Shyness hitherto had been no infirmity of this young Canadian; but Bertie somehow had mesmerized her into a state of consciousness—it was a cobwebby kind of fetter, but the first she had worn.
"Come and talk to me Bluebell," said Mrs. Rolleston, "as Cecil is so studious."
The former glanced at her friend, and involuntarily whispered—"How well she looks to-night!"
Cecil was sitting apart, utterly absent as it seemed, but her eyes were shining, and there was a soft brightness about her as she turned over the pages of a book. It was "The Wanderer,"—one that Bertie had brought with him.
Mrs. Rolleston agreed and interpreted it her own way. Bluebell drew a long rocking-chair by her side, and they fell into a pleasant little talk. Mrs. Rolleston always made a pet of this child; she was the best of step-mothers, but stood a little in awe of Cecil.
Du Meresq came in shortly before the rest; the elder girl did not even look up, but her face again lit. He stood à l'Anglais, with his back to the fire, talking to his sister, and occasionally, though without any particular empressement, addressing Bluebell, who thought his voice sweeter than any man's she had ever heard. It made her unconsciously modulate her own, which as yet had the untuned accents of early girlhood; but the spell was on her, and she felt, for the first time, at a loss for words. Yet when Mrs. Rolleston shortly after sent her to the piano, it was more of disappointment than a relief. Some one was following to turn the leaves—only Mr. Vavasour—odious, officious boy! Who wanted him?
"Pray, don't," cried she, pettishly. "You are sure to do it all wrong."
"Let me try," pleaded Jack. "If you just look at me I shall know when to turn."
"Well, see if you can bring that book" (indicating a very heavy one at the bottom of a pile) "without spilling the rest, or dropping it on your toes. Thank you. Now you had better go away; this is not at all the sort of music you would understand."
"Classical, I suppose. I am afraid my taste is too uncultivated."