"Just Canadian independence," muttered Miss Opie; "It makes all the girls such thoroughly bad style."
Bluebell began to feel very nervous; two or three young friends that she met on the way, she passed with a quick nod and averted face, dreading their joining her. Her eye swept the broad walk of the Avenue in an instant; no familiar figure arrested her vision, and the seats placed at regular intervals on each side were also vacant of interest.
So she was first--the Cathedral clock had struck three some minutes before, she was perplexed to know what to do with herself, and began walking slowly to the other end. Of all possible _contretemps_, the non-appearance of Du Meresq had never suggested itself; but after a couple of turns the unwelcome misgiving strengthened, and there would be only one at the tryst that day.
In a tumult of disappointment and indignation, conjecture after conjecture chased each other; while ever and anon her fancy was mocked by some one turning in at the gates bearing a general resemblance to Du Meresq, only to be dispelled by a nearer and more accurate view.
A simple explanation suddenly dawned; Bertie might have written to warn her of an unavoidable absence. The possibility of such a letter, which, had she had received it in the morning, would have been the bitterest disappointment, now seemed a resurrection from despair to hope, and with relaxed features and brightening eyes, Bluebell walked rapidly through the gates to the Post-office.
Letters were so rare and unlooked for at the cottage, that the postman never included it in his rounds; and the contents of the pigeon-hole appropriated to them at the office was seldom inquired for, except on mail-days, when there might be an off-chance of an English letter for Miss Opie. Even Bluebell, who for the first fortnight after her banishment from "The Maples" had been a regular applicant, had not been near it since Bertie's visit to the cottage.
"Two letters for Miss Theodora Leigh." One she scarcely looked at; the other instinct told her must be Bertie's handwriting; it had been lying two days at the Post-office.
"My dearest Bluebell," ran this note, "I can't come to the Avenue on Wednesday, being now entirely confined to the sofa with my ankle, which has gone to the bad. I am only staying on now with sick leave, and the Chief very sulky at that. When shall I again see those beloved, angel-like, soft blue eyes? Don't write to me here, for, as you may remember, the orderly fetches the letters, and my august brother-in-law sometimes deals them round.