bertie was
at first furious, and considered himself very ill used. With it all,
though, he never believed that Cecil had really changed. He thought very
probably his unfortunate flirtation with Bluebell had come out; returning
his letters looked like an _accès_ of jealousy, and the one she had
written was probably prompted by the same cause.
Any way, though, he was at a dead lock. Her father, of course, would not
allow her to see him, and while she was in this mood writing was useless.
His papers were in, and tired of inaction at Montreal, he obtained leave
to go to England. He lingered time enough to have received an answer to
his letter, and, none coming, he took the first steamer homeward-bound.
Du Meresq had not acquainted his sister of his engagement to Cecil; for
being aware of the Colonel's inimical disposition, he did not wish to
draw her into any difficulty about it. She did not even know that he had
written to Cecil since he left, as the letter had fallen into her
husband's hands, who, though not intending to withhold it altogether,
considered it a document that might very well wait her convalescence.
Mrs. Rolleston wished to apprise Bertie of Cecil's dangerous illness, but
she had allowed one mail to pass, and they only recurred once a week, so
that Du Meresq was embarking at Quebec the day her letter arrived at
Montreal.
Cecil made a slow recovery. The rheumatic fever, caused by sitting so
many hours in wet clothes, and aggravated by the shock she had since
received, hung about her many weeks, and as soon as she could be moved
they took her back to Toronto. Then her father most unwillingly gave her
Du Meresq's letter. He was too honourable to destroy it; but, looking
upon him as the frustrator of his plans for Cecil, and the indirect cause
of her illness, viewed with impatience any chance of a renewal of
intercourse.
Cecil read it repeatedly; but though her heart longed to believe, her
mind remained unconvinced. She shrank from all mention of the subject
with her step-mother, knowing how one-sided a partisan she would be, but
could not deny herself the self-torture of questioning Lola again. The
child relentlessly stuck to her text, painting the scene with a vividness
that did credit to her descriptive powers; and being one of those
vivacious and ubiquitous children never to be sufficiently guarded
against, was able to mention one or two other occasions on which she had
"popped on them."
And all that time Bertie had apparently been devoted to herself! This was
decisive. Lola could have no interest in deceiving her. She must not
answer his letter or be his dupe again.
Bluebell's approaching departure to England still further corroborated
Lola's story. At that picnic on Long Island, Bertie had evidently
acknowledged his engagement to herself, which she now fully believed to
be a mercenary one, as, doubtless, he had also assured her rival. But
perpetual lonely walks and rides were unfavourable to oblivion, and had
Du Meresq been but on the spot, I think even then the mists between these
two lovers would soon have been drawn aside.
Mrs. Rolleston wondered that she had not heard from Bertie, but imagined
he was somewhere on leave. Cecil would not speak on the subject, but she
mentioned it sometimes to Bluebell with surprise, who was much perplexed
to guess what could have divided them. Her own conscience was easy; she
had told Cecil nothing--indeed, they had never met since the latter's
illness. Bluebell was now with her mother, preparing for her journey to
England, and had persistently avoided going to "The Maples."
A very cordial acceptance had come from Mrs. Leighton, who said Evelyn
was all impatience for her musical friend. Mrs. Rolleston, who was now a
frequent visitor at the cottage, laughed a little at the letter, which
was very gushing, and told Bluebell they were an emotional pair. Evelyn
was strangely brought up,--every fancy, however extravagant, gratified,
partly on account of her delicate health, and partly from the sentimental
sympathy of her mother. One whim was, she would never learn from ugly
people, and the supply of beautiful governesses being limited, her
education was proportionably so also.
Mrs. Leighton sent minute directions. She would pay Miss Leigh's
passage-money, giving her rather less salary the first year. Of course
she was to come under protection of the captain, to whom the _rôle_ of
heavy father to unchaperoned girls is usually relegated; and on arriving
at Liverpool the railway journey to Leighton Court would be only a few
hours.
Mrs. Rolleston gave her a pretty travelling dress, and otherwise
replenished her slender wardrobe. She also contributed a little good
advice as to abstention from flirting, explaining that in her unprotected
situation she could not be too sceptical of the honest intentions of
would-be wooers.
Bluebell indignantly repudiated the possibility of thinking of such a
thing for the present, if, indeed, ever, and professed the most ascetic
sentiments.
It was rather hard on Mrs. Leigh, this far-away separation from her only
child--indeed, she could not understand why she was not engaged to one or
other of the whilom visitors at the cottage, but comforted herself with
the reflection that there were doubtless many rich husbands in England.
Bluebell, like her father, seemed of a roving disposition, and she must
let her fledgling try her wings.
Mrs. Leigh was romantically inclined, and thought a heroine setting out
on her adventures should be provided with some talisman, and, in this
case, proof of her origin. So she disinterred from the old hair-trunk,
where it was usually entombed, the miniature of Theodore Leigh. How young
he looked! more like Bluebell's brother. "You must never lose it," said
she to her daughter; "for if your grandfather left his money to you after
all, I dare say the lawyers would try and prove you were some one else;
so it is as well to have your father's portrait to show, and your
eyebrows are brown and arched just like his."
Though at a loss to comprehend why lawyers should display such unprovoked
enmity, Bluebell gladly received the miniature. Her unknown father
represented to her another and more brilliant life; and when most
discontented at the penury of the cottage, she was fond of picturing to
herself her paternal relations, whom she imagined very grand people, and
in a very different position to that in which she had been brought up. In
these last days, Bluebell thought a good deal of Cecil with some return
of her old affection. She remembered how generous and dear a friend she
had been till Bertie came between, and thought how ungrateful she must
consider her to have clandestinely stolen away the only treasure she
would have been unwilling to share with her. Still, even were they to
meet, nothing she could say would do any good, for Bluebell knew of old
how difficult it was to speak to Cecil on any subject she was determined
to avoid, and it was not likely she would be particularly approachable on
this one.
So, upon the whole, it would be a relief to get away, and break new
ground, leaving painful associations behind; and the bustle of
preparation for the voyage was not without interest.
Miss Opie presented her with a brown-holland bag, divided off for
brushes, slippers, etc., which she enjoined her to hang up in the
cabin. "Habits of neatness are always of great importance in a confined
space; and I have put in a paper of peppermint lozenges in case of
sea-sickness," she added.
It was the last evening at home, and every bit of furniture in the once
despised house seemed instinct with a meaning no other place could have
for her.
There was the old piano, on which she used to dream away so many hours;
and that arm-chair seemed still haunted by the vision of her handsome,
faithless lover, as she had seen him in the gloaming.
How long they had lived there! The little china dog on the shelf was the
same she used to play with on the floor before she could walk. Dull and
trite, and only too well known as these objects might be, a sentimental
interest seemed now to hallow them. Youth is selfish, and takes all
affection as its due; but even the slight brush with the world Bluebell
had already sustained, gave her the consciousness that, tired as she
might be of her limited life at home, never need she expect to meet
elsewhere such unselfish tenderness as a mother's.