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 role 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.



CHAPTER XXVI.

CROSSING THE HERRING POND.

A few short hours, the sun will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. —Childe Harold.

The morning rose clear and brilliant. The partings were over, and Bluebell, on the deck of the river steamer, was gazing her last on the long flat shore, with its high elevators, and waving adieu to the diminishing forms of Mrs. Leigh and Miss Opie, who had seen her on board,—the latter with many injunctions to ascertain that two old-fashioned hirsute trunks containing her wardrobe were really put into the steamer at Quebec. Bluebell had treated herself to a smart little portmanteau for the cabin, being rather ashamed of her antediluvian luggage. She had ten sovereigns in her purse, that had been scraped together among them as a provision for any emergency. The Rolleston children had sent her a travelling-bag; but not even a message came from Cecil, which saddened Bluebell, but did not make her resentful, for she could not but suspect that the former's engagement to Bertie had come to an end, and that, in some way or other, she herself had been the cause of it.

A touch of frost during the last fortnight had worked a transformation on the foliage. The thousand islands were changed from green bowers to the semblance of shrubberies of rhododendron, so brilliant were the crimson and red of their leaves. They were associated in her mind with Cecil, whose artistic eye revelled in the autumn tints, and was perpetually painting and grouping them during the last fall.

It was rather lonely and monotonous in the river steamer. There was no one on board that she knew, and, as each hour increased the distance from all familiar places, a feeling of friendlessness stole over her.

Arrived at Quebec, every one seemed to push before and jostle her away; but patiently following in the stream, she found herself, with a sensation of relief on board the huge Leviathan steamer that was to be her home across the broad Atlantic.

Some misgivings respecting luggage obtruded themselves. A porter had put her portmanteau and bag on board, but the two trunks she had never seen. No one seemed to attend to her till one man gruffly replied,—"That if they were properly addressed, they would be put into the hold all right." And Bluebell took comfort in the remembrance of the labels plentifully nailed on by Aunt Jane, that she had then thought looked so nervously ridiculous.

She sat for some time alone in the saloon, waiting till the rush for state rooms should have a little subsided before making a timid request for her own.

Several people were now returning, apparently with disburdened minds, for anxious wrinkles were smoothed out into complacent curiosity. Bluebell made an incoherent attack on the stewardess, who swept by, without attending, and after being passed on from one official to the other, she found herself half-proprietess of a dark confined den, with two berths, two wash-hand-stands, and a sofa. Her partner in these luxuries had apparently taken possession and gone, for rather a queer shawl lay on one berth, and a singularly tasteless hat hung on a peg.

These significant articles deprived the little dungeon of all charms of privacy, and, feeling as if it belonged so much more to the other lodger, and she herself were somewhat of an intruder, Bluebell left her small effects in the portmanteau, which she stowed away in the most unobstrusive manner, not even venturing to hang up the brown-holland contrivance of Aunt Jane.

Then she found her way on deck, where most of the passengers were congregated, and, sitting down on a centre bench, in rather inconvenient proximity to a skylight, was sufficiently amused in speculating on her fellow travellers.

"My comrade can't be among them," she thought, "for she has left her hat below."

Most noticeable were a young officer and his bride, as Bluebell immediately decided the latter to be, partly from her helpless exigeante demeanour, and partly from the extreme newness of her fashionable get up.

The minuteness and height of her heels were more conducive to the Grecian bend than preserving a balance on a sloping deck, and her fanciful aquatic costume of pale-blue serge more adapted to a nautical scene in private theatricals than for contact with the drenching spray of the rough Atlantic.

But ere the anchor weighed she shone pre-eminent, and had the gratification of making a dozen other women feel shabby and dissatisfied.

In contrast to these was a sickly-looking, middle-class person, with two children tastefully arrayed in purple frocks, red stockings, and magenta comforters. They were clinging to a coarse-looking girl, also with a preference for cheerfulness of hue, who carried a felt donkey, and seemed to be the nursery-maid.

The head of this household, apparently, was not going to accompany them, and, indeed, appeared in rather a more elevated condition than could be wished. He addressed Bluebell, and inquired if her cabin was near his wife's, and, on professing ignorance, said he trusted it might prove so, as "he naturally felt great anxiety at her travelling so lone and unprotected like,"—a slight unsteadiness of gait showing how irreparable was the loss of her legitimate defender. The people around stared and smiled, but he continued to gaze, in a mournful and approving way, at Bluebell, while his wife sat in a state of repressed endurance, calculating how many more minutes he would have for exposing himself before the tug separated friends from passengers.

After a playful feint to throw one of his children overboard, he became calmer, and relapsed into a maudlin monologue till the bell rang, when he was hustled off, much to Bluebell's relief as well as his wife's, whose set mouth relaxed as if a care had rolled away.

Two or three officers on leave were pacing up and down, and with them another young man, but, whether he were civil or military, Bluebell could not decide. He was not exactly like either; there was a slight oddness about his dress, which, though well cut, was carelessly put on, and rather incongruous in different parts. The neck-tie was a little awry, and not the right colour for the coat; still he seemed gentlemanly—rather distinguished-looking than not.

These were all the portraits she took in till the bell rang for luncheon, and there was a general desertion of the deck. Being, by this time, very hungry, Bluebell followed in the string, but felt dubious where to seat herself, as she found people had already appropriated their places by pinning their cards on the table-cloth.

The captain, who had just come in, observing her, asked if she were Miss Leigh, and then took her to a seat next but one to himself.

"You must look upon me in loco parentis," said he, good-naturedly, with a strong Scotch accent.

Being the first friendly word she had heard, Bluebell thanked him with a heartiness of gratitude that caused her neighbour on the left to glance at her with furtive interest. It was the young man with the deranged neck-tie. On her right was a haughty dame, who evidently considered herself a person of position. Next the captain, on the opposite side, was an elderly widow lady, with weak eyes and rather methodistical appearance; and on her left a fussy, brisk-looking little woman, of about thirty-five. Then came the bride and bridegroom, a doctor, an aunt and niece, and the rest were out of range of our heroine.

Days at sea are very long, and this first one seemed nearly interminable to Bluebell. She walked on deck till she was tired, and read a book till she shivered, and then retreated to her cabin, to find the fussy little lady of five-and-thirty extended on the sofa. "Ah!" cried she, "I have been wondering all day who my fellow-lodger was to be; let me introduce myself, as we are to have such close companionship. I am Mrs. Oliphant, of the 44th; you are Miss Leigh, I heard the captain say. I am lying down, you see, for I have such a dread of sea-sickness, and it is such a good thing for it."

They were not out of the river and it was like glass. Bluebell, feeling particularly well, laughed inwardly, as she inquired if Mrs. Oliphant was a bad sailor.

"Middling; very much like the rest. You see I have been settling everything conveniently—while I can."

She spoke as if she had just made her last will and testament, and certainly everything was very commodiously arranged—for Mrs. Oliphant. Not a peg or a corner was left for any properties of Bluebell's, who perceived she would have to keep all her effects in the portmanteau, and drag it out for everything she wanted.

"But I always try and cheer up other people," said the little lady, complacently. "I have a bad bout, and then I go and visit others, and keep up their spirits—going round the wards I call it. When I came out, Mrs. Kite, of our regiment, and Mrs. Dove, of the 100th 'Scatterers,' would have laid themselves down and died if it hadn't been for me; but I roused them—Mrs. Kite, at least—for poor Mrs. Dove gave way so, she wasn't out of her berth for a week, and could keep down nothing but a peppermint, and the stewardess never came near her."

"But surely everybody won't be ill!" said Bluebell, somewhat appalled by these statistics, and, with the close air of the cabin, feeling her head swim a little. "I believe it is better not to think about it."

"Certainly; let us change the subject. Will you hand me my eau-de-Cologne? And so you have never been to England before."

"Never," responded Bluebell, not inveigled into giving any further information by Mrs. Oliphant's look of curiosity.

"Perhaps you are going out now to be married?" (archly.)

"No," said the girl, composedly; "if that were the case I should hope my intended husband would come and fetch me."

"Well," said the lady, finding she was to extract nothing, "I suppose we must be getting ready for dinner. In the P. and O. it used to be full evening costume, but one soon has to give that up on the Atlantic; so you see I just change my body for a white Garibaldi, and put a coloured net on. I have four nets, mauve, magenta, green, and blue; these make a nice change."

But in spite of her extreme satisfaction in her own arrangements, she felt secretly disgusted at the freshness of Bluebell's appearance in an uncrushable soft barege trimmed with blue. It was also rather a blow to observe those thick shining coils of chestnut hair were not supplemented from the stores of any Translantic coiffeur.

When they came to dinner, a little more motion was perceivable as they were entering the Gulf, and the table was mapped out with ominous-looking frames of wood for the confinement of plates and glasses. The bride came down gorgeously attired in a Parisian garb of mauve silk, cut square, but looking slightly white and less secure of admiration than she had in the morning.

"That is not a very serviceable dress for a sea voyage," whispered Bluebell's neighbour, seriously. A few remarks had already passed between them, and she had discovered him to have large, demure, brown eyes, that never appeared to notice anything except for the gleams of secret amusement that occasionally danced in them. "It quite sets my teeth on edge seeing those stewards tilting the soup close to and trampling on it."

"She must be a bride, I suppose," returned Bluebell, "and has so many new dresses, she doesn't care about spoiling one or two."

"Heavens! what a view of matrimony! And these are the reckless opinions of young ladies of the present day! Why, Miss Leigh, the greater part of my great-grandmother's trousseau still exists in an old trunk; and my cousin Kate went to a fancy ball in her tabinet paduasoy, which was as good as new."

"How tired they must have got of their things! I should like to have a new dress every day of my life, and a maid to take away the old ones," cried Bluebell recklessly.

"How much does a dress cost—making, trimming, and all."

"Oh, some would be simple and inexpensive, of course—say, on an average, L6 all round."

"That would be more than L1,800 a year, without counting Sundays. You'll have to marry in the city, Miss Leigh."

"I shall have to make L30 a year supply my wardrobe—and earn it," returned she, lightly.

This admission did not lower her in the estimation of the chivalrous young sailor, for such he was, though it cooled the already slight interest taken in her by the portly lady on the other side.

Mrs. Oliphant, who had made acquaintance with everybody, was gabbling away with her accustomed volubility.

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Rideout, have you tasted this vol-au-vent? You really should. I have got the bill of fare" (with girlish elation). "There's fricandeau of veal, calf's-head collops, tripe a—" here she stopped short, confused at the shocking word.

Bluebell and the young lieutenant had arrived at sufficient intimacy to exchange a merry glance.

In the mean time, the bride was enacting the pretty spoiled child, and resisting the solicitations of her husband—a spoony-looking infantry captain—that she would endeavour to eat something. "Every one says it is so much better," reiterated he.

"But I am not hungry," said the baby, with most interesting naivete.

"Try a rawst potato, ma'am," said the captain, in his broad accent. "There's many a one will eat a rawst potato who can't care for anything else."

The bride made a little moue, and shook her head, then admitted that she fancied a piece of raspberry tart, though the captain protested that if she would eat anything so injudicious, a gentle nip of whisky would be advisable to correct it.

Captain Butler, the happy bridegroom, was evidently still in the adoring stage, so he listened complacently to his wife's silly badinage with the skipper, whom she informed, apparently for the information of the company, that she was just nineteen, but winced a little at her further admission that they had only been married a week.

A slight but monotonous roll and general chilliness, seemed to portend they were getting into a more open sea, and, as the motion increased, the saloon began to thin a little. The bride's prattle deepened into moanings and complaints; she was laid on the sofa, covered with shawls, and supplied with sal-volatile and smelling-bottles by her devoted spouse, who began to look deadly pale himself.

Mr. Dutton, Bluebell's neighbour, had gone for a smoke with the skipper. Mrs. Oliphant was also an absentee; she had tottered from the saloon the instant the wind freshened, with a contortion of countenance that betokened her dallyings with the vol-au-vent would be severely visited. Mrs. Rideout, the lady of position, went off on the arm of her maid, who had not yet succumbed.

Bluebell, determined to resist the whirling in her head, took out some work on which she tried to fix her attention. The elderly widow was looking over a missionary book with woodcuts, and they occasionally exchanged sentences.

The discomposing rocking of the vessel continued, and the moan of the winds mingled with the incessant complaints of Mrs. Butler on a distant sofa, who was as communicative respecting her anguish as her age.

Tea and the return of some of the gentlemen a little relieved the monotony. Bluebell was languidly experimenting on a piece of dry toast, when the loud crying of a child attracted her attention, and, the steward leaving the door open, a little girl of four plunged in. She recognised her as one of the children with the tipsy father. The mother had dined in the ladies' cabin, and retired to her berth to lie down, and this lost lamb was searching for her.

"Come here, my dear," said Mrs. Jackson, the widow lady. "Don't cry, what's the matter?"

But "I want mamma," was the only reply, without any cessation of shrieks.

"Oh, hush! look at these pretty pictures; here's Moses in the bull-rushes."

A momentary glance, and then the cries redoubled.

"Phoebus, what lungs!" ejaculated Mr. Dutton. "Come here, child," authoritatively, holding up a lump of sugar.

A slight lull, and a hesitating zig-zag movement in his direction. He made a grab as she came within reach, placed her on his knee, and pushed a bit of sugar into the month opened for a roar.

"I am quite ashamed of you, making such a noise. Don't choke, there's more sugar in the basin. Wipe your eyes, and see if you can possibly look pretty."

Bewildered, but distracted by the sugar, the tears ceased.

"What is your name? Mary, I suppose."

"No, no," indignantly, "H'Emma."

"H'Emma! You little cad, what is the H for? Say Emma. You can't? Then no more sugar."

"Emma," repeated the astonished child.

"That's right; here is another lump. Miss Leigh, may I ask you to reach me a very pretty book of coloured animals I saw behind you? Now, Emma, there is a tabby cat, just like you have at home."

"No, mamma drove it away;" and, the grief returning, "Oh! where's mamma?"

"She isn't coming while you make that noise, and I fear she must be a wicked woman to drive a poor cat away,—she will never have any luck. Now, what's that?"

"A 'orse," triumphantly.

"Where were you riz! Say horse. That's right; don't forget. A pig, a sow, a goose," and so on, half through the book. "Now I'll shut it, and you can go to bed."

"No, no; see the rest," said the now excited child.

"Which would you rather have, mamma or pictures?"

"Pictures. Show them quick."

"Very well; then mamma may go to blazes. We don't want her bothering here till we have done. What did you say was the name of that animal?"

"A 'orse."

"What did I tell you? You will never be a lady if you leave out your h's."

At this moment the mamma appeared. "Oh," said Mrs. Jackson, "your little girl was crying so for you, till that gentleman succeeded in amusing her."

"I 'ope, sir, she 'asn't been very troublesome? The baby, 'e 'as been so fretful with 'is teeth, or I should 'ave come for H'Emma sooner."

"The gentleman said H'Emma was vulgar."

"Don't you tell stories, miss. The gentleman wouldn't 'ave you called hout of your name."

Bluebell laughed at Mr. Dutton's slightly confused appearance, and asked if he thought his corrections would survive the force of example.

"I might have known whom she had learnt it from."

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he asked Bluebell if she could play chess; and, on her replying in the affirmative, he produced a pocket-board.

"I always take it to sea with me," said he, "and make out problems."

Bluebell was beaten, and he tried to teach her a more scientific game. And the evening passed away pleasantly to those two at any rate.

On retiring to her cabin, she perceived a strong smell of brandy, and found Mrs. Oliphant ensconced in the lower berth. Evidently the time for "cheering other people" had not arrived, for her complaints were incessant. The ship was rolling considerable, and Bluebell found some difficulty in undressing, and more in clambering into her berth. She had not been there many minutes when she was startled by the apparition of a man walking straight into the cabin, who explained his errand by unceremoniously putting out their lamp.

Then she fell into a dreamless slumber, but was not long allowed a refreshment denied to her companion, who, in all her wakeful moments, insisted on keeping up a querulous conversation, till Bluebell, in despair, feigned sleep, and would no longer reply.



CHAPTER XXVII.

HARRY DUTTON.

But hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse That I could always honour, but never could indorse. To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight. In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still, I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will; Or, if you please, in artist's terms, I never went a-straddle On any horse without "a want of keeping" in the saddle. —Hood.

The next morning was rougher than ever. The stewardess brought Mrs. Oliphant's breakfast; but Bluebell, eager for more congenial companionship, dressed, and went down to the saloon, where she received a cheery welcome from the captain, who said he had hardly hoped to have his breakfast-table graced by the presence of any ladies on so wild a morning.

The widow was also stout-hearted, and, evidently considering it right to take the only young lady under her chaperonage, advised her after breakfast to remain below and work with her. Bluebell was of a grateful disposition, and acquiesced, but secretly thought it rather dismal, so, when Mr. Dutton came down and begged her to go on deck, as they were passing through some magnificent icebergs, she willingly pocketed her tatting and went up. The young lieutenant got a couple of rugs and arranged her comfortably. Certainly the roll of the ship was much more bearable on deck.

Mr. Dutton remained to amuse her, and, both being young, they speedily became confidentially communicative. She learnt from him that he had just been promoted out of his ship, and was going home till he got another. "At least," he amended, "it is more my home than any other. I am going to stay with my uncle, who would like me to give up the service, and remain with him altogether."

"Is he so very fond of you?"

"Why, yes, in a sort of way. You see he has got no one else. He never wished me to go to sea, but when I was at school a brother of one of the fellows came, who had just passed as naval cadet, and he had such a lot of tuck, and tin, and presents, that we were all wild to go too. My governor had some interest, and I never ceased tormenting him, till at last he got me appointed to the 'Sorceress.' After I had been a month at sea I had had quite enough of it; but we were on a five years' cruise, and by the end of that time I liked the life as well as any other."

"Then why should your uncle want you to give up your profession?"

"Because," blushing slightly, "he always says I shall be his heir, and he wishes me to take an interest in the estate, and learn to be a country gentleman. But after I have been on shore a month or so the monotony of it is awful, and I feel as if I must do something desperate if I stop quiet longer."

"I thought English country gentlemen found plenty of excitement in hunting and shooting."

"Not all the year round," with a smile; "and, besides, I can't ride! Now, Miss Leigh, if you were an English girl, you would never speak to me again! I don't fear the obstacle, and would ride anything anybody likes to trust me with; but I know, and the horse knows, he could get rid of me at any minute. I hunt sometimes, and go straight if the quad. I am on is fond of jumping; but I cut a voluntary as often as not, and then some fool is sure to come up and say,—'You had no business to have parted at that fence, Dutton; the horse took it well enough!' Then I have no 'hands,' I am told. Certainly, whenever I take up the rudder-lines to put his head for any particular course the brute takes it as a personal affront, and begins to fret, go sideways, and bore and all but tell me what a duffer he thinks me. There's my cousin Kate, who will spoon with me by the hour in a greenhouse, and dance as often as I like to ask her, but at the cover-side she is so ashamed of me she shuns me like the plague; and then, of course, next ball it is, 'Dear Harry, do introduce me to Major Rattletrap,' or some such soldier officer, 'I like the look of him so much.'—'I just offered to,' says I, 'but he didn't seem to rise; said his card was full. Seems sweet on that girl in pink, with black eyes.' That's a school friend of Kate's, whom she is mortal jealous of."

"As if she believed a word of it!"

"Oh, didn't she, though! She bit her lip, and looked shut up. I have great moral influence over Kate that way."

"There's a grand iceberg!" cried Bluebell, after an amused pause, in which she had been trying to picture Cousin Kate: "What a strange shape; it must be hundreds of feet high. How cold it makes the air, though."

"And you are shivering; I'll run and fetch another rug. It is warmer by the funnel, only there are a lot of fellows smoking there."

"But, Mr. Dutton," said she, hesitatingly, "why don't you join them? You have given me all your warm things, and must be cold yourself."

"I'll go if you tell me to," said the lieutenant, looking full into Bluebell's eyes. She was silent, and the long eye-lashes came into play while she considered. She had promised Mrs. Rolleston not to flirt, but there had been no question of that hitherto. Why should she throw away a little pleasant companionship when she was so lonely? "I only spoke on your account." But she had flirting eyes, which said, only too plainly, "Go, if you can."

"I don't think any one could feel cold near you," he whispered,—and then they both blushed. A minute after he ran off for the rug, and Bluebell was left—to repent. "Oh, dear!" thought she, with very hot cheeks, "we must not begin this sort of thing already, or there will be an end to all comfort—and as if I could ever forget!"

She received the rug with matter-of-course indifference, and looked up at him with the serenity of a nun; the young lieutenant was quick to perceive the change. He thought it wiser to follow suit, and they were at ease again, though each remembered the other's blush.

"I came upon a very touching tableau in the saloon," said he; "the bride was reluctantly pecking at some chicken, and that ass, Butler, feeding her with a fork."

"Ah! those are your nationalities," laughed Bluebell; "we don't do such silly things in Canada."

"No, you are very stiff and stand-offish there, I know; that is why you don't require chaperones."

"What are the duties of a chaperone in England, beyond sitting up against a wall all night, like an old barn-door hen?"

"But they mustn't roost," said Mr. Dutton; "they have to guard their charges from the insidious approaches of ineligible youths, and assist them to entwine in their meshes the sons of Mammon."

"But it must be rather difficult at a ball to distinguish who are eligible as you call them."

"Oh, an astute and practised chaperone knows pretty well who everybody is. They have books of reference, too,—the 'Peerage' and 'Landed Gentry.' I believe now, though, a good deal of matrimonial business is done in the city."

"And men have no objection to heiresses either," said Bluebell, darkly, as a memory came over her. "There's the dinner bell." He collected her rugs, and helped her down to the saloon, where they were betting how many knots the steamer had made that day, and raffling for the successful number. Mrs. Oliphant was present, almost as brisk as usual, for the wind had moderated, and the steamer laboured far less. After dinner some of the ladies joined in a game of shovel-board on deck. The bride, now quite bright again, insisted upon being instructed by Mr. Dutton, and became, with a view to his fascination, more helpless and infantine than ever, for she was one of those women who cannot bear any one to be an object of attention but themselves.

However, as she was not successful in detaching him entirely from Bluebell, she conceived a dislike to her, in which Mrs. Oliphant cordially participated, and they afterwards whiled away many an hour in the dear delight of detraction. Bluebell was pronounced an unprincipled adventuress, determined to use every art to entrap this unsophisticated young man, and each act and look on her part was treasured up by the two censors for private analysis and discussion.

Mrs. Butler, it is true, had less provocation to be spiteful than the elder lady; for being young and silly, she was a certain object of attraction to some of the officers; but the very indifference of Mr. Dutton gave a value to his admiration, and made her more eager to obtain it than that of the rest. Besides, the vacuity of mind and employment at sea, a brisk flirtation is sure to attract lookers-on, and become a fruitful incentive to malice and envy. Bluebell could not account for the unfriendly interest she excited, as her Canadian education had taught her to regard fraternizing pro tem. with any sympathetic masculinity a very unimportant matter, and about as much a precursor to matrimony as if her companion were of the same sex; and she had been far too hard hit to bear any down-right love-making from another man so soon after. Mr. Dutton was, perhaps, as inflammable as most sailors, but he could not make Bluebell out. She evidently liked his society, and became pleasant and animated when they were together, which they were pretty constantly; yet if ever he ventured on anything tender she had a way of putting it by in the most unembarrassed manner possible, which piqued while it perplexed him.

On one occasion, when she had let some warmer speech than usual glance off, he chose to take it as a snub, and, pretending to be offended, betook himself to masculine society and smoking. Bluebell was alone all day, a prey to the ill-natured watchfulness of her two enemies, whose quickened observation and exultant faces proved they had noticed the cessation of his attentions. Once or twice he passed her without a word or look, regardless of the innocent surprise in her eyes. "Perhaps he is trying to gain 'moral influence over me,' as well as his cousin Kate," thought she, with a little laugh. At dinner he dropped into a seat next Mrs. Butler instead of his usual one by herself, and, from the bride's incessant giggle, was apparently devoting himself to her entertainment. Bluebell had no one to speak to except the kind old captain, with whom she was rather a favourite, and who chatted away willingly enough, till she ceased to hear that disagreeable and affected laughter.

"Miss Leigh," said a penitent voice in her ear, "will you come on deck? There's a little land bird in the rigging."

"No, no," said the captain. "I won't have this young lady disturbed; it is very cold on deck, and she is better here."

"I thought you would like to see it," said the lieutenant, gloomily. "It is very tired—blown off shore, I should think."

"Indeed, I'd like to give it some crumbs," said she, hesitatingly. "Will you take it some, Mr. Dutton?"

"Certainly not," seeing his advantage, "unless you come too—in fact, I thought of shooting it. It would be pretty in your hat—or Mrs. Butler's."

"That would be, indeed, a feather in your cap," said Mrs. Oliphant with an unpleasant sneer.

"Quite right, my dear," said the captain, as Mr. Dutton walked away, "not to do everything a young man asks you;" and he assured Bluebell, who was still solicitous about the bird, that it would not venture down for crumbs.

Our heroine was vexed at Mr. Dutton's disagreeable manner, and began moralizing on the inevitable way in which she succeeded in estranging her female companions, and offending those of the other sex.

The old captain was just going off to his bridge, when by some afterthought, he stepped back, and asked Miss Leigh if she would like to sit awhile in his cabin. "You'll find no one there but the cat and the parrot," he said; and, on her gratefully assenting, led the way to a small oasis of comfort.

The cat, a great brindled Tom, arched his back a yard high, and made a sort of back jump up to his Master's hand, where he rubbed his head with a sociable miaw. Bluebell soon had him on her lap in a cozy arm-chair.

"I think Master Dutton will be rather puzzled where to find you," observed the old skipper, with a twinkle, as he was leaving the cabin.

"Dear me," said Bluebell, with a conscious blush, "I hope you don't think—that there's anything—of that sort—"

"I think you have been letting that young man keep you all to himself up in a corner quite long enough," retorted he, "and you may as well show him you can do without him;" with which he left her to her meditations.

"How disagreeable good advice is!" thought the girl. "Dear old thing! But it is so dull at sea—one must do something. I do wish though Mr. Dutton wouldn't try to spoon—he was awfully nice before he thought of it."

Of course these two drew together again next day, and, though Bluebell still evaded with Madonna eyes all approach to love-making, the lieutenant accepted the situation, and contented himself with flirting sous le nom d'amitie.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

ROUGH WEATHER.

I would be a mermaid fair, I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair, And still as I comb'd, I would sing and say, "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" —Tennyson.

One day there was a gale. It came up suddenly, and some ladies sitting on a bench were swept off by a roll and sudden lurch. The deck was soon cleared of the feminine element, with the exception of Bluebell, who enjoyed an immunity from malheur de mer, and knew she would not be much better off in her cabin, where Mrs. Oliphant had gradually ousted her from everything but sleeping accommodation.

A huge roller had hurled itself over the steerage, and broken a man's arm; but the part of the vessel she was on kept pretty dry. Stormy petrels were hovering in flocks; the ship, plunging head foremost into deep troughs, seemed as if it must break its back or be swallowed up, but always borne on the crest of a wave only to repeat the header next minute.

Bluebell was lying (for no other position could be preserved) on some rigs by the wheel, and holding on by a rope to prevent sliding about. She felt excited by the grandeur of the situation, and, in the pauses of the wind, sang low some wild German Volkslied.

"Are you a Lorelei?" asked Mr. Dutton, who was never far off. "What do you intend to do with the steamer?"

"I don't mean any harm to the ship, but I shan't lull the winds yet. How delightful and magnificent it is!"

"If you really don't mean to engulf us, and won't comb your golden hair, pray go on singing. I'll risk it."

Bluebell nodded, and gave full play to her magnificent voice in the wildest Lieder she could remember. The man at the wheel, if he had ever heard of a Lorelei, might have been excused for mistaking her for one. A lady to sit and sing in such a gale was not an every-day experience. Her bright hair was only covered by the hood of a deep-blue cloak, from which her large eyes seemed to have caught a reflection, so dark were the pupils dilated with enthusiasm.

"You might be a corsair's bride," said Mr. Dutton, admiringly, "you are so indifferent to discomfort and danger. I can't fancy you shut up in a poky school-room, taking regular walks, and teaching Dr. Watts to tiresome children."

"I have only one pupil of a musical and romantic turn. You are altogether wrong in thinking me indifferent to luxury; I am quite longing to be in a comfortable house again."

"Your penance will be over in a day or two. Why do you stay out to be drenched with spray and perished with cold?" very discontentedly.

"How can I be either with all these wraps? and, when you are not sulky, your society is preferable to Mrs. Oliphant's!"

"Yes; that is about my place in your—what shall I call it? Regard is a nice, proper word,—just more acceptable than the plainest and most spiteful woman on board."

"Rather more than that," said Bluebell, gently. "It would have been far worse without you; but after this voyage we are not likely to meet again, though I shall never think of it without remembering my friend."

"What a nice word!" savagely. "Why don't you add,—

'Others may woo me—thou art my friend?'

Do you know that song, Miss Leigh?"

"Yes," laughing.

"'Lonely and sadly his young life did end; Pause by my tombstone, and pity thy friend.'

It's enough to draw tears from one's eyes."

"Well!" said the lieutenant, "I never met a Canadian girl before, but I see now they are the coldest, most insensible—oh! of course, you only laugh. How do you know we shall never meet again? Suppose I call on you in your new—situation."

"Governesses are not allowed 'followers.' I mean, male visitors would be considered as such."

"Couldn't I get a tutorship in the same family?"

"There are no boys. Gracious! what a wave. Surely it is getting rougher, Mr. Dutton?"

"Well, yes. I think I must take you down. The next roller may wash over you. Lean all your weight on me, or you'll be blown off your feet."

In a most incoherent manner she reached the gangway, and, clinging to the banisters, reeled into her cabin, where was Mrs. Oliphant in hysterics. The stewardess was in attendance, and she was insisting on her immediately fetching the captain, as, without his assurance that there was no danger, she declined to be calm.

"As if the captain could leave his bridge!" said Bluebell, laughing. "And I am sure the ship would go down if he did."

Another shriek from Mrs. Oliphant, who, with a desperate effort, seized on a life-belt, and called to the stewardess to assist in its adjustment.

"Oh, dear!" cried Bluebell. "And what is to become of me? However, you are quite welcome to it. I had sooner be drowned at once than bob about on a wave, with sharks nibbling at my toes for an hour or two previously."

"Perhaps, ma'am, now this young lady be come, who seems to have a good heart," said the stewardess, "you will let me go to Mrs. Preston and Mrs. Butler, who have been wanting me ever so long."

"No; I will not be deserted. Mrs. Butler has her husband and Mrs. Preston has her maid."

"Oh, she is worse than all! She sent down for Mrs. Preston to come up and speak to her, as she was dying as fast as she could, and the poor lady couldn't as much as lift her own 'ead."

"And you are not so very bad," said Bluebell, encouragingly. "Think of Mrs. Dove, of the 100th 'Scatterers,' and don't give way."

So, partly by laughing and partly by gentle determination, she brought her round, and favoured the escape of the stewardess.

It was not a very agreeable task soothing this selfish and cowardly woman; and she was by no means assured that there was no cause for anxiety. Her thoughts reverted to Bertie. Suppose they were all drowned. In theory she hoped Cecil would be happy with him. Still there was a soupcon of gratification in imagining him mourning in secret anguish and remorse over her untimely end. She remembered his favourite poem in the "Wanderer" that Cecil used to read, and the lines,—

"I thought were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her."

Only in this instance forgiveness was more due from her.

Mr. Dutton here knocked at the door, to offer to help them up stairs to dinner; but Mrs. Oliphant had dropped asleep, exhausted by her emotions, so they went up alone. Only a few gentlemen were in the saloon, and the widow lady, whom everybody had begun to like, she was so unselfish and contented.

Dinner was consumed in a picnic fashion. Bluebell's modicum of sherry had to be tossed off at once in a tumbler, for the glasses were dancing a hornpipe on the table, plates required a restraining hand, and their contents to be conveyed to the mouth with as much accuracy of aim as was attainable.

She thought compassionately of the careworn mother of H'Emma, who probably would have been quite neglected during the gale, and determined to take her something, and get Mr. Dutton to carry it and steady her own footsteps. Nothing could exceed the discomfort in which they found them. The nursery-maid was imbecile from terror and prostrate with sickness, and the harassed mother doing the best she could.

To begin with, H'Emma had received a whipping, which, however undeserved, was probably the most judicious course, by inspiring fortitude, and cutting off all hopes of undue indulgence.

The poor woman was very grateful for the visit. "No one had been near them," she said; "and the girl was so frightened, and H'Emma had screamed so, she was at her wits' end."

"I am surprised at you, Emma!" said Mr. Dutton. "When, you are grown up you may be as frightened as you please; but if you don't practise self-command as a child, you'll be very properly whipped."

At this allusion to her misfortunes another howl seemed impending, only that her attention was arrested by an orange tossed carelessly in the air.

"Whoever catches it may have it. Don't look at mamma; she has abdicated for the present, and we are here to put the kingdom to rights. Don't you think, Emma," in a whisper, "it would be a very good thing if that squalling, bald-headed young fraternity of yours were slapped?"

"Mammy says it is his teeth."

"No reason he should set ours on edge. I'd compose him if I had the chance! Well, Miss Leigh, if I can't fetch anything else for this lady, I'll go on deck, and return presently to report progress and help you back again."

The storm raged for many hours more, and struck terror into the hearts of the women and children. Mr. Dutton and some of the other gentlemen were up all night, as well as the captain and officers; but the morning rose calm and delicious over a sleeping sea, and cheerfulness and high spirits reigned in the ship. They were within a day of land, too—a more welcome prospect than ever, after the perils and dangers of the night. The dinner-table had scarcely an absentee, and was far more lively than it had ever been yet.

"One can sleep comfortably to-night, being so near land," cried the thoughtless Mrs. Butler.

"There have been more shipwrecks off the coast of Ireland than any other," said Mr. Dutton, sardonically. He was the only one who did not display unmixed delight at reaching England; and, when other people are exuberantly rejoicing at the very thing that is annoying ourselves, to moderate their transports a little is a satisfaction.

"Oh, how can you be so shocking! But I don't believe you. Once we are in sight of land, if there were any danger, what would prevent us getting into boats and rowing to it?"

And then Mr. Dutton plunged into a ghastly tale of a steamer that had struck on the Irish coast at night, and the passengers had to take to the boats in their bed-clothes. One poor mother, with a baby tied on her back with a shawl, and another child in her arms, found the shawl empty, the infant having slipped out into the sea; and how they remained beating about for hours before they could land, nearly perished with cold from insufficient clothing.

Everybody seemed provided with similar anecdotes, and yarn succeeded yarn till late in the evening, when a message from the captain that Ireland was in sight brought them all on deck. The moon was shining softly over the beautiful mountains and valleys of ——. A more exquisite little picture could hardly have been presented to the eye wearied of perpetual gazing on the pathless ocean. Exclamations of delight were heard on all sides, while some prosaically remarked it was almost as fine as scenes in "Peep o' Day" or "The Colleen Bawn." To Bluebell it was fairy-land. To begin with, she had never seen a mountain, and the picturesque in Canada is on too large a scale for the little details that give beauty to scenery. Her conception of the Emerald Isle, founded on Lover's ballads and Lever's romances, was completely realized.

"How haunting!" said she, in a hushed whisper. "What a pity to go any further, and be disenchanted, perhaps!"

"I wish," said Mr. Dutton, "you would think you might go further and fare worse in another case,"—which ambiguous speech, it must be supposed, was not intended to be taken literally; for, though youthful susceptibility and propinquity had given birth to a hasty passion, and he was savage enough at the prospect of parting, to a young man dependent on an uncle and residing chiefly at sea a penniless wife might have its embarrassments.

Bluebell had glided down the companion again. The mails were landed, the pilot came on board, and next morning they were steaming into the Mersey. Many of the passengers had got letters, and were talking of their plans and fussing about luggage.

"How refreshing it is to see some one without that business look!" cried Mr. Dutton to Bluebell, who was leisurely reading in the saloon. "But have you no goods or chattels, Miss Leigh? And ought not you to have a letter with sailing orders?"

"I have two boxes somewhere in the hold. No, I didn't expect a letter, I was to telegraph at Liverpool, and come right off. This is the address:—

"Mrs. Leighton, "Leighton Court "Calmshire."

"Why, that is my line!" said the sailor, mendaciously. "I can travel with you as far as Calmshire."

"Can you really? How very strange! But I suppose England is a small place," said Bluebell, naively.

"Oh, extremely insignificant! I shall be able to see you safely to your journey's end. So that's all settled. Now I will go and look if your luggage is coming up, for I suppose we shall land in an hour or two."

Bluebell's curiosity was excited by the Times newspaper, which a gentleman had just laid down. It was only the advertisement sheet, for some one else had immediately snapped up the rest, and she glanced vaguely down the first columns, puzzling over such enigmatical insertions as "Our tree, our bridge, our walk," "What shall we do with the Tusk?" and that "John is entreated to write and send remittances to his afflicted Teapot,"—when her eye lit upon the following name among the deaths:—

"On the 22nd inst., at Leighton Court, of scarlet fever, Evelyn Cora, only child of Mrs. and the late Henry Leighton, Esq., aged eleven years."

Bluebell sat petrified,—the ground cut beneath her feet,—she could only be shocked for the poor child whom she had never known. But what was to become of herself in a strange land, with no place to go to? Besides Leighton Court there was not a place in all England, except an inn, that she would have a right to enter; and in a few minutes more the shelter of the ship would be withdrawn,—even now she could see the smoke of the tug coming to disembark them. Perfectly appalled and unnerved, she pushed the paragraph towards Mr. Dutton, who had just entered, and gazed helplessly at him with large frightened eyes.

He took in the situation at a glance, and the thought that had struck him before of the strangeness of sending this beautiful girl, like a bale of goods, to an unknown country, where she had no connections, returned with confirmed force. How friendless she was! But slenderly supplied with money, of course. A daring possibility had darted into his mind. It was an irresistible temptation,—and sailors are proverbially reckless. Matrimony hitherto had never entered into his views. It would entail leaving the navy and living with his uncle, who, though kind, was arbitrary enough, and would have very decided opinions upon whom his choice should fall. Connection, money, he knew would be a sine qua non. More than one well-born and tochered debutante had successively been indicated to him as a bride that would in all respects suit Lord Bromley's views; and Bluebell, as far as he knew, fulfilled none of these conditions. All the same the struggle in his mind was in combatting the difficulties that opposed his resolution to marry her.

Bluebell, of course, could not guess his thoughts, and she only felt very desponding that he seemed unable to suggest anything.

"Oh, Mr. Dutton," she cried, "do go and tell the captain, and ask him what I had better do! He is sure to think of something,—for a day or two, at any rate."

The young man looked up with a strange smile, but there were other persons present. "Certainly," he said, with rather a constrained manner. "I will go and tell him,"—and Bluebell, mistaking his reserve for coolness, felt disappointed.

The captain was very busy, and not too well pleased at being interrupted, but when he had mastered the intelligence he gave it his whole attention directly.

"Eh, the puir lassie!" he ejaculated, "wha's to become of her!"

"There's only one thing that I can do," said the lieutenant, briefly.

"You!" said the skipper, whose remark had been an exclamation, not an interrogation. "What the mischief could you do? I am doubting what the guidwife will say, but I am thinking I must jeest take her home."

"Oh, how good of you, sir!" said the young man, seizing his hand, unobservant of the dry cynical look in his eyes. "But I trust it will not be for long, as I must tell you, in confidence, if she will only consent, I intend—I hope to marry Miss Leigh immediately."

"You be d—d! I will have no such goings on. If the lassie comes to me, she will act conformable; and, if you think you are in a position to maintain a wife, you may consult your feymily; I'll have no such responsibility."

"You are, of course omnipotent in your own ship," said the young sailor, angrily, "but you need not forget you are speaking to a gentleman."

"As far as I can see they are no honester than other people. I only belong to the respectable class myself, and I'll no have it."

"What a fool I was to tell you! But surely," half laughing, "matrimony is an honourable institution."

"I kenna—I kenna. I'll give the bairn shelter till she hears from her kin, but I'll have no marrying or such like, to be called to account for mayhap afterwards."

But Mr. Dutton, only made more eager by opposition, sprang away to the saloon, where Bluebell was sitting.

"Yes, I have a message for you," said he, in answer to her inquiring look. "Will you come on deck? Here are your cloak and hood."

He led her away, with rather a pale face, to the most secluded part of it.

"What did the captain say?" she asked.

"The captain is a canny, suspicious, pigheaded old Scottish-man!"

"Of course, of course," very despondingly, "no one can do anything for me. I must go to a lodging, and advertise for another situation."

"They will want a recommendation from your last place."

"Well, I can get it from Canada."

"And that will take a month. Bluebell, listen to me; for there's no time to beat about the bush. I love you, my sweet child; but that you know already. Will you marry me? Don't start. I know it is sudden, but it will be all easy. Directly we land we can drive to a register office; they will ask no questions, but marry us right off, and we can have it done over again in a church, if you like."

Bluebell began to wonder how many more sensational minutes this hour was to contain.

"Mr. Dutton," she gasped, in a horrified tone, "what are you saying? You must know it is impossible."

"Summon all your moral courage, Bluebell. You were not afraid in the storm. Why do you shrink from acting a little out of the common?"

This speech was so like what Bertie would have said, that it nearly brought the tears to her eyes.

"Pray say no more," said she, shrinking away from him. "How could I ever dream of such a thing!"

"Can't you care for me, Bluebell—ever so little?" pleaded Harry Dutton.

"But that would be so very much!"

Her strange wooer grew more eager, for the moments were passing, and Bluebell was at her wit's end, when the skipper came rolling up to them. The delight and relief with which his proposal of taking her home was received was far from pleasing to Mr. Dutton, and Bluebell, in her lightened heart, felt some self-reproach at the sight of his gloomy countenance.

The captain was hurrying her away, but she lingered a moment, and, with one of those speaking glances he had learnt to look for and love, put out her hand to the young sailor.

"Stay with me," he whispered; "it is not yet too late." She shook her head, "I believe you hate me!" he muttered, savagely.

"No," said Bluebell, impulsively saying more than she felt. "I like you only too well—but not enough for that."

"Any more last words?" said the skipper, who had stood aside good-humouredly, master of the situation.

"I have nothing further to say," said the young man, stiffly, making way for her to pass.

A minute more, and she was rowing to shore in the captain's boat, who then put her into a cab to drive to his home.

Now, the good skipper, such an autocrat on board his vessel, was by no means so under his own roof-tree, and sundry misgivings obtruded themselves as to the welcome he might receive from the wife of his bosom when a comely young lady was to be included in it.

"She'll no jeest like it at first," he muttered, half aloud; and as the moment approached and apprehension intensified, he repeated the remark still louder.

This moderate expectation was amply justified by the event. The good lady received the explanatory introduction with a snort, and a countenance expressive of contempt and disbelief, while she ironically "feared there would be nothing in the house good enough for her."

Bluebell endeavoured to excuse her unlucky presence, the best argument she could think of being that she would advertise for another situation immediately. Only for the fear of offending the captain, she would have added that she was prepared to pay for her board, which, by putting it on a business footing, would doubtless have commended itself to the dominant passion of her hostess's mind, and dispersed the misgivings she at present entertained of this "fine madam."

The general stiffness was relieved by the boisterous greetings of the captain's boys, who had just rushed in from school; but it was a terrible evening to Bluebell, feeling de trop, and unable to calculate how soon she should be released.

"Ye'll jeest put her in Phemie's room," the skipper had said. (Phemie was a daughter lately married.) "How will I do that," was the responding retort, "when the carpet is up, and the iron bedstead was broke by Rab a week syne?"

"Well, then, Rab will jeest let her have his bed," said the captain, equably brewing himself some whiskey-and-water,—and so on through the evening, during which Mrs. Davidson by no means softened the trouble and inconvenience Bluebell's presence occasioned, whose spirits fell to their lowest depth.

Was it to be wondered at that Harry Dutton recurred pretty constantly to her mind? She could think calmly now of the proposal that had so startled her before. It was, at any rate, a sincere, straightforward offer of marriage, and so far he contrasted favourably with Bertie, whom she had determined to forget. But, then, she had dismissed him—he had gone away to his uncle's, and they would probably never meet again; and as when a thing is out of reach it becomes immediately enhanced in value, she began to regret her lost lover, and to think that there, perhaps, might have been a short cut out of her difficulties. We are aware that this unlucky admission must depose her at once from the rank of a heroine, as it is well known a heroine never for an instant suffers interest to enter into the sacred claims of love.



CHAPTER XXIX.

BLUEBELL'S DEBUT IN THE OLD COUNTRY.

Says "Be content my lovely May, For thou shalt be my bride." With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, She dried the trickling tear, And sighed the name of Branxholm's heir, The youth that she loved dear. —Scott.

Next morning Bluebell rose early, and wrote out an advertisement, in which she described herself, more truthfully, than diplomatically, as a young person of eighteen, proficient in music, but not skilled enough in other branches of education for advanced pupils.

The captain promised to write to Mrs. Leighton, reporting her arrival, and explaining that "Miss Leigh would not think of intruding on her in her bereavement, but only requested permission to be allowed to apply to her as a reference when she heard of another situation." He added, "That in the meantime Miss Leigh was remaining in his family."

Armed with the advertisement, Bluebell pensively walked off to get it inserted in the Liverpool Mercury. The captain lived in a suburb of the town, and had given her clear directions how to find the office. It was a disagreeable walk, and she was obliged to concentrate all her attention on not losing the way, so her thoughts could not well stray to Harry Dutton; but ere she had proceeded many streets—she met him! He was looking very haggard, but eagerness and triumph lighted up his large brown eyes as he perceived her. Bluebell was in a state of half terror, half delight, and whole bewilderment.

"How is it you are still in Liverpool?" she gasped.

"I have been walking about all day in hopes of meeting you!" cried he, disregarding her question.

Bluebell felt as if she had recovered an old friend. She told him of her rough reception by Mrs. Davidson, and how annoyed she was at being forced to remain there an unwelcome guest.

The answer to this was obvious, but the lieutenant would say nothing now to scare her.

"Why we have got to the river," she said, after some unheeded period of eager conversation, "and my advertisement! It must be miles from the office!"

"Much too far to go back," said the sailor "Give it me, I will insert it for you."

"Thank you," said the heedless Bluebell. "That will be so much pleasanter, and we need not thread those horrid streets again!"

There was nothing more to do but to go home, and yet she didn't directly. There would be only Mrs. Davidson in, who was so ungracious and disagreeable, and she lingered half an hour or so, talking to Harry Dutton, who would, perhaps, be gone by to-morrow, but he wasn't, nor the next day, nor the next. They never made any assignations, yet day after day Bluebell met him, and for a brief space they were together.

Harry Dutton was only twenty-two, he had been at sea all his life, and had never been seriously in love before. But now he had completely lost his head, and all considerations were swept away by this overmastering passion, which his knowledge that Bluebell did not fully return only seemed to augment. His uncle was a selfish, exacting old man, but he had been kind enough to this boy who, with the usual ingratitude of human nature, forgot everything to gratify the fancy of the moment.

Dutton had never been thrown in contact with so pretty a creature, and, notwithstanding the apparent aberration of mind displayed in thus jeopardizing his prospects, laid his plans coolly and cleverly enough. Bluebell still talked of her impending governess life, and he kept his own council, though firmly resolved never to lose sight of her again.

She was beginning to wonder that her advertisements had elicited no replies, and Mrs. Davidson had been especially unpleasant about it, when one day the wished-for letter arrived.

"Mrs. Giles Johnson, having seen 'B.L.'s' advertisement in the Liverpool Mercury, is requiring such a person to instruct and to take entire charge of the wardrobes of five little girls, one of whom, being nervous, she would be required to sleep with. Mrs. G. J. trusts she is obliging, and would have no objection, when the lady's-maid has a press of work, to assist her with it, or make herself generally useful in any other way. 'B.L.'s' attainments being apparently limited, and Mrs. Giles Johnson having an abhorrence of music, she can only offer a salary of eighteen pounds a year."

Bluebell alternated between tears and laughter on the perusal of this letter.

"Why, at the Rollestons'," she cried, "I had thirty pounds a year, only Freddy to teach, and did what I liked! But they were friends,"—and a home-sick feeling came over her.

"If ye just turn up your nose at every situation, ye'll never be placed," said Mrs. Davidson.

"Oh, perhaps I shall get another letter to-morrow. I would go back to Canada if I had money enough."

Bluebell put on her hat. Whichever way she went she was quite certain of meeting Mr. Dutton, to whom she wished to display this wonderful document. It was all very well to laugh, but it certainly was most discouraging and vexatious. Yet Mr. Dutton, when she saw him, gravely affirmed it to be "quite as good an offer as he had expected, and was only surprised at her getting any answers at all,"—which well indeed he might be, considering that the advertisement never appeared in any paper, and that the liberal proposals of Mrs. Giles Johnson were an emanation from his own brain.

He proceeded to relate the most uncomfortable anecdotes of governess life in England, making it appear that they were treated like white slaves, and expected to know everything.

Bluebell, though only half believing it, began seriously to question whether her small attainments were saleable at all. Her friend the captain would go to sea again shortly, and having prevailed on Mrs. Davidson to receive a small contribution towards her board, the ten pounds were dwindling away.

Then, when she was reduced to the depths of perplexity and depression, Harry Dutton cautiously pleaded his cause, and, as a strong will bent on one object will always sway an irresolute mind, Bluebell listened, and for once tried to realize what it would be. She had been frightened at Dutton's precipitancy in the first instance; but now he had become in a manner necessary to her, and she certainly liked him,—immensely. Still, of course, after her experience of the grande passion, this mere entente cordiale could not be mistaken for the real article. But there was another question: had she not, by meeting him so often, given him a right so to speak, with fair expectation of success? She had heedlessly walked into the snare with her eyes open, and felt no resisting power to break through the mesh of circumstances that environed her.

Bluebell wavered and hesitated. Harry followed up his advantage. Ere a few stars twinkled out, "single spies" on their colloquy, the struggle was over, and the bold wooer had extorted from his fiancee a promise to marry him the following morning but one at a register office in Liverpool.

The very next day they would probably not meet, as he had everything to arrange, and also to prepare a lodging for her, for they had determined to leave Liverpool immediately afterwards.

One thing only Bluebell retained her firmness sufficiently to stipulate for, which was, that the kind old captain should be told of it. Mr. Dutton agreed, on condition that she did not breathe a syllable till after their marriage, when he promised to write himself and acquaint the skipper.

Bluebell could scarcely trust herself to think as she walked slowly home. She felt quite reckless, and as though she were fated to do this act, that seemed so desperate. What would all her friends in Canada say? Somehow she did not look forward to telling the news to Mrs. Rolleston. She supposed Cecil would be pleased, and it might clear up matters between her and Bertie. Ah! if it were only him she was going to be married to! Why does one always like the wicked ones best? She wished to imagine him desperate, remorseful, beside himself with jealousy. But she knew that would not be so. At the utmost he would, perhaps, toss off a brandy-and-soda, give a tremendous sigh, and ejaculate, "Ah! poor, dear little Bluebell!" and then reflect that he would rather like to meet her again, when there would be no question of marrying—the only thing he was unprepared to do for her.

From which tolerably accurate surmise our reader will perceive that our heroine has rather come on in penetration since we first presented her fresh and verdant in these pages.

Then she thought of her mother, and how disappointed she would be at not being present at the marriage. She had written to her on landing, but this letter had been posted in Ireland. Since then she had acquainted her with the facts of Evelyn's death, and of her own exertions to obtain another situation, lodging in the mean time with Mrs. Davidson.

On her re-appearance Bluebell was received somewhat coldly by the old captain, who asked her where she could find to walk so long every day. It was very disagreeable having to answer evasively, and he did not appear satisfied—on the contrary, eyed her askance all the evening.

The reason was, he had accidentally observed Mr. Dutton coming out of an hotel, and was unable to conjecture what kept him in Liverpool, unless he were lingering there on Bluebell's account. Connecting this with her frequent absence from home, he began to think it time to be relieved from the responsibility of this dangerous young guest. He did not reveal his suspicions to his wife, but the following day kept something of a watch over her, and proposed himself to accompany her out.

Somewhat surprised by the placid gratitude of her reply, his suspicions were still further allayed by seeing no sign of the lieutenant, for whom he kept a sharp look-out. He told the girl—narrowly watching her all the time—that there were many snares in Liverpool, and that unless he could see her safely placed in a feymily before the next trip of the "Hyperion," he must arrange with the owners for the passage-money, and take her back to her friends, trusting to them to, repay him.

"How generous you are, dear Captain Davidson!" was all she said. But he noticed she turned deadly pale, and two bright drops stood in her eyes.

The idea was so tempting for a moment, with the irrevocable step of the morrow hanging over her like a troubled dream. What if she could return to the old, happy, careless days, and leave this smoky, foggy England, where care and anxiety rose up at every step! But there is no going back in life. What should she do in Canada? Her connection with the Rollestons was played out, and for every one's happiness it was better severed. There was scarcely any demand for governesses in the Dominion, as the children commonly went to school; so she would encumber her mother with the expenses of the voyage, with no prospect of contributing anything to her very slender fund.

All this passed rapidly through Bluebell's mind; but it soon settled into an acceptance of what appeared the inevitable, while the good captain talked on, hoping to induce her to place some confidence in him, if she did know of her admirer's presence in Liverpool.

The girl fathomed the old man's drift, and most heartily wished she had not promised to conceal it from him. It would be an unspeakable relief if this fatherly captain could only countenance and witness her marriage, to say nothing of being spared the treachery of deceiving him after all his kindness. But, there!—she had promised Harry, and must abide by her word.

Only, that evening at bed-time, observing Mrs. Davidson buried head and shoulders in a cupboard she was straightening, Bluebell suddenly threw her arms round the old skipper's neck, gave him a silent hug, and glided from the room, and in the solitude of her own wrote, as fast as pen could scribble, an impulsive, affectionate letter of adieu, confessing what she was to do on the morrow, which her husband (she did not mention his name) would then write and announce to him.

"Eh! is the lassie daft?" had half murmured the not ill-pleased captain; then, perceiving that the salute had been bestowed without the detection of his partner, a large slow smile expanded itself all over his broad face.

"Wha are ye girning for like an auld Cheshire cat?" inquired the unsuspicious lady.

"Nonsense, my dear; nonsense!" complacently stirring his grog and looking rather foolish. His Scotch head had disapproved of what his good heart, of no nationality, had decided with regard to Bluebell. I am not sure now, though, that he did not think the money might be worse risked than in taking this personable lassie another trip across the Atlantic.



CHAPTER XXX.

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-a-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."



CHAPTER XXXI.

BROMLEY TOWERS.

Had yon ever a cousin, Tom' And did that cousin happen to sing' Sisters we have by the dozen, But a cousin's a different thing —Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Harry had stayed the night in London, and rather wished, for the present, it might be inferred that he had been there all the time. It was some distance from Bromley Towers, and quite dusk as he drove through the park. Snow was on the ground, and still falling slowly, the two roaring fires in the hall, as the doors were thrown open, flung a red light on the holly berries and gigantic bunch of mistletoe suspended from the chandelier, and flickered on dark oil paintings let into the panels. The footmen were unfamiliar, but the old butler beamed on the young heir he had known from a boy.

Harry shook him heartily by the hand, and asked a dozen questions in a breath. There was a sprinkling of visitors already in the house, so, shirking the reception rooms, he made straight for a private passage, where in a certain study, he knew he should find his uncle.

Lord Bromley seldom had his large house empty and there were ample means of entertainment for guests, but, like a good general, he had a secure retreat from the perils of boredom in a sacred suite of rooms, to which no one but his nephew had access. To Harry himself this particular study was invested with a certain amount of solemnity, he had been summoned there on so many notable occasions,—once to be sentenced to a thrashing from a malevolent tutor who had reported him, afterwards, before going to school, to receive good advice, not unsweetened by a tip. Cheques had been dealt out there, and his uncle's views for his future guidance inculcated on him. Dutton entered now with somewhat of the feelings of a truant schoolboy, for had he not been on shore a month without coming near the place or even writing?

He murmured something about London and business, which the old peer received with the merest elevation of the eyebrows, and was evidently not going to be unpleasant about it. He knew his nephew was just off a voyage and in possession of a handsome cheque, and was not ill pleased that he should have had his fling, and have done with it before coming down.

Besides, if some plans of his succeeded, he would soon have to range himself.

Finding it was all right, and Lord Bromley disposed to be sociable, Harry made himself as entertaining as possible, and was communicative enough about everything but the proceedings of the last few weeks.

"I think you know most of the people in the house," said his uncle, as Dutton was retiring to dress, "except, perhaps, one or two men. Lady Calvert has brought her daughter here. She was not out, you know, when you last went to sea."

"I remember her, though; projecting teeth and—"

"She will probably drop into all that Durnford property now Lionel is dead."

When he came down to dinner, Lord Bromley introduced him very particularly to the few strangers present, who all thought how fond his uncle seemed of him, and that he would surely be the heir.

Dutton, like most careless dressing men, looked best in the regulation simplicity of evening clothes, in which the despotism of fashion curbs all vagaries of fancy. More than one feminine critic smiled involuntary approval of the handsome young sailor, whose easy, slightly unconventional manner, though singular, was not unattractive.

He had been told off to take Lady Geraldine Vane in to dinner, and went to renew acquaintance with her at once. She was dressed in a cloud of blue tulle, and wore a heavy white wreath on her hair, which was very light. Complexion she had none. She was pale without being fair. Her features were irregular, lips thin, with projecting teeth, and eyebrows scarcely apparent at all. Yet these defects were partly redeemed by one sole attraction, a pair of large, light eyes, with a great deal of heart in them. They could glisten with affection and brighten with interest, and were the faithful mirrors of a modest, sensitive, and naturally amiable disposition. But Harry thought her, dress and all, the most colourless object, and longed to offer even a damask rose to break the cold, sickly effect.