THE LOAN OF A LOVER.
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
--Tennyson.
This was Bluebell's first acquaintance with a really grand English park,
and, during the long drive through it, she gazed in wondering delight at
the stately trees, heavy with summer foliage, the herds of deer, the calm
lake, with kingly swans gliding over it. Perhaps her greatest surprise
was that all this fair domain belonged to one individual. Why, the
richest "boss" in Canada possessed no more than a few acres of lawn and
pleasure ground, with ornamental trees and shrubs,--all looking new,--the
production of a self made man, grown rich within a few years. These
stately oaks and beeches must have seen generations live and die, lords
of the manor, and she began better to understand Harry's reluctance to
risk such an inheritance.
"Oh, they are exercising 'Hobbie,'" cried the children "Then we shall
have some rides."
Lord Bromley seldom presented himself to his guests till dinner-time.
Polite grooms of the chamber offered tea, etc., the housekeeper showed
visitors to their rooms. But on this occasion Mrs. Barrington was
virtually lady of the house, and, being too late to receive, was in
voluble conversation with a few persons already arrived.
Bluebell was not introduced to any one, and, her first sensations of
excited curiosity having subsided, began to feel as if she must stiffen
to her chair if no one would speak to her and break the spell. It was a
welcome relief when Adela exclaimed,--
"Mamma, may we go up to the nursery?"
"With all my heart, and take Miss Leigh."
The children darted off across a slippery oak hall, up a flight of stone
stairs with a velvety carpet, then along a passage leading to a private
staircase with a red baize door shutting it off. It opened into a long
low room, still keeping the name of nursery, and at each end were
bed-rooms, one for the two girls, the smaller for Bluebell.
"This is such a jolly place," cried Adela, who seemed to have left all
her primness at Brighton. "You have never seen the spring woods, nor the
amphitheatre, nor the waterfall!"
"Nor the terraces and gardens, nor the menagerie, nor dry pond," added
Mabel. "Oh, we could not show you everything in a fortnight. Shall we
come out now or after tea? It isn't laid yet. Let us have it out of
doors."
Bluebell was almost as eager as the children; and they spent the hot June
evening under the trees, listening to bird choruses and the rich solo of
a lingering nightingale.
Next morning she was conducted by her pupils round the spring woods, the
same walk that Dutton and his cousin had perambulated eighteen months
ago. It took just twenty-five minutes to make the circuit, returning to
the starting point, marked by a summer-house.
When they had got about half way round, they were met by an old, spare
gentlemen, slightly bent. He nodded to the children, spoke a casual word,
and mechanically raised his hat to Bluebell. The intensity of her
interest gave animation to her countenance.
"That's a pretty girl," thought his Lordship, continuing on his way.
He was in the habit of taking this constitutional every morning before
breakfast, sometimes twice round, sometimes once. This day it was twice,
and, walking at about an equal pace, the school-room party were passing
him nearly on the same spot.
Lord Bromley paused again, said something to the children, and took a
second glance at Bluebell.
"You are a young mistress of the ceremonies, Mabel; but why don't you
present me to this young lady?"
Mabel looked up in astonishment, then said promptly, "Miss Leigh, Lord
Bromley."
A slight tremor passed over his face, and he leant a little more on his
stick, giving Bluebell an impression of extreme feebleness. After a
mechanical observation or two, rather to her disappointment he walked
away, without further improving the introduction.
Mrs. Barrington wished lessons to be proceeded with in the forenoon, so
they did not leave the nursery. In the evening the children were desired
to dress and come down with Bluebell till bed-time. It seems rather a
_triste_ pleasure for a governess to have the trouble and expense of an
evening toilette, with no expectation of entertainment beyond a cup of
coffee if the servants remember to offer it, and the enforced
conversation of some good-hearted guest, who, in the absence of any
subject in common, can think of no more suggestive topic than inquiries
into her daily walks, with threadbare remarks on the scenery. If she is
lively, and strikes out into fresh fields and pastures new, "she is
forward, and a flirt." If otherwise, she mounts the stereotyped smile,
and gushes about the singing in church and picturesqueness of the
neighbourhood, which, probably, by this time she loathes every feature
of. Then come long pauses; the philanthropic guest mingles in general
conversation, and edges away, leaving her to retreat upon a photograph
book.
Little of all this did Bluebell dread,--she only longed to get downstairs
on any terms. Immured in the nursery, how could her little plot proceed?
Her simple toilette was carefully considered while brushing out and
arranging the shining coils of chestnut hair. Yet it was only a black
muslin dress, cut _en coeur_, and relieved with her favourite ruffles.
The children had brought handfuls of roses from the rosary--yellow,
crimson, white, blush, pink. A York and Lancaster in her hair, a tea-rose
in her bosom, and she was ready.
Only the ladies were in the large saloon, which again dazzled the
unsophisticated Bluebell with its magnificence. She found herself, as
before, little noticed; but, the pictures, which she might study
uninterruptedly from a secluded corner, entertained her for some time.
There were full-length portraits of Court ladies, by Lely, with wonderful
lace on brocaded gowns. One had a little dog half hidden in the folds.
The arch face of Nell Gwynne smiled over a door, a life-sized
Gainsborough of a lady with a straw hat, reclining on a bank of flowers,
was conspicuous over one fire-place. There were cavaliers with long,
curled hair, gentlemen of a later date in pig-tails; but the most modern
of all was a portrait of a boy playing with a large dog. On this one her
eye lingered longest. Whom could it be? It was not in the least like
Harry, and yet she fancied something about it familiar to her. There was
a look of Lord Bromley, certainly--perhaps it was a portrait of him in
childhood.
Mabel and Adela, meantime, were performing an elaborate duet. It was one
of her most irksome duties instructing these children in music, who would
never attain to more than mechanical excellence. When they had arrived at
the final crash, with not more than half a bar between them, Bluebell was
summoned to sing. The gentlemen came in from the dining-room at the last
verse, and, after a slight pause, she began another unasked. Mrs.
Barrington thought this rather forward, but there was a suppressed murmur
of applause when she had finished.
One of the ladies addressed a few words to her, and then Kate carelessly
brought up a gentleman who had been tormenting her for an introduction.
Bluebell had hoped that Lord Bromley would have spoken to her, after
their encounter in the morning. But he did not, though sometimes she felt
sure he was looking at her.
The undercurrent of excitement gave a feverish vivacity to her manner,
which Sir Robert Lowther imputed to gratified vanity at his attentions
and he continued complacently by her side, till Mrs. Barrington said,--"I
think, Miss Leigh, the children should go to bed," and Bluebell
understood she was expected to accompany them.
It was very mortifying. Apparently she had been too much at her ease, and
perhaps the _empressement_ with which Sir Robert had rushed to open the
door might exclude her from coming down for the future. Then she
reflected, with a little pardonable spite, that, if things turned out
according to her hopes, Mrs. Barrington might, perhaps, repent having
marched her off with the children like a nursery-maid.
The following morning, at the same hour, Bluebell circulated the spring
woods with her pupils, and, had he been a young lover approaching, her
heart could not have beat higher than on again perceiving the bent form
of Lord Bromley.
Would he pass them with a courteous lifting of the hat to her? Of course;
what else would he do? Her fervent aspiration had apparently a magnetic
effect; or was it her face that was so tell-tale a mirror? Lord Bromley
stopped, spoke a few words, and actually turned back with them!
Bluebell was in the seventh heaven. She had not yet learnt how little
even personal liking weighs against ambition when the object of it is
unsupported by the merit of being well placed in the world. If
well-tochered Lady Geraldine, pale and plain, had married the heir, every
door in Bromley Towers would have been hospitably thrown open to her
while the loveliest Peri, whose face was her fortune, might have stood
knocking at the portal-gate unnoticed.
"Yet everything will go right if he only likes me!" To be liked, to be
loved, that comprises all else with a girl. This one was not quite a
fool, only had not outlived her youthful illusions.
An ardent desire to attain anything goes far towards success. Fearful of
being thought forward, yet longing to please, she seemed to awaken an
interest in Lord Bromley; though he talked playfully to all three, his
indulgent smile was for Bluebell. Another expression appeared sometimes
on his face, the same that had perplexed her the previous evening--an
investigating, speculating glance: and once, when becoming more at ease,
her features resumed their play, his were suddenly contorted, as if a
sharp pang had seized him.
The walk seemed all too short, for Lord Bromley did not take the second,
but retraced his steps to the house. Bluebell fell into a reverie, till
something in the children's chatter attracted her attention.
"Wasn't he nice this morning? Never saw him in such a good humour! Why,
he hardly ever speaks to us!--hates children, mamma says. Do you know,
Miss Leigh, Uncle Bromley never walked with us so far before."
"Perhaps he thinks you are getting to a more companionable age," said
Bluebell, blushing; but her heart bounded triumphantly.
It was an intensely hot afternoon. The ladies and some of the gentlemen
were grouped under the lime-trees near the house. Kate, standing by a
gipsy table, was pouring out tea, and keeping up a running fire of merry
nonsense, her usual staff of danglers hovering near. The elder ladies
seemed equally content, knitting shawls and weaving scandal. The bees
were humming in the limes, "the rich music of a summer bird" overhead.
The very air seemed green in the shadow of the trees.
"There," cried Kate, petulantly, "as sure as ever one is innocently happy
in this wicked world, some species of amateur police obliges one to 'move
on.'" And she glanced over her shoulder at a gentleman approaching.
He walked straight up to the group with a business-like, uncompromising
manner, very different to the _dolce far niente_ attitudes; yet four of
the number rose at once to join him.
"Do have a cup of tea," cried Kate, enticingly, with the view to a
reprieve.
"No, thank you; never touch it. There is not _too_ much time, Miss
Barrington."
"I know, I know," with a resigned air, and a shrug to the four who had
risen. And without another word they all mysteriously followed their
summoner to the house.
"What can they be going to do with Mr. Barton?" asked one of the ladies.
"Oh, it's a great secret," said Mrs. Barrington, laughing affectedly,
"if they can only keep it."
In fact, it was a rehearsal. Mr. Barton was stage-manager, and ruled them
with a rod of iron. He made the timid "speak up," the giddy, practise
over and over again which side of the stage they were to enter and leave
by; threw more spirit in here, checked ranting there, and ventured to
object to the key in which Kate, as heroine, sang her song. He permitted
"gagging" as a proof of presence of mind, provided the cue was
forthcoming; but now his great soul was perturbed by the absence of a
prompter.
"We really cannot do without one any longer," cried he, in urgent appeal
to Kate, who rang the bell with an air of conviction.
"I will send for Miss Leigh, with whom I have been rehearsing. She almost
knows the play by heart, and set my song to music."
Bluebell was starting out with the children, but came very willingly.
Acting always had a charm for her, and, the play being pretty well in her
head, she could prompt and watch at the same time.
Kate was too clever not to act well; but the _rôle_ of the simple,
ingenuous heroine was scarcely suited to her. She did not _look_ it. The
other girl, Miss Heneage, said her part like a lesson, but could not act
it. The men were imperfect--incapable of getting through a sentence
without the prompter. Sir Robert was the most inattentive of all, being
more interested in trying to set up a flirtation with Bluebell, who
demurely repressed him.
Such were the elements Mr. Barton was preparing to appear before an
indulgent public in two days' time. All the neighbourhood was invited to
the theatricals, and the evening was to close with a dance.
This night Bluebell received no invitation to join the party below. The
children went down without her, and came up about nine, apparently in a
great state of amusement.
"You'll get down to-morrow, I think, Miss Leigh. Uncle Bromley said to
mamma, 'Where is your pretty governess, Lydia? Surely she is coming down
to sing to us?' And Sir Robert muttered something about 'a beautiful
syren,' and wanted to go up and fetch you."
Bluebell was more gratified by the first part of this speech; that silly
Sir Robert would spoil everything.
Next day, according to Mabel's prognostications, the ban was removed, and
Bluebell made free of the saloon in the evening, continuing, however,
rigorously to retire when her pupils did. Somewhat to her discomposure,
she found they had been chattering to Kate about Lord Bromley joining
their morning walks. Miss Barrington had turned this little circumstance
over in her mind rather curiously. Bluebell was apparently so wonderfully
discreet with young men, it was strange she should go out early to flirt
with an old one.
"Next time say you would rather walk in the Park, Mabel," said she.
And when the children rather confusedly acted on this advice, Bluebell,
detecting Kate's hand in it, immediately assented, determined that no
reluctance should be reported.
The day of the theatricals arrived, and with it a great reverse of
fortune to Miss Barrington. She had driven early into the market-town in
a small pony carriage for some essential no one but herself could choose.
Now, though a good rider, Kate was a remarkably careless whip; and
rattling through the town, the ponies shied at something, or nothing,
swerved into a cart, and upset the tittuppy little trap in a moment. The
immediate result to the fair driver was a sprained ankle, contused face,
and fast blackening eye. Any amount of pain she would have cheerfully
endured sooner than give up her evening's excitement; but the unfortunate
eye swelled, and got blacker and blacker, and nothing could be done. Her
despair was communicated to the whole corps, till Mr. Barton suggested a
substitute in Bluebell. It was carried _nem. con._, with the chilling
consent of Mrs. Barrington, who, though she would not hear of Kate
appearing thus disfigured, had tried in vain to persuade Lord Bromley to
put off the play. But he maintained it was now "too late for
postponement; Barton had said the girl could act; and Kate deserved the
disappointment, for she had no business to have upset herself," etc. In
the meantime Mr. Barton had carried off Bluebell for a severe rehearsal.
The play was "The Loan of a Lover," and as Peter Spyk he was interested
in his Gertrude. Sir Robert also, as Captain Amesfort, threw considerably
more animus into his scene since the change of heroines.
Bluebell had tea with her pupils as usual, and joined in the _dramatis
persona_ in the green room at nine. The company was arriving. The front
benches were soon filled with ladies, while the men stood about in the
doorway, or looked over their heads.
Among the latter was Harry Dutton. He had come without notice, too late
to join the party at dinner, and, thinking the whole thing rather a bore,
scarcely glanced at the stage.
"Mynheer Swizel! Mynheer Swizel!" Dutton started as if he had been shot.
In a peasant's dress, and running on to the stage greeted by a round of
applause, he recognises Bluebell! Here, at Bromley Towers!
Transfixed to the spot, his moonstruck gaze rivetted on the actors,
people spoke to him, and he never heard. Conjecture, wonder, doubts of
his own sanity, were whirling his brain. How did she get _here_, of all
places in the world? With whom?--and under what name? Heavens, if she
should suddenly perceive him, and stop short or scream! He moved behind a
pillar, where he could observe unseen. Peter Spyk was singing:--
"To-morrow will be market-day,
The streets all thronged with lasses gay;
And from a crowd so great, no doubt,
Sweethearts enough I may pick out.
In verity, verity, verity aye," etc
And then Gertrude, in a mocking voice, coquettishly sang,--
"Be not too bold, for hearts fresh caught,
Are ne'er, I am told, to market brought
The best, they say, are _given_ away,
And are not _sold_, on market-day.
In verity, verity, verity aye," etc
A round of applause and an encore followed. It was long since Harry had
heard Bluebell's voice, but he alone did not applaud. The play proceeded,
and then Sir Robert came in as Amesfort. It hung a little here. He
floundered, gagged, forgot the cue, and the voice of the prompter became
distinctly audible. Happily, conceit bore him along. Harry winced as he
drawled to Gertrude, "Why, you are very pretty!" But when he proceeded to
catch her round the waist and offered to kiss her, he mattered an oath,
and half-started forward. Warned by a look of curiosity in a bystander,
Dutton fiercely controlled himself, but a burning desire to quarrel with
Sir Robert took possession of him.
In the last scene, when she comes on as a bride, Harry remembered, with
a curious laugh, she had never been so attired for him. Bluebell was
warming to her part. She and Peter Spyk were pulling the whole coach, and
when the play was ended they were both loudly called for before the
curtains.
Happy and delighted at her success, it was hard to fall from triumph
to insignificance; but, in the first flush of the former, Bluebell was
left in solitude. Her fellow actors had flown away to exchange their
theatrical costume for ball dress, and she had received no _carte
blanche_ to mingle with the dancers.
Lingering listlessly alone in the greenroom, wishing to join the rest,
and hoping some one might think of sending for her, she had thrown
herself into an easy-chair, back to the door, which was half-open. There
was a slight sound of a rapid, stealthy footstep, and, before she had
time to look round, a twisted note was tossed into her lap.
Bluebell started to her feet. Her heart gave one great jump, and her
cheeks were blanched.
She rushed to the door. Too late,--the passage was empty. After reading
the note, she walked backwards and forwards, in an incoherent state of
excitement, pondering its contents, and was returning to the deserted
school-room, when she was met and stopped by Lord Bromley.
"Not dressed yet!" he exclaimed. "Or is Gertrude going to dance in this
pretty bridal array?"
"This dress is Miss Barrington's. Good-night, Lord Bromley," said
Bluebell, trying to pass.
"What! you poor child, are you sent to bed? Come along with me. I'll make
it right with Mrs. Barrington."
"I cannot, indeed. I am ill--I am tired," said Bluebell, desperately.
Lord Bromley's eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her; but people were
coming along the passage, and, escaping from him, she darted off.
No one was in the nursery. Bluebell hastily changed her dress, wrapped
herself in a dark cloak, and drew the hood over her head; then,
descending the staircase, listened a moment at the foot. No one seemed
about. She flew down a dark passage into the billiard-room, threw open
the French window, and stepped out. It was as dark as a summer's night
ever is, and a soft shower was falling; but Bluebell took no heed.
Avoiding the front of the house, she threaded her way by the back
settlements. A dog barked, and a poaching cat was marauding about. The
grass felt damp and clinging as she struck into what was called "The West
Drive." It was not kept exactly in lawn order there. A hundred yards
further on was a summer-house, thatched inside and out with moss, from
which, long ere she reached it, Harry Dutton emerged, and, folding her in
his arms, drew her within its shelter.
In the meantime, the ball was in full swing; every now and then inquiries
were made for the missing heir. "Did not Mr. Dutton come to-night? I
wonder what has become of him!" Lord Bromley wondered too; but, before he
had time to be really offended at his absence. Mr. Dutton was observed
valsing with Lady Geraldine. The young sailor was no whit less
interesting for his Crimean campaign, to which his wound lent an
additional _prestige_; and it was astonishing what severe remarks were
made on the unloveliness of the partner with whom he most frequently
danced that night.
And yet such criticism was more undeserved than usual, for a look of
gentle happiness softened and inspired her naturally plain features, and
lent an unwonted tender grace to a somewhat inexpressive figure.
Lord Bromley did not observe their frequent contiguity with the same
satisfaction as of yore. On the contrary, his eye rested on Harry with a
somewhat sarcastic expression, and he remained thoughtful and _distrait_.