NO CARDS.
Love will make oar cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life.
--Tennyson.
A dense November fog ushered in the dawn of the following day. Bluebell
had been awake for hours. Some men were mending the streets, and, as she
listened to the monotonous blows of their pickaxes and hammers, a
lugubrious fancy crossed her that just such sounds would a criminal hear
when workmen were erecting the gallows that was to close his mortal
career. By ten o'clock a new page of her life would be turned over, if,
nervous and unstrung as she was, she were able to carry out the first
part of the drama. Suppose the captain should object to her walking
abroad, or offer again to accompany her! And even if she effected a
start, might he not, his suspicions awakened, quickly follow! The eight
o'clock breakfast bell rang, and Bluebell came down with a white, scared
face and dark rims to her eyes. The captain appeared unobservant. To tell
the truth, the stolen kiss, which he probably considered "naughty, but
nice," had made him somewhat conscious. So he looked demure and rather
sly; but the girl had forgotten the circumstance.
The old Dutch clock ticked louder than ever, and, as usual, recorded
the quarters with an internal convulsion. At half-past nine the boys
would go to school, and, in the commotion of their departure, Bluebell
resolved to pass from the threshold and go forth to her fate. She got her
hat,--unnoticed and unquestioned was in the street, and groping her way
through the fog with swift, unsteady steps. In two turnings from the door
Dutton met her, a relieved, triumphant smile lighting his features as he
placed her in a cab. The man, previously instructed, drove rapidly off to
the register office. Bluebell, now the die was cast, felt almost
fainting; but Harry's strong arm was round her, and in less than a
quarter of an hour these two youthful lunatics were as securely and
irrevocably married as though the ceremony had been performed by an
archbishop in full canonicals. The gold circlet was on her finger, with a
pearl one to guard it--of no great value, for Harry was aware there would
be sundry demands on his ready money. Bluebell, of course, could have no
luggage, and he had put himself in the hands of a patronizing lady in an
outfitting establishment, and procured her a small stock of necessaries.
He had received his pay, and not long since a liberal cheque from Lord
Bromley; so the "sinews of war" were not wanting for the present. They
drove straight from the register office to the station, and were in the
train and far on their journey before Bluebell had the least idea where
they were going to; indeed, if she had known, she would scarcely have
been wiser, all places in England being equally strange to her.
Dutton, rapturously in love, now that his schemes were successful, was in
a state of exulting happiness almost overwhelming to Bluebell, secretly
oppressed with a sense of the irrevocable. She even caught herself, when
they stopped at stations, wishing that some one would get in. Very
different was the first-class carriage from the long cars, containing
sixty or seventy persons, that she had previously travelled in. But yet
there were four vacant seats, which in spite of the rush for places,
continued unoccupied. Now and then their door was hastily clutched by
some passenger, but a guard seemed invariably to turn up and bear the
individual away to another carriage. About three o'clock they stopped at
a very small station, where only one or two persons got out.
"Here we are, Bluebell," cried Harry, grasping rugs, sticks, and
umbrellas, and throwing them to the porter.
She sprang up and looked around with intense interest. They were nearing
her first _pied-à-terre_ as a married woman. But the journey was not yet
ended, and they transferred themselves to a fly, in which an old grey
horse waited sleepily.
"Lucky I thought of ordering it," said Harry; "it is the only one here,
of course."
"Harry!" cried Bluebell, rubbing her eyes, as if only just thoroughly
awake, "have you got a house? Where in the world are we going to?"
"I couldn't think why you didn't ask that before, you little fatalist,
taking it all in such a predestined way. I hope you don't think it a case
of the Lord of Burleigh over again? It is only a cottage, Bluebell; but I
think it is comfortable, and one mercy is no one will be able to find us
here!"
The extreme advantage of this isolation scarcely seemed so apparent to
her; and as the above sentence was the only connected or rational one
Harry gave utterance to, conversation, properly so called, was _nil_
during the drive. After skirting a hanging wood, and passing some water
meadows, where red Herefordshire cows with white faces grazed under the
low wintry sky, they drove through a primitive village, and, turning down
a bye-road, drew up at a queer gabled cottage. It was very picturesque
and odd-looking, and Harry, during his last leave home, had spent a night
there on a visit to an artist friend, who was making sketches in the
neighbourhood.
Its proprietor, a carpenter, sometimes lived in it, and sometimes was
able to let it to gentlemen coming down to fish in the river. On
receiving Dutton's telegram, he and his wife, who had given up all hopes
of letting it for the winter, gladly laid down their best carpets,
brought out their summer chintzes, and arranged everything in apple-pie
order, for the cottage was taken for a month certain.
Harry had not forgotten to order a piano to be hired from the nearest
town. After their long journey it all looked very home-like and
attractive. They ran about the house like two children, examining
everything. The sitting-room was the prettiest, with its two bay-windows
at right-angles, low roof and rafters. The artist had gone abroad, and
had left some of his pictures on the wall in charge of the carpenter--a
bewitched Greuze, copied in the Louvre; the inevitable study of a
bird's-nest and primroses; a girl standing at a wash-tub by an open
window, on the sill of which outside leaned an Irish peasant, with his
handsome, blarneying face. Then there were sketches taken in the
neighbourhood. "I remember this one half finished on his easel," said
Harry. It was a glade of a forest; in the fore-ground a huge oak,
knee-deep in bracken, and tall blue hyacinths. "Look Bluebell, here is
your name-sake flower."
"Oh, that is it! Well, I never saw one before; we have none in Canada."
"I wish it were June now," said Harry; "summer weather is what this place
wants;" and he glanced out of the bay-window looking on a lawn, with a
spreading cedar encircled by a seat. Some pinched chrysanthemums--those
flowers that always look born in adverse circumstances--and one or two
hardy roses still lingered. The clematis made a bold show on the porch,
though the north wind had begun to detach its clinging embrace from the
masonry, and make wild work in its tangled masses.
"It must be lovely in summer," said Bluebell, shivering, and feeling a
slightly depressing influence creeping over her. They wandered out by the
banks of the river to a ruined abbey, which always attracted tourists
during the season. It was especially sketchable, and "bits" of it were
carried away in many an artist's portfolio. But it was desolate now, and
flocks of jackdaws came screaming out of holes in the walls.
I am painting from Bluebell's point of view, who could not shake off the
weird feeling that possessed her, to which, perhaps, fatigue, mental and
physical, not a little contributed. Yet when they came in no depression
could withstand the cheery look of the lamp-lit room, with its snowy
cloth laid for dinner, blazing fire, and closely-drawn curtains; and they
both were unmistakably hungry, for the breakfast they had been too
nervous to eat had been their only previous meal.
The carpenter waited. Bluebell felt desperately conscious. His manner
was so benign and protecting, and he coughed so ostentatiously before
entering the room, she was perfectly sure he had guessed that they had
run away that morning. He imparted shreds of local information to Harry
while changing the plates, who answered good-humouredly, but would have
preferred to hear that the whole neighbourhood was wintering in Jericho.
A sociable Skye terrier, who strolled in with the first dish, was rather
a resource to the new-made bride, who found it easier to bend over
Archie, sitting up for bones, than to sustain with imperturbability the
curious if furtive observation of the carpenter.
A day or two after this evening, Harry, coming in from a smoke, saw
Bluebell, with a pleased, intent face, writing, as fast as the pen could
scratch, over some foreign paper.
"Oh, Harry," cried she without looking up, "we must not forget to walk
into the town this afternoon. It is mail-day, I have no stamps."
Dutton's face became suddenly overcast. He jerked the end of his cigar
into the fire, and threw down his hat.
"Whom are you writing to?" he asked.
"To my mother, and everybody," said Bluebell, gleefully. "I am telling
them all about it."
"The devil! My dear child, stop a little."
"Why?" looking up surprised. "Oh, do you want to put something in? It
would be nicer. I'll leave half a sheet."
Harry looked the picture of vexation and perplexity. He had never
realized Bluebell's relations, and here it seemed she was in regular
correspondence with her mother and other friends.
"My dear girl, for goodness' sake stop! My uncle does not know it yet,
and you mustn't say a word to any one."
Bluebell seemed rather bewildered. "Why don't you tell your uncle, then?
And surely my mother would be equally interested!"
Dutton sat down for a long explanation, "I shouldn't so much have cared
about offending him before, but now I have you, Bluebell, it would be
ruin. I have nothing but my profession and what he allows me; and he
disinherited his only son for a marriage that displeased him."
She gave a half start here. "What is your uncle's name."
"Lord Bromley."
"Oh, of course; you told me so before. Well, go on."
"I shall run down to 'The Towers' presently, sound the old man, and break
it to him, if possible. If I could only take you, my darling, it ought to
do the business! By Jove, I have a great mind to try!"
"But," said Bluebell, reverting to her own immediate anxiety, "I must
tell them at home what has become of me. Fancy, Harry, what a state they
would be in, not hearing! Let me, at any rate, say I am married, but
cannot tell my name for a few weeks."
"Well, mind you don't say more," very gloomily. "I dare say there will be
no end of a row, and they will be sending people to try and trace us.
Impossible for a month, though," he reflected.
"And, Harry, did you write to Captain Davidson?"
He shook his head.
"Oh, do, pray, or let me!"
"Now, my dear Bluebell, haven't we just agreed the fewer people who know
it the better? You say you left a letter telling him you were to be
married, and it is no further business of his. Besides, he is a
suspicious old nuisance, and would very likely come boring down here; and
then I should be sure to quarrel with him. Come along, put on your hat,
and let us go out."
"I must re-write my letter," said she. It was much shorter than the other
one, and a sober look had dawned on her fair face when it was finished.
More than once she resumed the subject, but never got any satisfaction
from Dutton. "What did she want more? Could anything be jollier than the
life they were leading, with no one to bother them? Every one was alone
in the honeymoon; and, once their marriage was confessed, it would be the
beginning of ceaseless annoyance, disagreeable advice from relations,
shindies without end."
Harry was still in the seventh heaven--more ardent in love with his wife
than ever; and this sweet little quiet home, with "the mystery and
romance of it," he was unwilling to tear himself from. To Bluebell it
bore a different aspect. Marriage had deprived her of all her friends,
and raised a barrier between the present and the past. There had been no
time to grow to Harry, and he demanded so much. She was never alone,
never free from this all-pervading passionate love that she felt quite
powerless to equal. Sometimes Bluebell marvelled he did not perceive
this, though nothing she dreaded more, for, since the discovery of how
much he had risked for her, she was always blaming herself for not
feeling the exclusive devotion that could alone recompense him.
To be suddenly deprived of all occupation, and sent to some unfamiliar
place to be absolutely happy for a month, is an ordeal custom imposes
on most newly-wedded pairs; but a runaway match has severer conditions
still, since no letters of affectionate interest can be expected from
friends, and the bride has not even a trousseau to fall back upon.
One morning after they had been married three weeks, a batch of letters
was forwarded to Dutton by his agent, to whom he had only lately given
his address. One was from Lord Bromley, and had lain there some time. On
coming in from a walk that same afternoon, they found cards on the table.
"Just impertinent curiosity," growled Harry.
"Why?" cried Bluebell. "For my part, I think it is rather fun to have a
visitor. Dear me, though, _I_ have no cards;"--and she coloured deeply as
she remembered that her marriage was still unacknowledged, even on
pasteboard.
"Bluebell," cried Harry, impulsively, "I'll go to-morrow and make it all
right with my uncle at once."
"Oh, I _wish_ you would," with deep energy.
"And you don't mind being left?" he asked tenderly.
"Oh, anything to have the secret at an end!"
"Bluebell, for goodness' sake don't expect too much! What if my uncle
disinherited me? It is not at all unlikely."
"Ah, Harry," said Bluebell, softly, "that comes of marrying me. Why did
you not think of it first? I should be no worse off," continued she,
musingly; "I could give music lessons. It's hard on you, of course; but,
Harry, do, pray, whatever are the consequences, tell him."
"But you don't realize the consequences. I should be obliged to go to
sea, leave you alone, and have scarcely any money to send you. But if he
took it pleasantly, he could make it worth my while to leave the navy,
which he has always wished me to do, or let us have sufficient coin for
you to come to any port I am stationed at. As long as it was only myself,
I didn't care so much; yet Bromley Towers _is_ worth saving, if
possible." A pause. "But I can't think what you will do while I am away."
"Shall I cultivate our visitors, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens?"
"Not for the world; we must let them slide quietly, and then people will
begin to understand we don't wish to be called on."
"I daresay you are right; this house must be an _oubliette_ till your
awful uncle is confessed to." Bluebell spoke with some asperity; the
concealment had become so unbearable. What would the Rollestons think if
her mother imparted to them her improbable story of being married to a
man who could not acknowledge her? And that dear old captain would most
likely imagine the worst without her being able to undeceive him. But
Harry was deep in _Bradshaw_, and unobservant.
"I shall sleep in London, I think, and go down next morning. Let me see,
I shan't be able to get away till after the new year. Lord Bromley has
the usual family gathering on for Christmas."
"Won't the time of your return somewhat depend on the way your
communication is received?" asked Bluebell, demurely.
"Well, rather," laughing. "It won't do to bring it in head and shoulders.
I must stay a little while first and watch my opportunity."
Bluebell walked with him to the station next day. It was freezing hard--a
bright, bracing morning; and when he had taken his place, and the train
had whistled off, she was shocked to find how her spirits rose. Of
course, she told herself it was because there would soon be no occasion
for concealment; but there was a sensation of present relief not quite to
be accounted for by that.
Young people care quite as much as their elders for occasional
solitude--more, perhaps, for they have generally brighter thoughts to
fill it. Bluebell, from the reasons before mentioned, in her anxious
compliance with his every whim, had become quite a slave to Harry, and a
little breathing-time was far from unwelcome. After all, she had a good
deal exaggerated his sacrifice, which was made entirely to please
himself!
Leaving the road, Bluebell struck a path across some fields leading to
the river, and amused herself throwing sticks for Archie to fetch off
its half-frozen surface--a diversion which soon palled on the Skye,
who was not fond of water; so Bluebell wandered on, soliloquizing,
as usual. Suppose this uncle, who loomed in her imagination like some
dread Genie in his disposition over their fate should receive the
intelligence by cutting off the supplies and hurling maledictions at
Harry's head, what on earth would they do? She had always been very
fond of acting,--indeed, had been quite an authority in drawing-room
theatricals and charades at "The Maples," and with her magnificent
powerful voice, what a pity she could not go on the stage! She had read
in novels of girls offering themselves to a manager and realizing
fabulous sums, and eighteen pounds a year seemed to be her net value in
the governess market. Then Harry might go to sea for a year or two,--they
were both so young,--and by that time things might look brighter, or the
Genie relent.
She and Archie had a good time that bright winter day, and tired
themselves out completely. He could pass from the immediate enjoyment of
a meal to a snooze on the rug before the fire; but after Bluebell had had
some tea, there remained many hours at her disposal before bed-time. She
would have liked to have written a long letter to her mother; but if it
must be worded so guardedly, where was the good? So she flew to her
unfailing friend, the piano, and interpreted Schumann and Beethoven to
a late hour, while the carpenter and his wife, listening in the kitchen,
"wished that the lady would play something with a bit of tune in it, and
not be always practising them exercises."