HARRY GOES TO THE BALTIC.
Is this my lord of Leicester's love,
That he so oft have swore to me?
To leave me in this lonely grove?
Immured in shameful privity?
--Unknown.
Bluebell, a lonely little recluse at the cottage, seemed to have passed
a lifetime there, so long were the uneventful days. She was not exactly
unhappy, being too young and healthy to be a prey to low spirits. Still,
her life could hardly be called satisfactory. In the first days of their
marriage she would exclaim in her heart. "Oh, to be sometimes alone;"
then, with the suddenness of a transformation-scence, her wish had been
but too abundantly accomplished.
It was weeks since she had heard from Dutton, whose first letter had
never been repeated, and she begun to believe that the headlong passion
that had led him to force her, almost against her will, into marriage
with him was as short-lived as it had been quickly kindled.
She remembered Bertie Du Meresq, who had appeared quite as desperate at
first, and then had quietly transferred his affections to Cecil. Like the
Psalmist, she could have "said in her heart, all men are liars."
Harry near--adoring--_exigeant_, could be an evil; but Harry away,
engaged every thought; and if thinking of a person is the first step
to love, he ought to have been satisfied with the way Bluebell was
employing herself.
One evening she was sitting in her bed-room with the window open. There
was a light breath of spring in the air though the nights were frosty. It
was near midnight, and starlight, which has ever attractions for the
young; later on, a warm fireside and creature comforts are more
congenial. Archie, the dog, with his nose on his paws, bore her company;
presently he gave a low growl, and pricked his ears--a moment after,
Bluebell fancied she could hear the sound of wheels on the frosty ground.
It became clearer and clearer; presently she could distinguish the red
lights of a fly, and then she knew that Harry was come.
That his mission had been unsuccessful, she read at once in avoidance
of her questioning eyes, yet, strange to say, it seemed of secondary
importance. Dutton himself, for the first time, was of all-absorbing
interest to Bluebell. His presence seemed to break the lethargic spell
that had bound her, while no small detail of appearance and dress escaped
her, even that his hair was parted differently. Dutton, who had dreaded
the first meeting, was relieved by Bluebell's manner, and saw at once
they were more _en rapport_. He was only too willing to procrastinate
bad tidings, so it was not till the next day that she realized the whole
fatal truth. Harry was going to the war with their marriage still
unacknowledged.
He related, truthfully enough, his conversation with Lord Bromley. Even
then, in her deep interest as to its result, Bluebell vaguely noticed the
curious coincidence of his uncle also having disinherited a son, but,
having a more dominant idea in her mind, that was left in a vacant
corner, to crop up at some future time.
Dutton was vexed that she could not see he had no other alternative
but silence.
"It would have been simply giving away 'The Towers' to have blurted it
all out then."
To Bluebell's unsophisticated mind, honesty seemed more importunate than
expediency.
"Then, if you do get 'The Towers' now, it will be on false pretences."
Harry reddened. He had all along been goaded by a vague sense of
dishonour. "It's useless crying over spilt milk," exclaimed he,
impatiently. "Now would have been the very worst time--just as he
wants me to marry some one else. But when I come back--"
"Then he may be dead."
"By Jove! I think he has quite as good a chance of surviving me--not a
shade of odds either way. Look here, Bluebell, I will write a letter
containing a full confession, enclose our marriage certificate, and seal
it with this ring he gave me. If anything happens, send it to him, and I
believe he will take care of you, but not while I am alive."
"Send it to him at once, Harry."
"You used not to be so indifferent to poverty, Bluebell. You told me, in
the steamer, that you had a longing for luxury and riches."
"Luxury and riches," echoed Bluebell, "seem as improbable as ever. I
should like to be able to look my friends in the face."
But it was all in vain. Dutton, though remorseful, was obdurate; there
was much to arrange, and he had only twenty-four hours to remain. Lord
Bromley had omitted the accustomed parting cheque, which Harry had
reckoned on, and money was scarce with the two young people.
"Will you go back to Canada, Bluebell, till the war is over, and I will
send you all the money I can?"
"What, as Miss Leigh?"
And he could say no more. The same difficulty prevented her writing to
the Rollestons, or any one else. Long and anxiously they talked over
their dilemma; Dutton had only money enough to pay his bill at the
cottage, and Bluebell was resolute to earn something for herself.
She answered an advertisement in the _Times_ he had brought with him,
naming, as reference, the mother of Evelyn Leighton. To her she also
wrote, begging that any applicant might have the recommendation she had
received of her from Mrs. Rolleston.
Dutton had gone, but expected to be able to return for a day or two
before the fleet sailed, and Bluebell was left alone with her
thoughts--too full of horrors for solitude to be endurable. Each night
she dreamed of Harry, dying, and mangled by shot or shell, only to renew
the vision in her waking hours; and, as she pictured such a termination
to their brief married life, a vague tenderness took the place of her
former apathy. The very weakness he had shown in concealing their
marriage made him more a reality to her by giving her an insight into his
nature--not an endearing trait, perhaps; yet sometimes the failing that
one tries to counteract in the very effort it arouses awakens an
interest.
Bluebell felt thankful that her hours at the cottage were numbered, for
lately she had begun to fancy people looked askance at her, and the
carpenter's wife had developed an inquisitiveness akin to impertinence.
Mrs. Leighton sent a very kind answer, assuring her of the recommendation
as she had received it from Mrs. Rolleston. It was addressed to "Miss
Leigh," and a crimson flush rose to her temples at the unpleasant smile
with which the postmistress handed it across the counter. Harry, when he
wrote, having posted it himself, ventured to address his letter to "Mrs.
Dutton"; the only other she had received was from her mother, directed,
as requested, to B. D. This letter had been rather distressing--filled
with vague fears, inspired, she was sure, by Miss Opie, and conjuring
her, with promises of inviolable secrecy, to reveal her name.
The lady whose advertisement she had answered, apparently attracted by
her musical professions, replied immediately, and, the reference to Mrs.
Leighton being satisfactory, she was shortly engaged at a fair salary.
Then Bluebell, writing the account to Canada, could not refrain from
slipping in a private scrap to her mother, on which, in the strictest
confidence, she acknowledged her wedded name. This circumstance, however,
she did not mention to Harry when he returned on two days' leave, knowing
he would be sceptical as to Mrs. Leigh's power of secrecy.
Of course he was relieved that she had an asylum provided, and equally,
of course, raged inwardly at his wife's having to support herself in her
maiden name. He was the more remorseful as Bluebell made no further
allusion to it, and seemed more occupied with making the most of his last
days.
But he only called himself a confounded rascal, and trusted things would
come right in the end.
Bluebell was to remain one more night at the cottage after her
husband left. Her wardrobe, though slender, was new, as it consisted
of what Harry had bought at Liverpool. None of it was marked, as she
remembered with satisfaction; so there was nothing to betray her but her
wedding-ring. She removed and suspended it round her neck on a piece of
ribbon. The miniature of Theodore Leigh, which had not been forgotten the
day she eloped, was also carefully secreted in a trunk.
The bill was paid, the fly at the door. One tender parting only remained;
this was with Archie, who had sprung into it after her, for he and
Bluebell had become inseparable. They could scarcely drag him away, and
she buried her face a minute in his rough coat with almost equal regret.
"Would you like to keep him, ma'am?" said the carpenter's wife.
"I cannot now, but when Mr. Dutton comes back, and we are settled, will
you let me have him?"
"Ah, well," said the woman, half disappointed, for she did not care for
Archie, "ye'll have forgotten all about it by then."