Bluebell Part 52

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 pa.s.sage 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 Lords.h.i.+p, continuing on his way.

He was in the habit of taking this const.i.tutional 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 brus.h.i.+ng out and arranging the s.h.i.+ning 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 _empress.e.m.e.nt_ 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 pa.s.s 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, blus.h.i.+ng; 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_ att.i.tudes; 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.