"Not at home," said the servant. "Mrs. Barrington is hout-driving."

"Oh, it's all right," said a pert maid, tripping downstairs. "This way, miss. I was to show you your room, and the children's tea will be ready directly."

So saying, she preceded Bluebell upstairs to a chilly, fireless apartment. Houses in Brighton are not generally very substantially built, and the room was furnished on the most approved governess pattern,—just what was barely necessary, no more. Bluebell was impressionable, perhaps fanciful, for hitherto her "lines had fallen in pleasant places," and she shivered a little at the forbidding exterior, but was somewhat cheered by a suggestion of welcome conveyed by a bunch of violets on the dressing-table. "There's some kind person in this house," thought she, yet lingering awhile in a purposeless manner, unwilling to walk alone into the school-room and face the strange children. While thus hesitating, a demure little person came to fetch her, with tight plaited hair, irreproachable pinafore, and stockings well drawn up. Two younger duplicates were in the school-room. The table was laid for the evening meal,—thick wedges of bread-and-butter, calculated to appease but not to allure the appetite, and a large Britannia-metal teapot, with not injuriously strong tea.

There were a couple of globes, an old piano, and book-cases well stocked with grammars and histories, and the fire was guarded by a high fender, effectually dissipating any frivolous notion of sitting with the feet on it. There was neither dog nor cat, nor even a stray doll, to distract attention from the serious business of education.

Such was the impression conveyed to Bluebell, who was instantly filled with well-grounded misgivings as to whether her qualifications might be quite up to the standard expected. Good gracious! those children looked capable of obtaining female scholarships, as they sat, with their keen impassive faces, calmly adding her up, so to speak.

Mrs. Barrington and her eldest daughter had just come in. "Oh, so Miss Leigh has arrived!" cried the former, observing Bluebell's box in the hall. "Dear me, what a bore new people are! I really must rest, as we dine out. Couldn't you go up, Kate, and say I hope she is comfortable, and will ring for the school-room maid whenever she wants anything, and all that?"

"That would console her immensely, I should think," said Miss Barrington, laughing. "Well, I will go and look her over, mamma, and report the result."

As Kate entered, her little set speech, that "mamma was lying down, but hoped," etc., was almost suspended on her lips, as she gazed with unfeigned curiosity at the new governess. Seated pensively behind the urn was a fair girl, dressed in black, with an Elizabethan ruff round a long white throat. Shining chestnut hair contrasted with a complexion of the purest pink and white, while a pair of dewy violet eyes looked shyly up at her. "Good heavens!" thought Kate, "she is the loveliest creature in Brighton at this moment."

"I have also come to ask for a cup of tea. No, thank you, Adela, none of that! What buttered bricks! Goodness, children! don't you ever have cake, or jam, or anything?"

"Miss Steele used to say it would give us muddy complexions, and spoil our digestion."

"Poor little victims! Never mind, you'll come out some day. I must make haste and get married, Mabel, if you grow like that. But Miss Leigh must be starved. Do you like eggs and bacon?" with her hand on the bell.

"Very much," said Bluebell, smiling back, more in gratitude for the good intentions than anything else.

"Poor thing!" cried Kate, impulsively, quite vanquished by the smile; "you will be so dull when the children go to bed. I wish we were not going out to-night. I'll collect the newspapers, and send you up a capital novel I got yesterday from the library."

Bluebell was cheered in a moment. "I am sure it was you whom I have to thank too, for those violets," said she, touching a few transferred to her waist-belt, and beaming up at her new acquaintance.

Kate nodded pleasantly. "Do you like flowers? I bought them in the King's Road this morning." A few minutes later she burst into her mother's room.

"Where does this rara avis hail from? I never clapped eyes on such a beauty—Miss Seraphin is not a patch on her!"

"Don't be so noisy, dear—Miss Leigh? Yes I heard she was nice-looking."

"Nice-looking!" echoed Kate, contemptuously. "Just wait till you see her. She will be focused by every eye-glass in Brighton when she takes the children out for their constitutional."

"Dear me! I hope she is a proper kind of person."

"She looks rather in the Lady Audley style—and such a complexion! I could have sworn it was painted if it had not varied so. Now I think of it," said Kate, with malice prepense, "she is not at all unlike the photographs, of—,"—naming some one of whose existence she had no business to have been aware.

"It really is too bad of Mrs. Markham not having mentioned this," cried Mrs. Barrington, as if Bluebell had been convicted of a crime. "It is most unpleasant having so voyante a person about the children!"

"Oh, what does it matter," said Kate, heedlessly; "you have no grown up sons. And she seems awfully nice. She has a face with a history in it, though. I shall try and make her out to-morrow. No one is ever so innocent as she looks."

Kate's admiration was still further excited next day as she listened to Bluebell's singing.

"You never heard anything like it, mamma—she could fill Covent Garden; and she composes too. I wonder if she has ever been on the stage?"

Less appreciative was the judgment of the erudite Mabel, who reported Miss Leigh unable to continue her arithmetic beyond the decimal fractions she had attained to with Miss Steele. "In fact," said the child, with deep contempt, "I don't believe she has ever-gone beyond the rule of three herself."

Indeed, the exact sciences were not Bluebell's specialite, who now employed many a perplexed hour trying with Sievier's Arithmetic to work herself up a little ahead of this precocious pupil. Fortunately she was tolerably strong in history, having gone through a regular course with the little Markhams; but it was evident, notwithstanding, that Mabel and Adela pretty accurately gauged her acquirements, and held them proportionably cheap.

Kate, too, had become somewhat of a tease. I don't know what led her to suspect that the governess had something to conceal, but she was perpetually putting questions most difficult for her to answer; the incitement being the pleasure of watching, from an artistic point of view, the beauty of Bluebell's ever-ready blushes while essaying to parry her tormentor's inquisitorial efforts.

This cat-and-mouse game would go on till the victim, turning to bay, was on the point of desperately asking, "What she wished to find out?" Then Kate would veil her eyes, and look all innocent indifference. Observing the avidity with which she pounced on newspapers, Miss Barrington one day secreted them, much entertained by watching the governess circling round the room, glancing on every table or couch they were likely to have been thrown on.

"Try behind the sofa cushion, Miss Leigh."

Bluebell started, vexed at being observed, and also at this proof of espionnage on her actions, but a little later she fell into more serious self betrayal. They were trying over songs in a locked manuscript book.

"Dear me, what is this air? I know it so well," she cried, incautiously humming it.

"A sea song of my cousin, Harry Dutton's. I had no idea any one else possessed a copy."

There was no answer. She looked up, the blood had rushed over Bluebell's cheek and brow, her lips were apart, and eyes wide open and bright with wonder. Before she could drop a mask over the too eloquent face, Kate's keen eyes were reading her off.

"You know him, I see," with emphasis.

Bluebell, recovering presence of mind, with a desperate effort, replied calmly,—"There was a Mr. Dutton, who came home in the same steamer. Probably I may have heard him whistling the air."—then sat down, and plunged into an instrumental piece, feeling quite unequal to endure further questioning.

But the notes all the time seemed incessantly repeating, "So this is the Cousin Kate he was always talking about."'

Miss Barrington's mind was equally busy.

"I bet Harry flirted with her all the way across, and he never told me a word of it—never so much as mentioned that there was a pretty girl in the ship, and yet she admitted knowing his favourite air 'so well.'"

Then Kate remembered the many unaccounted for weeks between his landing in England and arrival at "The Towers," and her former suspicion that some love affair had intervened.

At first she had only been provoked to curiosity by Bluebell's reserve, but now there really was food for imagination to work on, and perhaps the clue to much that was perplexing in Harry. How curiously it had come out!

The artless Kate smiled re-assuringly at her victim. She was on the track now, and the rabbit might have as much chance of ultimately evading the weasel hunting him by scent.

"What perverse fate has brought me here?" sighed Bluebell, laying her tormented head on the pillow that night. "Miss Barrington will be sure to find out everything. She was so friendly at first; but Harry always said he never trusted her. Then those children! I am sure they are more capable of teaching me. Whenever shall I be extricated from this false position?"

A night's rest did not allay Bluebell's perplexities; on the contrary, more and more complications suggested themselves. Harry must know where she was by this time, and would be frantic at her having dropped into such an ants'-nest. They would recognise his handwriting, too, if a letter came. To be sure that would also strike him. Nevertheless she got into the habit of calling for her letters at the post-office,—a proceeding which the children did not fail to mention, with the rider, "That they wondered at Miss Leigh taking the trouble when she never got any."

Kate was rather inclined to patronize Bluebell. She persuaded her mother to give a musical party for the exhibition of her wonderful voice, and was, on that occasion, quite as solicitous about the young artiste's toilette as her own; and, being not averse to having a girl of her own age to chatter to, bestowed a good deal of her society on Bluebell out of school-hours, which might have been more appreciated were it not for the excessive caution it entailed on the latter.

One day she heard that Mrs. and Miss Barrington were going to Bromley Towers for some theatricals and other gaieties. After her discovery of whose house she was in, that was only a matter of course, and she had only to conceal all interest in it.

Kate was to take a part in one of the plays, and passed the intervening time in getting it by heart, and rehearsing with Bluebell, while the necessary costume was animatedly discussed between them. The latter fancied she had attained sufficient self-command to listen unconcernedly to any conversation about Lord Bromley or "The Towers," but she could not quench the beaming delight in her eyes when Kate one day observed, carelessly,—

"I believe you will see the play, after all, Miss Leigh, as mamma has decided to take Mabel and Adela, which means you also; for Uncle Bromley has rather a horror of children, and would no more have any of the juveniles of the family without a keeper, than he would admit a pack of hounds into the house. Why, Miss Leigh, you look delightful! Do you really care to go?" Then her suspicions awakening, she set a trap like lightning.

"I wonder" (carelessly) "if poor Harry Dutton will get back in time. He is invalided home from Scutari."

Self-command—everything—vanished.

"How did you hear that?" with crimson cheeks and suspiciously dimmed eyes.

"How?" with marked emphasis. "Would it not be stranger if one had not heard it? Uncle Bromley named it in his letter. He was wounded," bringing out the words slowly, "and almost died in the hospital. I hope he will survive the voyage home."

"That girl's a fiend," thought Bluebell, rushing off to her own room in a paroxysm of terror. Then, as she tried to think it out, it became quite evident Harry could not be aware of her change of residence, perhaps had received no letters at the hospital, and would not even know where to find her when he returned. Still, she would be in the right direction, for no doubt he would go to Bromley Towers. But what a place to meet in! And, being ignorant of his address, she could not even send a line of warning.

Romantic notions of fascinating Lord Bromley, and thus facilitating confession when Harry returned, stole through her brain. Kate's play paled in dramatic interest to the possible "situations" that seemed impending. One drawback to taming the lion was the probability of scarcely being on speaking terms with him. Her mission, indeed, seemed to be to keep the children out of his way. But there were the theatricals; children, servants, governesses even, would be privileged to look on that one night. The coquette nature, dormant from want of practice, awoke again. Lord Bromley was only a man! Why couldn't she make him like her?

Kate observed renewed smiles and animation, and set it down to the hope of seeing Dutton at "The Towers," especially as she also detected her doing what maids call "a little work for myself," and effecting wonders with a few yards of muslin and ruffling.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE LOAN OF A LOVER.

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and ordered gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. —Tennyson.

This was Bluebell's first acquaintance with a really grand English park, and, during the long drive through it, she gazed in wondering delight at the stately trees, heavy with summer foliage, the herds of deer, the calm lake, with kingly swans gliding over it. Perhaps her greatest surprise was that all this fair domain belonged to one individual. Why, the richest "boss" in Canada possessed no more than a few acres of lawn and pleasure ground, with ornamental trees and shrubs,—all looking new,—the production of a self made man, grown rich within a few years. These stately oaks and beeches must have seen generations live and die, lords of the manor, and she began better to understand Harry's reluctance to risk such an inheritance.

"Oh, they are exercising 'Hobbie,'" cried the children "Then we shall have some rides."

Lord Bromley seldom presented himself to his guests till dinner-time. Polite grooms of the chamber offered tea, etc., the housekeeper showed visitors to their rooms. But on this occasion Mrs. Barrington was virtually lady of the house, and, being too late to receive, was in voluble conversation with a few persons already arrived.

Bluebell was not introduced to any one, and, her first sensations of excited curiosity having subsided, began to feel as if she must stiffen to her chair if no one would speak to her and break the spell. It was a welcome relief when Adela exclaimed,—

"Mamma, may we go up to the nursery?"

"With all my heart, and take Miss Leigh."

The children darted off across a slippery oak hall, up a flight of stone stairs with a velvety carpet, then along a passage leading to a private staircase with a red baize door shutting it off. It opened into a long low room, still keeping the name of nursery, and at each end were bed-rooms, one for the two girls, the smaller for Bluebell.

"This is such a jolly place," cried Adela, who seemed to have left all her primness at Brighton. "You have never seen the spring woods, nor the amphitheatre, nor the waterfall!"

"Nor the terraces and gardens, nor the menagerie, nor dry pond," added Mabel. "Oh, we could not show you everything in a fortnight. Shall we come out now or after tea? It isn't laid yet. Let us have it out of doors."

Bluebell was almost as eager as the children; and they spent the hot June evening under the trees, listening to bird choruses and the rich solo of a lingering nightingale.

Next morning she was conducted by her pupils round the spring woods, the same walk that Dutton and his cousin had perambulated eighteen months ago. It took just twenty-five minutes to make the circuit, returning to the starting point, marked by a summer-house.

When they had got about half way round, they were met by an old, spare gentlemen, slightly bent. He nodded to the children, spoke a casual word, and mechanically raised his hat to Bluebell. The intensity of her interest gave animation to her countenance.

"That's a pretty girl," thought his Lordship, continuing on his way.

He was in the habit of taking this constitutional every morning before breakfast, sometimes twice round, sometimes once. This day it was twice, and, walking at about an equal pace, the school-room party were passing him nearly on the same spot.

Lord Bromley paused again, said something to the children, and took a second glance at Bluebell.

"You are a young mistress of the ceremonies, Mabel; but why don't you present me to this young lady?"

Mabel looked up in astonishment, then said promptly, "Miss Leigh, Lord Bromley."

A slight tremor passed over his face, and he leant a little more on his stick, giving Bluebell an impression of extreme feebleness. After a mechanical observation or two, rather to her disappointment he walked away, without further improving the introduction.

Mrs. Barrington wished lessons to be proceeded with in the forenoon, so they did not leave the nursery. In the evening the children were desired to dress and come down with Bluebell till bed-time. It seems rather a triste pleasure for a governess to have the trouble and expense of an evening toilette, with no expectation of entertainment beyond a cup of coffee if the servants remember to offer it, and the enforced conversation of some good-hearted guest, who, in the absence of any subject in common, can think of no more suggestive topic than inquiries into her daily walks, with threadbare remarks on the scenery. If she is lively, and strikes out into fresh fields and pastures new, "she is forward, and a flirt." If otherwise, she mounts the stereotyped smile, and gushes about the singing in church and picturesqueness of the neighbourhood, which, probably, by this time she loathes every feature of. Then come long pauses; the philanthropic guest mingles in general conversation, and edges away, leaving her to retreat upon a photograph book.

Little of all this did Bluebell dread,—she only longed to get downstairs on any terms. Immured in the nursery, how could her little plot proceed? Her simple toilette was carefully considered while brushing out and arranging the shining coils of chestnut hair. Yet it was only a black muslin dress, cut en coeur, and relieved with her favourite ruffles. The children had brought handfuls of roses from the rosary—yellow, crimson, white, blush, pink. A York and Lancaster in her hair, a tea-rose in her bosom, and she was ready.

Only the ladies were in the large saloon, which again dazzled the unsophisticated Bluebell with its magnificence. She found herself, as before, little noticed; but, the pictures, which she might study uninterruptedly from a secluded corner, entertained her for some time. There were full-length portraits of Court ladies, by Lely, with wonderful lace on brocaded gowns. One had a little dog half hidden in the folds. The arch face of Nell Gwynne smiled over a door, a life-sized Gainsborough of a lady with a straw hat, reclining on a bank of flowers, was conspicuous over one fire-place. There were cavaliers with long, curled hair, gentlemen of a later date in pig-tails; but the most modern of all was a portrait of a boy playing with a large dog. On this one her eye lingered longest. Whom could it be? It was not in the least like Harry, and yet she fancied something about it familiar to her. There was a look of Lord Bromley, certainly—perhaps it was a portrait of him in childhood.

Mabel and Adela, meantime, were performing an elaborate duet. It was one of her most irksome duties instructing these children in music, who would never attain to more than mechanical excellence. When they had arrived at the final crash, with not more than half a bar between them, Bluebell was summoned to sing. The gentlemen came in from the dining-room at the last verse, and, after a slight pause, she began another unasked. Mrs. Barrington thought this rather forward, but there was a suppressed murmur of applause when she had finished.

One of the ladies addressed a few words to her, and then Kate carelessly brought up a gentleman who had been tormenting her for an introduction.

Bluebell had hoped that Lord Bromley would have spoken to her, after their encounter in the morning. But he did not, though sometimes she felt sure he was looking at her.

The undercurrent of excitement gave a feverish vivacity to her manner, which Sir Robert Lowther imputed to gratified vanity at his attentions and he continued complacently by her side, till Mrs. Barrington said,—"I think, Miss Leigh, the children should go to bed," and Bluebell understood she was expected to accompany them.

It was very mortifying. Apparently she had been too much at her ease, and perhaps the empressement with which Sir Robert had rushed to open the door might exclude her from coming down for the future. Then she reflected, with a little pardonable spite, that, if things turned out according to her hopes, Mrs. Barrington might, perhaps, repent having marched her off with the children like a nursery-maid.

The following morning, at the same hour, Bluebell circulated the spring woods with her pupils, and, had he been a young lover approaching, her heart could not have beat higher than on again perceiving the bent form of Lord Bromley.

Would he pass them with a courteous lifting of the hat to her? Of course; what else would he do? Her fervent aspiration had apparently a magnetic effect; or was it her face that was so tell-tale a mirror? Lord Bromley stopped, spoke a few words, and actually turned back with them!

Bluebell was in the seventh heaven. She had not yet learnt how little even personal liking weighs against ambition when the object of it is unsupported by the merit of being well placed in the world. If well-tochered Lady Geraldine, pale and plain, had married the heir, every door in Bromley Towers would have been hospitably thrown open to her while the loveliest Peri, whose face was her fortune, might have stood knocking at the portal-gate unnoticed.

"Yet everything will go right if he only likes me!" To be liked, to be loved, that comprises all else with a girl. This one was not quite a fool, only had not outlived her youthful illusions.

An ardent desire to attain anything goes far towards success. Fearful of being thought forward, yet longing to please, she seemed to awaken an interest in Lord Bromley; though he talked playfully to all three, his indulgent smile was for Bluebell. Another expression appeared sometimes on his face, the same that had perplexed her the previous evening—an investigating, speculating glance: and once, when becoming more at ease, her features resumed their play, his were suddenly contorted, as if a sharp pang had seized him.

The walk seemed all too short, for Lord Bromley did not take the second, but retraced his steps to the house. Bluebell fell into a reverie, till something in the children's chatter attracted her attention.

"Wasn't he nice this morning? Never saw him in such a good humour! Why, he hardly ever speaks to us!—hates children, mamma says. Do you know, Miss Leigh, Uncle Bromley never walked with us so far before."

"Perhaps he thinks you are getting to a more companionable age," said Bluebell, blushing; but her heart bounded triumphantly.

It was an intensely hot afternoon. The ladies and some of the gentlemen were grouped under the lime-trees near the house. Kate, standing by a gipsy table, was pouring out tea, and keeping up a running fire of merry nonsense, her usual staff of danglers hovering near. The elder ladies seemed equally content, knitting shawls and weaving scandal. The bees were humming in the limes, "the rich music of a summer bird" overhead. The very air seemed green in the shadow of the trees.

"There," cried Kate, petulantly, "as sure as ever one is innocently happy in this wicked world, some species of amateur police obliges one to 'move on.'" And she glanced over her shoulder at a gentleman approaching.

He walked straight up to the group with a business-like, uncompromising manner, very different to the dolce far niente attitudes; yet four of the number rose at once to join him.

"Do have a cup of tea," cried Kate, enticingly, with the view to a reprieve.

"No, thank you; never touch it. There is not too much time, Miss Barrington."

"I know, I know," with a resigned air, and a shrug to the four who had risen. And without another word they all mysteriously followed their summoner to the house.

"What can they be going to do with Mr. Barton?" asked one of the ladies.

"Oh, it's a great secret," said Mrs. Barrington, laughing affectedly, "if they can only keep it."

In fact, it was a rehearsal. Mr. Barton was stage-manager, and ruled them with a rod of iron. He made the timid "speak up," the giddy, practise over and over again which side of the stage they were to enter and leave by; threw more spirit in here, checked ranting there, and ventured to object to the key in which Kate, as heroine, sang her song. He permitted "gagging" as a proof of presence of mind, provided the cue was forthcoming; but now his great soul was perturbed by the absence of a prompter.

"We really cannot do without one any longer," cried he, in urgent appeal to Kate, who rang the bell with an air of conviction.

"I will send for Miss Leigh, with whom I have been rehearsing. She almost knows the play by heart, and set my song to music."

Bluebell was starting out with the children, but came very willingly. Acting always had a charm for her, and, the play being pretty well in her head, she could prompt and watch at the same time.

Kate was too clever not to act well; but the role of the simple, ingenuous heroine was scarcely suited to her. She did not look it. The other girl, Miss Heneage, said her part like a lesson, but could not act it. The men were imperfect—incapable of getting through a sentence without the prompter. Sir Robert was the most inattentive of all, being more interested in trying to set up a flirtation with Bluebell, who demurely repressed him.

Such were the elements Mr. Barton was preparing to appear before an indulgent public in two days' time. All the neighbourhood was invited to the theatricals, and the evening was to close with a dance.

This night Bluebell received no invitation to join the party below. The children went down without her, and came up about nine, apparently in a great state of amusement.

"You'll get down to-morrow, I think, Miss Leigh. Uncle Bromley said to mamma, 'Where is your pretty governess, Lydia? Surely she is coming down to sing to us?' And Sir Robert muttered something about 'a beautiful syren,' and wanted to go up and fetch you."

Bluebell was more gratified by the first part of this speech; that silly Sir Robert would spoil everything.

Next day, according to Mabel's prognostications, the ban was removed, and Bluebell made free of the saloon in the evening, continuing, however, rigorously to retire when her pupils did. Somewhat to her discomposure, she found they had been chattering to Kate about Lord Bromley joining their morning walks. Miss Barrington had turned this little circumstance over in her mind rather curiously. Bluebell was apparently so wonderfully discreet with young men, it was strange she should go out early to flirt with an old one.

"Next time say you would rather walk in the Park, Mabel," said she.

And when the children rather confusedly acted on this advice, Bluebell, detecting Kate's hand in it, immediately assented, determined that no reluctance should be reported.

The day of the theatricals arrived, and with it a great reverse of fortune to Miss Barrington. She had driven early into the market-town in a small pony carriage for some essential no one but herself could choose. Now, though a good rider, Kate was a remarkably careless whip; and rattling through the town, the ponies shied at something, or nothing, swerved into a cart, and upset the tittuppy little trap in a moment. The immediate result to the fair driver was a sprained ankle, contused face, and fast blackening eye. Any amount of pain she would have cheerfully endured sooner than give up her evening's excitement; but the unfortunate eye swelled, and got blacker and blacker, and nothing could be done. Her despair was communicated to the whole corps, till Mr. Barton suggested a substitute in Bluebell. It was carried nem. con., with the chilling consent of Mrs. Barrington, who, though she would not hear of Kate appearing thus disfigured, had tried in vain to persuade Lord Bromley to put off the play. But he maintained it was now "too late for postponement; Barton had said the girl could act; and Kate deserved the disappointment, for she had no business to have upset herself," etc. In the meantime Mr. Barton had carried off Bluebell for a severe rehearsal. The play was "The Loan of a Lover," and as Peter Spyk he was interested in his Gertrude. Sir Robert also, as Captain Amesfort, threw considerably more animus into his scene since the change of heroines.

Bluebell had tea with her pupils as usual, and joined in the dramatis persona in the green room at nine. The company was arriving. The front benches were soon filled with ladies, while the men stood about in the doorway, or looked over their heads.

Among the latter was Harry Dutton. He had come without notice, too late to join the party at dinner, and, thinking the whole thing rather a bore, scarcely glanced at the stage.

"Mynheer Swizel! Mynheer Swizel!" Dutton started as if he had been shot. In a peasant's dress, and running on to the stage greeted by a round of applause, he recognises Bluebell! Here, at Bromley Towers!

Transfixed to the spot, his moonstruck gaze rivetted on the actors, people spoke to him, and he never heard. Conjecture, wonder, doubts of his own sanity, were whirling his brain. How did she get here, of all places in the world? With whom?—and under what name? Heavens, if she should suddenly perceive him, and stop short or scream! He moved behind a pillar, where he could observe unseen. Peter Spyk was singing:—

"To-morrow will be market-day, The streets all thronged with lasses gay; And from a crowd so great, no doubt, Sweethearts enough I may pick out. In verity, verity, verity aye," etc

And then Gertrude, in a mocking voice, coquettishly sang,—

"Be not too bold, for hearts fresh caught, Are ne'er, I am told, to market brought The best, they say, are given away, And are not sold, on market-day. In verity, verity, verity aye," etc

A round of applause and an encore followed. It was long since Harry had heard Bluebell's voice, but he alone did not applaud. The play proceeded, and then Sir Robert came in as Amesfort. It hung a little here. He floundered, gagged, forgot the cue, and the voice of the prompter became distinctly audible. Happily, conceit bore him along. Harry winced as he drawled to Gertrude, "Why, you are very pretty!" But when he proceeded to catch her round the waist and offered to kiss her, he mattered an oath, and half-started forward. Warned by a look of curiosity in a bystander, Dutton fiercely controlled himself, but a burning desire to quarrel with Sir Robert took possession of him.

In the last scene, when she comes on as a bride, Harry remembered, with a curious laugh, she had never been so attired for him. Bluebell was warming to her part. She and Peter Spyk were pulling the whole coach, and when the play was ended they were both loudly called for before the curtains.

Happy and delighted at her success, it was hard to fall from triumph to insignificance; but, in the first flush of the former, Bluebell was left in solitude. Her fellow actors had flown away to exchange their theatrical costume for ball dress, and she had received no carte blanche to mingle with the dancers.

Lingering listlessly alone in the greenroom, wishing to join the rest, and hoping some one might think of sending for her, she had thrown herself into an easy-chair, back to the door, which was half-open. There was a slight sound of a rapid, stealthy footstep, and, before she had time to look round, a twisted note was tossed into her lap.

Bluebell started to her feet. Her heart gave one great jump, and her cheeks were blanched.

She rushed to the door. Too late,—the passage was empty. After reading the note, she walked backwards and forwards, in an incoherent state of excitement, pondering its contents, and was returning to the deserted school-room, when she was met and stopped by Lord Bromley.

"Not dressed yet!" he exclaimed. "Or is Gertrude going to dance in this pretty bridal array?"

"This dress is Miss Barrington's. Good-night, Lord Bromley," said Bluebell, trying to pass.

"What! you poor child, are you sent to bed? Come along with me. I'll make it right with Mrs. Barrington."

"I cannot, indeed. I am ill—I am tired," said Bluebell, desperately.

Lord Bromley's eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her; but people were coming along the passage, and, escaping from him, she darted off.

No one was in the nursery. Bluebell hastily changed her dress, wrapped herself in a dark cloak, and drew the hood over her head; then, descending the staircase, listened a moment at the foot. No one seemed about. She flew down a dark passage into the billiard-room, threw open the French window, and stepped out. It was as dark as a summer's night ever is, and a soft shower was falling; but Bluebell took no heed. Avoiding the front of the house, she threaded her way by the back settlements. A dog barked, and a poaching cat was marauding about. The grass felt damp and clinging as she struck into what was called "The West Drive." It was not kept exactly in lawn order there. A hundred yards further on was a summer-house, thatched inside and out with moss, from which, long ere she reached it, Harry Dutton emerged, and, folding her in his arms, drew her within its shelter.

In the meantime, the ball was in full swing; every now and then inquiries were made for the missing heir. "Did not Mr. Dutton come to-night? I wonder what has become of him!" Lord Bromley wondered too; but, before he had time to be really offended at his absence. Mr. Dutton was observed valsing with Lady Geraldine. The young sailor was no whit less interesting for his Crimean campaign, to which his wound lent an additional prestige; and it was astonishing what severe remarks were made on the unloveliness of the partner with whom he most frequently danced that night.

And yet such criticism was more undeserved than usual, for a look of gentle happiness softened and inspired her naturally plain features, and lent an unwonted tender grace to a somewhat inexpressive figure.

Lord Bromley did not observe their frequent contiguity with the same satisfaction as of yore. On the contrary, his eye rested on Harry with a somewhat sarcastic expression, and he remained thoughtful and distrait.



CHAPTER XL.

THE MINIATURE.

True, I have married her. The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. —Shakespeare.

Lord Bromley did not suffer the nocturnal festivities to interfere with his morning walk, during which he came upon the governess and her pupils looking as fresh as the dawn.

"I need not ask if you have recovered from last night, Miss Leigh," observed he, dryly, as he bowed demurely, with a somewhat conscious air.

"Did you dance?" asked Mabel; "for I heard you come up just after the stable clock struck one, and the music had been going on for ever so long."

Now, it might have been half-past eleven when Miss Leigh had professed herself to Lord Bromley as too ill and tired to dream of dancing. Looking the consternation she felt at this contradictory piece of evidence, she remained silent, not daring to raise her eyes.

"Who would have taken you for such an actress!" said the peer, in rather ambiguous accents.

Bluebell looked up desperately; her expression was ingenuous, but half imploring.

"Such nerve and command of countenance!" rhapsodized his Lordship, with the same odd fixed look and sarcastic inflection of voice. "The idea of the plot so perfectly conceived and played out! Had you much practice—in Canada."

"I have played in charades and small pieces," wondering how he knew she had been in Canada.

"But you never really acted till you came to England? How long was that ago?"

"Some time now," confusedly.

"Nearly two years, perhaps?"

"About that—no, not quite so much," more and more perplexed by his manner.

"I hope you'll come down, and sing to us to-night. Miss Leigh. I am not sure I don't prefer that accomplishment for young ladies—it is safer." He turned away, leaving Bluebell in bewilderment.

Kate, recovered by a night's rest, would consent to no more seclusion; the blow was not much of a disfigurement now, and she was making an immense fuss over Harry, which suited him well enough to encourage, as he rather repented the imprudently frequent dances with Geraldine, and felt embarrassed in her society this morning.

The cousins were sitting on an ottoman, in half-teazing, half-affectionate discourse, when Bluebell, feeling like a conspirator of the deepest dye, entered demurely with her pupils. Kate watched Harry narrowly, who did not appear to have observed their entrance.

"You seem to have forgotten Miss Leigh," she remarked. "Did you not travel together from Quebec?"

Dutton, somewhat staggered by her correct information, shot a swift inquiring glance at his cousin.

"To be sure—so it is Miss Leigh. I thought last night I knew the face—"

"Why don't you go and speak to her?"

"I am shy—perhaps she won't remember me."

"Miss Leigh, Mr. Dutton thinks you have forgotten him."

Bluebell bowed stiffly, very much on her guard; for she saw that Lord Bromley was an attentive observer, and his strange behaviour in the morning had given rise to an uncomfortable suspicion that he might (though how, she could not imagine) be cognizant of the tryst in the West Wood. Harry moved to a seat near, and began an indifferent conversation with her, that the whole room might have heard.

"Can it be all—kid," thought Kate, "or was there really nothing between them?"

At that instant Sir Robert lounged up, and threw himself in a familiar manner on the other side of Bluebell.

Dutton's face darkened. He had taken an antipathy to this man, who commenced a sort of condescending flirtation with his wife. He called her "Gertrude," too, and poured out compliments on her acting, describing his despair at being unable to find her among the dancers afterwards.

Harry was boiling, Kate exultant. "I knew I was right," she thought.

Bluebell was summoned to the piano. Sir Robert followed. It was a semi-grand, and he leant on the other end, opposite to her.

"Where is the music? Oh! you play without. So much the better. One sees the eyes flashing."

It was not the only pair, for Dutton's were fixed upon Sir Robert with a ferocious expression, apparent even to his obtuseness, and somewhat surprised, he returned it with a slight stare and elevation of the eyebrows. That night, in the smoking-room, the antagonism between the two was more pronounced than ever. Sir Robert explained it by a conjecture that "Dutton was sweet on the little governess, and d—d jealous." He was not particularly popular among the other men: but all agreed that Dutton "had been very rough on Lowther, and was not half such a cheery, pleasant fellow as he used to be."

What would not Kate have given for an incident that befell Lady Geraldine one day! She had been much puzzled by Harry's manner since his return: for, though his appreciation of her was more heartily manifested than before, she was conscious of a difference,—or rather, perhaps, analyzed it more truly now. Her adorers had not been so numerous as to disturb the impression of the first man who had ever appeared to care about her; but she could scarcely deceive herself longer—there was evidently now nothing warmer than liking left.

Poor girl! she was easily discouraged, and felt no resentment; she did not even think it necessary to conjure up a rival to account for the discontinuation of his attentions, till a slight incident revealed one to her. She was sitting alone in the morning-room, and, being somewhat of a china fancier, turned a cup on a bracket upside down, to examine the mark at the bottom. In doing so, a bit of paper fluttered out, and as she picked it up, the words, "West Wood, four o'clock," met her startled gaze. She was convinced that the writing was Harry's, but whom could the assignation be intended for? Soon after Bluebell came into the room as it seemed to her with no very apparent purpose Lady Geraldine, not without design, seated herself at a small writing-table, with her back to the bracket, and almost immediately heard a slight clatter. Miss Leigh had vanished, and so had the paper from the teacup.

"I wish I dare go to the West Wood," thought Geraldine, for she was not all perfect, and the indignation in her heart inspired a deep desire to expose the underhand behaviour of the designing governess. That evening Harry had been talking to her longer than usual. Bluebell was singing at the piano, and finally began the Persian song of "The May Rose to the Nightingale." Geraldine listened, attracted by the sentiment. One verse was unfortunately suggestive—

Moonlight, moonlight, think'st thou he'd leave me For one so pale—for one so pale But moonlight, moonlight, if he deceive me, Tell not the tale—tell not the tale

Then Geraldine's pallid complexion was flushed with resentment, for she imagined the words levelled at herself. Next day—unable to resist again examining the cup—she found another fold of paper, but this time in a female handwriting. Harry, of course, would come for it and she determined to remain till he did so. The room was then tolerably full. Some time after Dutton dropped in with another man, and, all unconscious of surveillance, lingered till only he and Lady Geraldine remained in the room.

"Mr. Dutton," she said, in her somewhat reedy voice, "I understand a little about china, but cannot make out the date of that little yellow cup, the mark at the bottom is so defaced."

It was said meaningly, and Harry understood that he was discovered. To throw himself upon her generosity seemed an obvious necessity. With a conscious yet penetrating glance, closing the half open door, he exclaimed, impulsively, "Dear Lady Geraldine, may I tell you something about myself?"

Geraldine flushed hotly. This was somewhat more than she had bargained for. With the slightest soupcon of stateliness, dreading what was to follow, she managed to say, that "Whatever he liked to tell her should go no further."

"It will all be known soon enough," cried he. "But I fancy Lady Geraldine, you have some suspicion I know I can trust you, and you have been always so kind and sympathetic to me, it is a much greater comfort telling you than Kate."

Geraldine bowed her head. She was determined not to betray herself, and even felt some little curiosity, though how abundantly that faculty was to be gratified ere she left the room, she certainly had not foreseen. One result was, it had an immediately bracing effect, for, with all her humility, Geraldine had the pride of self respect, and the confession completely disabused her of the idea that Harry had ever aspired to being suitor of hers. It was a pang, no doubt. Even his confidence might have a double meaning. Had she any of the fury of a woman scorned, what an amount of mischief would be in her power. But Harry's instinct was right, and he never regretted his reliance on Geraldine's honour and pride.

Dutton and his wife continued to meet daily in secret. They had agreed to confess to Lord Bromley directly the visitors should have left, but I think were still young enough to enjoy the stratagems necessary for those stolen interviews. How many narrow escapes they were to laugh at afterwards and, in society, when they appeared on such conventional terms as respectful youth and prudent governess, how many doubles entendres Harry hazarded, to see Bluebell struggling with alarmed risibility.

But the rash pair were outwitted at last, and run to earth by Kate in the moss arbour. How much of their conversation had been overheard, or how long she had stood there before springing out, of course could be only conjecture. A violent start had been irrepressible, and, as they both were speechless from the shock, Kate remained mistress of the situation, and evidently not disposed to be merciful. A few sarcastic expressions to her cousin, some cutting remarks on Bluebell's deceitful and designing conduct, and she was gone—apparently for the purpose of exposing the intrigue she imagined herself to have discovered. Dutton sprang after her, and Bluebell, in much vexation and alarm, returned to the house.

Not much breathing time was to be obtained in the nursery, whither she had hurried. The door was half open, and, entering unperceived, she beheld a sight that gave her almost as genuine a start as Kate's inopportune appearance. Yet it was only Lord Bromley sitting by the table, looking pale and shaken, and gazing intently on—could she believe her eyes?—the miniature of Theodore Leigh. The case was broken. Bluebell had been gumming it, and had left it on the table to dry. But why should he be studying it with such absorbing interest?

Lord Bromley raised his eyes, and fixed them sternly on the beautiful girl. "Come here Theodora."—and she started. "Whose portrait is this?"

"My father's."

"Exactly. And, such being the case, your presence in this house requires some little explanation."

Unable to see the connexion between the miniature and this attack; Bluebell remained silent and confounded; but, as he continued to gaze severely at her, she roused herself to reply.

"I came here because Mrs. Barrington brought me, and I went to her by the purest accident. Did you know my father, my Lord?"

"Simplicity may be rather overdone! Do you think, child, I have not seen through your evident desire to ingratiate yourself?—and scheming yourself into this house will, I assure you, not further your designs!"

Bluebell could not deny the former charge, though guiltless of the latter insinuation. But who could have betrayed their marriage, and why did he only blame her?

"I do not know who may have prompted you, but if he thought duplicity and cunning a recommendation in a grand-child—"

"Grandchild!" echoed Bluebell. "What can you mean, Lord Bromley! Sir Timothy Leigh was my grandfather!"

"Which, as you probably very well know, I have not been called for fifteen years!"

Still the intense perplexity of her face was staggering his impression that this adventurous daughter of his disinherited son was trying by a coup de main to cancel the edict of banishment, and to obtain favour and fortune at his hands.

"You my grandfather!" she reiterated, mechanically, her eyes, wonder wide, staring at the old man with child-like directness, that produced a more convincing effect on his mind than any words. After all, it was quite possible she might not have heard of his succession to a remote peerage, and this amazement was certainly not assumed. Moreover, the expression of her face was conjuring from a dim past a host of memories. He became strangely moved, and could scarcely bear the gaze which recalled so forcibly Theodore in his youth.

Which made the first movement neither knew. "My dearest little girl!" he murmured, and folded her in his arms.

Bluebell was weak and silent from surprise mingled with extreme happiness, and Lord Bromley had gone back in thought to former years, and dare not trust himself to speak; so they were both too absorbed to notice the entrance of Harry Dutton, who remained rooted to the spot (like a stuck pig, as he afterwards elegantly described it), and a smothered exclamation burst from his lips.

Lord Bromley hurriedly withdrew himself from Bluebell, not particularly gratified at being surprized in so romantic a pose at his time of life.

"What the d——l are you doing here, sir?" he angrily demanded.

Harry, considering he had quite as good a right to ask that question, turned inquiringly and gloomily to Bluebell, who, feeling if she attempted to open her lips she must either go off into a hysterical fit of laughter or burst into tears, said nothing; and the uncle and nephew continued to glare at each other.

She signed to Dutton to speak; but he was too mystified and sulky; so Bluebell, in desperation, plunged in medias res.

"Harry!" she cried, "this is my grandfather as well as your uncle! Why, we must be cousins!" Then, after an instant's pause, with downcast eyes and crimson cheeks, she penitently kissed the old man's hand, and whispered,—"He is my husband too; we meant to have told you to-morrow!"

So the dread secret was out at last! Silence, that could be felt, ensued, and seemed endless to the two culprits, who, with drooping eyes, waited anxiously for him to speak.

Now, this announcement was hardly so unexpected as they supposed, and far more welcome than their wildest dreams could have anticipated. Lord Bromley's agent, who paid the annuity to Mrs. Leigh, was also in the habit of giving him periodical information of the well-being of his grand-daughter. When, however, she eloped from Captain Davidson's house, he had lost sight of her for a time, but afterwards picked up the clue at Mrs. Markham's. When they also disappeared so suddenly, the agent was again at fault, Bluebell having changed her situation in the interval.

Advancing years had softened Lord Bromley. The tidings of her elopement without any positive proof of a bona fide marriage preceding it, had shocked him into bitter remorse for having left her, an unprotected waif and stray, to the tender mercies of the world, and now she had passed out of his ken, and he could not but fear the worst.

In this frame of mind he came accidentally upon Bluebell in the spring woods, and the likeness to her father, which was singularly obvious, seemed the reflection of the thoughts that haunted him. Then, when Mabel mentioned her by name, it flashed upon him that what he had taken for a trick of imagination might be, indeed, a sober reality. Lord Bromley sought Mrs. Barrington, and elicited, in reply to his careless inquiries, the fact that the fair governess was a Canadian, and had come into her family from the Markhams'. This was conclusive, and he took every opportunity of observing Bluebell with an almost hungry interest. The elopement rankled unpleasantly in his mind. He watched her conduct narrowly, and was pleased to see that she seemed prudent and careful; but his suspicions received a new direction by the mutual disappearance of Dutton and herself on the night of his return. It was a coincidence, at any rate, for had not Mabel asserted she had not come upstairs till one, before which hour Harry had not entered the ball-room? He also detected two or three looks of intelligence passing between them, then, when Kate remarked that they had returned in the same steamer from Quebec, the mystery began to take a definite shape. He remembered his nephew's confession of an attachment, and his absence for many weeks after landing. At this stage a terrible possibility obtruded itself, and Bluebell's inviting manner, which before had pleased him, seemed all an artful attempt to get into favour.

The accidental sight of Theodore's miniature, which stirred poignantly the stern heart of the father, precipitated the denouement, and the artless bewilderment of Bluebell under his reproaches lulled the suspicions which her subsequent avowal of a marriage with Harry nearly set at rest. There only remained those unaccounted for weeks, so that the first sentence he spoke to the peccant pair, whom we left in agitated suspense, surprised them by its calmness.

"When did this happen?" And they could not guess how anxiously he waited for a reply.

Now Dutton had come there expressly to bring Bluebell into Lord Bromley's presence, having resolved to be beforehand with Kate, and make immediate confession. Therefore he was provided with their marriage certificate, which he now produced, and silently presented to his uncle.

The date was satisfactory, and Lord Bromley was relieved from the most harrowing anxiety. Yet his brow did not relax as he turned gravely to his nephew. "What was your motive, Harry, in concealing this marriage?"

Dutton was silent.

"You may well be unwilling to express it. It was because you feared to lose the inheritance I have foolishly brought you up to expect."

Harry looked up frankly, though writhing under his words.

"I cannot wholly deny it, uncle, and if you now change your intentions towards me, it is only what I expect. Bluebell and I were married hastily at Liverpool, she is my best excuse for that. Afterwards, when I came to 'The Towers,' I meant to have told you, but—don't you recollect?—you positively refused to hear what I had to say. Of course I ought to have persisted."

"And did Theodora also see the expediency of concealing her marriage till my death?"

"No, indeed," cried Harry, warmly. "She would have risked everything to have it acknowledged. It puts my conduct in an awfully cold-blooded light, but I hope you don't think me utterly ungrateful."

"As to that, the less said the better," returned Lord Bromley, coolly.

Dutton turned away abashed and deeply wounded, for he really was attached to the relative who had been his best friend and benefactor from infancy to manhood. Lord Bromley slowly left the room, and, sending for his niece, endeavoured to explain to her the astounding facts that Bluebell was the daughter of his disinherited son, and had been married to Dutton for nearly two years.

There was scarcely room in Mrs. Barrington's mind to grasp this new aspect of affairs, it being already taken up with Kate's shocking discovery of the heir, flirting in a secluded summer-house with the treacherous governess. Very earnestly, therefore, she tried to convince her uncle that he must be deceived, and that Bluebell was an impostor and an adventuress.

"There's not a shade of doubt about her identity," contested Lord Bromley "I have known for some time whom she was. Indeed, Lydia, you were my first informant when you told me where you had taken her from. Parker had reported that Theodore's daughter was with some people of the name of Markham, and immediately found out accidentally that she was no longer there and here is further proof"—and he placed before her the portrait that he had carried away. It was difficult to [unreadable]. Convinced against her will, and deprived of the power of giving Bluebell immediate warning, Mrs. Barrington [unreadable] fall back upon her own room, pull down the blinds and take refuge in petite sante, till prepared to face her emminent dependent in so new and unwelcome a position.

Certainly this day of elucidation was not a pleasant one. Everybody appeared in a changed point of view, and was feeling its awkwardness. Harry and Bluebell, hardly knowing if they had a right to remain there, wandering disconsolately about, like a modern Adam and Eve awaiting expulsion from Paradise.

Kate felt baffled and dangerous,—angry at her cousin having slipped so smoothly through her fingers, and jealous of his wife.

Lord Bromley, though deeply incensed with Harry, was longing to keep Bluebell, whose every glance and gesture recalled his secretly lamented son. Lady Calvert was on the point of departure with her daughter; and the facts having percolated through the household, all the maids got sick headaches from sympathetic excitement.

Dutton had had a very stormy interview with his cousin when he rushed after her from the arbour. Kate was determined to betray them, and he vainly tried to induce her to be silent. On one condition only would she promise secrecy—that Bluebell should give immediate warning, and that he should never speak to her again. But Harry only laughed, while Kate urged everything she could think of—ruin to his prospects, his uncle's anger, etc.

"It is no business of yours," reiterated Dutton. "If you say anything about it, you'll soon see you have made a fool of yourself, and the little you do know is by prying and listening."

But Kate broke from him and darted into the house, past Lady Geraldine, who was just coming out, and who noticed with surprise the disturbed appearance of the two cousins. To Dutton she seemed a good angel sent to invalidate the spells of an evil one. As the reader knows, she alone had been entrusted with the secret of his marriage, and he now briefly explained that Kate was bent upon betraying his meetings with Bluebell, and entreated her, if possible, by any stratagem, to detain her for awhile.

Geraldine, fully alive to the importance of the request, exclaimed with a gesture of impatience—

"How provoking! when you were to have told your own story to-morrow! Be quick, Mr. Dutton, don't lose a moment, and I will undertake to keep Kate and Mrs. Barrington quiet till they can do no further mischief."

A very grateful glance from Harry as he sprang away; and how he fared in the dreaded interview is already known to the reader.



CHAPTER XLI.

A LOCK OF HAIR.

For which they be that hold apart The promise of the golden hours; First love, first friendship, equal powers, That many with the virgin heart. —In Memoriam.

Another year had gone by since the denouement at Bromley Towers. The war was over, peace proclaimed, and what remained of our armies had returned from the East.

General Rolleston then retired from the service, and bought a very nice property near Leamington. He still saw a good deal of his old officers; Fane especially, who now commanded the regiment, spent much of his leave at Pyott's Hill. He retained all his old admiration for Cecil, receiving as little encouragement as ever. Possibly that may have been the secret of his constancy, for certainly, as a Crimean hero, with seven thousand a year to gild the romance of it, he did not find young ladies in general very hard-hearted.

But Fane was ever ungrateful, and, after being petted and feted, sang at, ridden at, and generally made much of, only returned with fresh zest to Cecil's unaffected and pleasant companionship. Yet, after each visit, in spite of manifold opportunities, being alone with her for hours, her constant companion in rides and rambles, and given to her by every one in the neighbourhood, he always found he had never really advanced an inch, and that nothing Cecil expected less than a proposal from him.

So he always went away in despair, to return again at the faintest hint of an invitation from her father.

General Rolleston was by no means displeased to observe this eagerness to avail himself of his hospitality, being quite as alive as heretofore to the advantages of the match—he only wondered why Fane and his daughter were so tardy in coming to an understanding.

Cecil was very much liked in the neighbourhood. Everybody said she was the most unaffected girl in the world. But with all her admirers, she had no flirtations—bright and cold was the verdict pronounced. Some said she was strong-minded, for she was known to read a great deal, and had even had a picture admitted into the Female Artists' Exhibition. She was further convicted of preferring long, solitary rides to joining the numerous equestrian parties got up in the summer; but as public opinion had unanimously agreed that she must be engaged to Fane, the unsocial trait was excused on that hypothesis.

About this period, he having just discovered her whereabouts, Cecil received a long letter from Harry Dutton, relating what he knew would interest her—the strange events and transformations at "The Towers." A similar one came to Mrs. Rolleston from Bluebell, who, now that she was at liberty to speak, wrote something like a volume of narrative and explanation to her friend. The latter, agitated and excited, flew to Cecil with the wonderful news, unaware that she had heard it already from Dutton, or, indeed, of her acquaintance with him: for, considering that all he had told her was in the strictest confidence. Cecil, as the simplest way of keeping it secret, had never mentioned anything at all about him. She must now, however, confess, for her step-mother was in an effusive mood, and bent upon instantly inviting the Duttons to pay them a visit.

Mrs. Rolleston received the information with some coldness and little curiosity, being naturally hurt at her step-daughter's concealment of a fact of so much interest to her; and though she probably told the General, he never afterwards alluded to the episode. Indeed, Cecil's labours at Scutari were rather a tabooed subject, as Harry speedily discovered when one day he attempted to blunder out his gratitude to her father.

The Duttons were invited for a week; also Colonel Fane and Captain Vavasour. Cecil became restless and excited as the day approached. The sight of Bluebell would cruelly re-open old wounds, and she had never met Vavasour (who had brought back the slain body of her lover) since the Crimea. And he would talk to her about it, she was sure, for Jack had long ago fathomed their ill fated attachment. Altogether, it was a relief that other guests were coming to dinner, for they were all too intimate in one way and too far apart in another—a connecting thread seeming to run through all their lives. Jack, an old love of Bluebell's, Dutton, whom she had nursed through deadly peril, and Fane, only prevented being a declared suitor by systematic absence of reciprocity on her side. Well it was a mercy they all came in owl-light, scarcely dusk enough for candles, but pleasantly veiling countenances not too much under command.

Bluebell and Cecil had determined beforehand that they must embrace, and mutually dreaded it. It was not, however, such a blanc-mange affair as osculation among ladies often is, for they were both agitated by too vivid memories. Bluebell's feelings were pleasantly diverted by recognising Jack—blushing with delight like the boy he still was. Somehow, he was the only one of the party she felt entirely at ease with, and found herself, as of old, chattering and laughing at as much as with him, just as if three sorrow-laden years had never intervened.

Dutton contrived to get by Cecil at dinner, though he had not taken her down, and their conversation was sufficiently interesting to make them forget their appointed partners.

"And you are quite restored to favour?" Cecil was saying, "and the uncle not half so implacable as you expected?"

"I don't know about that," cried Harry. "He has altered to me, I think. Bluebell is all the rage now, she actually is admitted into his sanctum every morning, to read him the papers. I shouldn't wonder if she turned out Queen Regnante and I were only Prince Consort!"

Cecil, I think, liked Dutton much better than his wife, with whom it was hard to resume old relations. Besides, she seemed now quite the favourite of Fortune, with every difficulty and hardship smoothed away, and to those who have suffered, it is harder to rejoice with those who do rejoice than to weep with those who weep.

So Bluebell was happier alone with Mrs. Rolleston when the men were hunting or out of the way. Dutton once ventured to question Cecil about Fane, whose hopeless passion was evident to every one in the house. She looked vexed, disconsolate, and gave her usual answer, that there was nothing in it, and never would be.

Dutton gently tried to combat this assertion. He had heard all about Bertie, but of course thought it was useless grieving over spilt milk; that time enough had passed since then; and that she had far better marry and forget.

Cecil smiled with a sort of sad amusement at all this and his slight assumption of marital experience. Harry and Bluebell seemed years younger than herself,—a giddy, happy young couple, the very sunshine of whose lives dazzled them too much to see into the depths of hers.

One afternoon she had started for a lonely walk. The rest of the party were pretty well disposed of—Bluebell driving with Mrs. Rolleston, and the others, she thought were with the General; but it did not much matter. It was a blustering February afternoon—Cecil long remembered it; the north wind had strewn the ground with dead branches, and cawing rooks, on the eve of wedlock, were drifting about incoherently on the breeze. She was following the course of a brook where the grounds widened into a wild, brambly park, and looking over her shoulder she perceived Jack Vavasour some distance off, coming along with rapid strides as if bent on overtaking her.

Cecil sauntered slowly on, not ill pleased at the opportunity of an unreserved conversation with Jack. She noticed, with furtive amusement, that he slackened his pace considerably as he neared her, probably to give an accidental aspect to the encounter. She turned round with a contented smile of expectation, and they wandered on together, Cecil instinctively choosing the most unfrequented and far-off boundary of the park. It was impossible to keep up long a commonplace conversation, and they became more and more distrait and nervous, each wishing to approach one subject, and neither liking to begin. In such a case, it is always the woman who breaks the ice. An allusion to the war was sufficient in this instance, and Jack responded so eagerly, she was confirmed in her impression that he had something to tell her. Without waiting for further questioning, he plunged into Crimean reminiscences of Bertie Du Meresq, whom he had seen nearly every day till his death, to all of which poor Cecil listened with breathless interest, and yet she knew there was something more to come.

"You know," continued Vavasour, "his watch and things were sent back to England; but when we cut open his tunic, to see if he was breathing, something dropped out that he had worn through the action. I kept that, for I thought I would restore it only to the rightful owner."

What intuitive feeling was it that made her wish he would say no more! Jack was opening his pocket-book, and drew out a piece of folded paper.

"I knew it in a moment," he cried, as a long coil of soft, dark hair appeared, so closely resembling Cecil's own as fully to justify his conviction that it was so.

He had expected to see her greatly moved; but the sudden pallor of her face puzzled him, which sensation was still more intensified when her large eyes flashed a moment upon him with an expression he never forgot, and, turning abruptly away, she walked towards the house.

Of all the trouble Cecil had gone through of late, I think for concentrated bitterness this moment was the worst. Though the colour was identical, by feel and texture she knew the tress was not her own, added to which, no such token had ever passed between herself and Bertie.

Well, there was no temptation to linger over the dead past now, which had received its coup de grace that wintry afternoon; almost every one felt that some subtle change had passed over Cecil. Perhaps the one who least felt its uncannyness was, Fane, who hovered near her with a brighter air. No doubt some of the party were surprised when, just before it broke up, the engagement of Cecil and Fane was announced; but no one guessed the truth except Jack Vavasour, who, anxious and remorseful, only cursed himself for a blundering idiot.

They were married on her twenty-fourth birthday, much to the relief of her bridesmaid-sisters, who had begun to fear Cecil would be an old maid. Fane sold out, and took his wife abroad, while the old Elizabethan manor-house, which, since his succession to, he had never lived in, was painted and luxuriously refurnished for the reception of the bride.

'Twas a pity Cecil married a rich man. Her best chance would have been having to think, work, deny herself for another, who might thus have become dear from the very sacrifices entailed by him. It was hard on Fane, who had been constant so long, and found he had grasped nothing but fairy gold. The old manor house was generally full, for somehow both dreaded a tete-a-tete, and equally, in early days especially, a betrayal of the feeling.

Cecil left her guests pretty much to their own devices in the morning, and read and painted in her own peculiar den, fitted up half as a library, half as a studio. The winter she devoted to hunting, and scarcely any meet was too distant or country too intricate for her. Bertie's riding lessons, at any rate, had not been forgotten, and carelessness of life is certainly conducive to steadiness of nerve. Jack Vavasour, who was out one day, was under the impression she wished to break her neck. Mrs. Fane became noted in her county for going with the most unflinching straightness, but so little did she care for the reputation, that sometimes she would stick unambitiously to the roads and never take a fence.

She had a separate stud of hunters, and rode independently of her husband, who followed the amusement in a less erratic style than his wife, and in more moderation.

Cecil often thought of her dream, when Du Meresq was transformed into Fane, and how singularly it had been realized. Certainly adventitious circumstances were averse to that first love of hers, for, however much appearances were against him, the lock of hair which had decided her destiny was no love token of Du Meresq's. It had been consigned to him by a dying friend, who besought him to write the news to his betrothed, and restore to her the lock of hair she had given him.

When Du Meresq had sent this letter off, he found he had omitted enclosing the tress, but they were then just going into action, and he had placed it inside his tunic.

After long years Cecil met this girl, who had been faithful to the memory of her Crimean hero. Once she spoke of him to Mrs. Fane, mentioning the circumstance of the omission of the lock when Du Meresq's letter had conveyed to her the fatal news. Little did she think how her companion had guarded and hated this souvenir. Cecil glanced sharply at the other's hair, harsher and more wiry now, and intersected with silvery threads, still it was like enough to satisfy her of the identity without the confirmatory cry of surprise with which the poor woman received it from her hands. Had she known this earlier, I think Cecil would have clung to her ideal, and never married, but by this time Fane and herself were—well as happy together as other people. Time's "effacing finger" had prepared the way, and since the birth of her only son, Cecil's heart was vitalized by a second passion, as strong though different to the first. So we may leave her, and see how our other heroine ultimately fares before dropping the curtain.

Dutton went to sea once again, but, as his ship was only cruising in the Mediterranean, Bluebell was able to meet him at the different ports they stopped at, and did not at all dislike the changeful variety of the life. However, Lord Bromley found he could not do without her, so, after that one cruise, Harry retired from the navy, and they lived chiefly at "The Towers," where a numerous family was born.

At last Lord Bromley died at a great age, and it was found that he had left Bromley Towers to their eldest boy, Theodore. To the Duttons was bequeathed a small estate worth three thousand a year. So after all Harry never inherited "The Towers," nor Bluebell either.

THE END