Bluebell / A Novel

by Mrs. G. C. Huddleston

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.