Bluebell

Bluebell

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bluebell, by Mrs. George Croft Huddleston This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Bluebell A Novel
Author: Mrs. George Croft Huddleston
Release Date: July 27, 2005 [EBook #16371]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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BLUEBELL
A Novel BY MRS. G.C. HUDDLESTON
1875
[Transcriber's note: These images were taken from Early Canadian Online and there are several pages where the text is missing on the images. These have been marked "unreadable."]

Yet we shall one day gain, life part, Clear prospect o'er our being's whole, Shall see ourselves, and learn at last Our true affinities of soul.

Acknowledgment
The Publishers have to acknowledge their great indebtedness to MR. DAVISON, President, and MR. DAVY, Secretary, of the Toronto Mechanics' Institute, who, on being applied to, kindly gave to them for publication the only copy of this Work, which, so far as they knew, was in Canada at the time, and which the Directors of the Institute, with a commendable spirit of enterprise, had secured for their Library.

CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. SWEET SEVENTEEN
II. BERTIE
III. GENTLE ANNIE
IV. SATURDAY AT HOME
V. A WOODLAND WALK
VI. VISITORS
VII. THE GARRISON SLEIGH CLUB
VIII. FIXING UP A PRANCE
IX. CROSS PURPOSES
X. TOBOGGINING
XI. EFFECTS OF TOBOGGINING
XII. THE LAKE SHORE ROAD
XIII. NORTHERN LIGHTS
XIV. THE TRYST
XV. AN ENIGMATICAL LETTER
XVI. DETECTED
XVII. DID YOU PROPOSE THEN?
XVIII. LYNDON'S LANDING
XIX. CALF LOVE
XX. THE PRINCE PHILANDER
XXI. A PERILOUS SAIL
XXII. AT LAST
XXIII. LOLA'S BIRTHDAY
XXIV. LITTLE PITCHERS
XXV. CHANGES
XXVI. CROSSING THE HERRING POND
XXVII. HARRY DUTTON
XXVIII. ROUGH WEATHER
XXIX. BLUEBELL'S DEBUT IN THE OLD COUNTRY
XXX. NO CARDS
XXXI. BROMLEY TOWERS
XXXII. THE SPRING WOODS
XXXIII. LORD BROMLEY INTERVIEWS DUTTON
XXXIV. HARRY GOES TO THE BALTIC
XXXV. A DISCOVERY
XXXVI. IN DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED
XXXVII. AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE
XXXVIII. OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS
XXXIX. THE LOAN OF A LOVER
XL. THE MINIATURE
XLI. A LOCK OF HAIR

BLUEBELL
CHAPTER I.
SWEET SEVENTEEN.
I see her now--the vision fair, Of candour, innocence, and truth, Stand tiptoe on the verge of air, 'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.
It was the "fall" in Canada, and the leaves were dying royally in purple, crimson and gold. On the edge of a common, skirting a well-known city of Ontario, stood a small, rough-cast cottage, behind which the sun was setting with a red promise of frost, his flaming tints repeated in the fervid hue of the Virginian creeper that clothed it.
This modest tenement was the retreat of three unprotected females, two of whom were seated in silent occupation close to a black stove, which imparted heat, but denied cheerfulness. The elder was grey and tintless as her life,--harsh wisdom wrung from sad experience ever on lips thin and tight, as though from habitually repressing every desire. The younger, a widow, was scarcely passed middle age, small of stature, but wizened beyond her years by privation and sorrow.
A smell of coal-oil, that most unbearable of odours, pervaded the interior of the cottage, revealing that the general servant below in lighting the lamp had, as usual, upset some, and was retaining the aroma by smearing it off with her apron.
Presently a quick, light step tripped over the wooden side-walk, a shadow darkened the window, and a vision of youth and freshness burst into the dingy little parlour.
A rather tall, full-formed young Hebe was Theodora Leigh, of that pure pink and white complexion that goes farther to make a beauty than even regularity of feature; her long, sleepy eyes were just the shade of the wild hyacinth; indeed, her English father always called her "Bluebell," after a flower that does not grow on Transatlantic soil.
But they were Irish-eyes, "put in with a dirty finger," and varying with every mood. Gooseberry eyes may disguise more soul, but they get no credit for it. Humour seemed to dance in that soft, blue fire; poetry dreamed in their clear depths; love--but that we have not come to yet; they were more eloquent than her tongue, for she was neither witty nor wise, only rich in the exuberant life of seventeen, and as expectant of good will and innocent of knowledge of the world as a retriever puppy.
Apparently, Miss Bluebell was not in the suavest of humours, for she flung her hat on to one crazy chair, and herself on another, with a vehemence that caused a sensible concussion.
"My dear, how brusque you are," said Mrs. Leigh, plaintively.
"So provoking," muttered Bluebell.
"What's gone wrong with the child now?" said Miss Opie, the elder proprietress of the domicile.
"Why," said Bluebell, "I met the Rollestons, and they asked: me to their picnic at the Humber on Friday; but how can I go? Look here!" and she pointed to a pair of