Bluebell Part 6

"Not Mr. Gordon, though the 'Fool's-cap' is like his; and Major Simeon has one of those. Oh, Captain Du Meresq!"

She bowed rather undecidedly, and then moved on abruptly.

But Bertie did not pa.s.s by.

"Are you returning?" asked he. "They can't get on without you. Freddy has dropped a cinder into his nurse's tea, and set fire to the straw in the cat's basket."

Bluebell laughed shyly.

"I have been to see mamma. Do not let me bring you out of your way, Captain Du Meresq,"--for he had turned back with her.

"Oh, I was only going for a walk," said Bertie, innocently,--a harmless amus.e.m.e.nt that, without any other object, he was simply incapable of undertaking. "Hadn't I better see you home; there's a brute of a dog down there who sprang out at me! I broke my stick across his head, and then, of course, I had to apologize, being disarmed."

"I know that fierce dog. He belongs to a cabman; but I always speak to him, and he never attacks me."

"Even a lion itself would flee from a maid in the pride of her purity,"

laughed Bertie. "But, Miss Leigh, must we positively go s.h.i.+vering across this bleak desert again?--isn't there some sheltered way through the wood?"

"There certainly is; but it is three miles round, and, I dare say, full of drifts."

"Never mind, all the better fun. Up this way?"

"Oh, but isn't it late? I think they will be expecting me before."

"There's n.o.body at home, if that's all," said Bertie. "They have gone to the Cathedral, and most likely will turn into tea at the Van Calmonts."

The scrambling walk was a temptation, the common hideous and cold.

"We must walk very quick, then."

"Run, if you like. Come along, there's a dear child."

Bluebell coloured furiously.

"Maybe I won't go at all now!"

"That is so like a girl," said Bertie impatiently; "standing coquetting in the cold. Now, you are offended. What did I say? Only called you a child."

"You had no business to speak so," said Bluebell, angry at his familiar manner, but rather at a loss for words. "Why can't you call me Miss Leigh, like everybody else?" and the indignant little beauty paused, with hot cheeks, and feeling desperately awkward.

Du Meresq bit his lip to hide a smile. He was half afraid she would dash off and terminate the interview.

"Dear me!" said he. "When you are a little older you will think youth a very good fault. Will you forgive me this once, Miss Leigh, and I will not call you anything else?--for the present" (_sotto voce_).

Bluebell was mollified, and rather proud of the good effects of her reproof, notwithstanding the half-inaudible rider. Du Meresq, also, was satisfied, for, without further opposition, they had struck into the wood. Unused to the Britannic hamper of a chaperone, Bluebell saw nothing singular in the proceeding. So they crunched over the snow, keeping, as far as possible, the dazzling track marked by the wheels of the sleigh-waggons, and plentifully powdered by the snow-laden trees; now up to their knees in a drift, from which Bertie had the pleasure of extricating his companion, who forgot her shyness in the difficulties of the path, and, not being given to silence, was laughing and talking away unreservedly.

"What a strange girl she is!" thought Bertie. "Who would think, to hear her chattering now, she _could_ have made that prim little speech? I must not go on too fast; it reminds me of that Irish girl who said, the first time I squeezed her hand, 'Ah, Captain Du Meresq, but you are such a bould flirt!'"

Sheltered from the bleak wind the walk on the crisp track was enjoyable enough; the "strange eyes," being now on a line with and not confronting her, were less embarra.s.sing, and the slight awe she still felt of him only gave a piquancy to the companions.h.i.+p.

"Are you not very glad we came this way?" Bertie was saying.

"If we had only snow-shoes," cried the breathless Bluebell, for the third time slipping into a drift, but struggling out before Du Meresq could do more than catch her hand.

"Poor little fingers! how cold they are," trying to put them in with his own into his large beaver gloves.

"Oh, I wish you would be sensible," stammered Bluebell, much confused.

"What's the use of being sensible," retorted he, "when it is so much pleasanter being otherwise? Time enough for that when anybody's by."

But Bluebell wrenched her hand away, bringing off the glove, which she threw on the snow.

"Is that a challenge, Miss Bluebell? Must take up the gauntlet? Good gracious, my dear child, you are not really annoyed? Well, we will be sensible, as you call it. Only you must begin; I don't know how."

"Evidently," said Bluebell, very tartly, drawing as far away as the exigencies of the track would admit. She could hold her own well enough with the young subalterns she had hitherto flirted with, but this man was older, and had a bewildering effect on her.

"Are you and Cecil great friends?" asked Bertie, presently, with the air of having forgotten the fracas.

"I hope so," coming out of her offended silence at this neutral topic. "I know I like her well enough."

"And do you tell each other everything, after the manner of young ladies?"

"No-o," said Bluebell, reflectively; "not like the girls at school. You see Cecil is older than I, and cleverer, I suppose, and doesn't talk much nonsense."

"Did she ever speak of me?" asked Bertie.

"Hardly ever; the others have mentioned you often."

"Cecil is a very sensible girl," with a re-a.s.sured countenance; "and as you never talk nonsense, I suppose you won't mention the trivial fact of our having taken this walk?"

"Why in the world not?" opening her large violet eyes full upon him.

"'Speech is silver, but silence is golden,' you unsophisticated child,"

returned he, enigmatically.

Bluebell considered. "Why, of course, I shall tell Mrs. Rolleston what made me so late."

"But not if she doesn't ask you?"

"But why not? There is _no harm_ in it," said the girl, persistently.

"No, no; but if you had lived as long as I, you would know that people _always_ try and interfere with anything pleasant. I should so like to take this walk with you every week, Bluebell."

Bluebell looked down; she was vaguely flattered by his caring to repeat the walk which she thought must be so unimportant to him,--it would be something to look forward to, for she _had_ enjoyed it, though she could not tell why.

"But, Captain Du Meresq--" she began.

"Call me Bertie, when we are alone," said he.