More than once she resumed the subject, but never got any satisfaction from Dutton.  “What did she want more?  Could anything be jollier than the life they were leading, with no one to bother them?  Every one was alone in the honeymoon; and, once their marriage was confessed, it would be the beginning of ceaseless annoyance, disagreeable advice from relations, shindies without end.”

Harry was still in the seventh heaven—­more ardent in love with his wife than ever; and this sweet little quiet home, with “the mystery and romance of it,” he was unwilling to tear himself from.  To Bluebell it bore a different aspect.  Marriage had deprived her of all her friends, and raised a barrier between the present and the past.  There had been no time to grow to Harry, and he demanded so much.  She was never alone, never free from this all-pervading passionate love that she felt quite powerless to equal.  Sometimes Bluebell marvelled he did not perceive this, though nothing she dreaded more, for, since the discovery of how much he had risked for her, she was always blaming herself for not feeling the exclusive devotion that could alone recompense him.

To be suddenly deprived of all occupation, and sent to some unfamiliar place to be absolutely happy for a month, is an ordeal custom imposes on most newly-wedded pairs; but a runaway match has severer conditions still, since no letters of affectionate interest can be expected from friends, and the bride has not even a trousseau to fall back upon.

One morning after they had been married three weeks, a batch of letters was forwarded to Dutton by his agent, to whom he had only lately given his address.  One was from Lord Bromley, and had lain there some time.  On coming in from a walk that same afternoon, they found cards on the table.

“Just impertinent curiosity,” growled Harry.

“Why?” cried Bluebell.  “For my part, I think it is rather fun to have a visitor.  Dear me, though, I have no cards;”—­and she coloured deeply as she remembered that her marriage was still unacknowledged, even on pasteboard.

“Bluebell,” cried Harry, impulsively, “I’ll go to-morrow and make it all right with my uncle at once.”

“Oh, I wish you would,” with deep energy.

“And you don’t mind being left?” he asked tenderly.

“Oh, anything to have the secret at an end!”

“Bluebell, for goodness’ sake don’t expect too much!  What if my uncle disinherited me?  It is not at all unlikely.”

“Ah, Harry,” said Bluebell, softly, “that comes of marrying me.  Why did you not think of it first?  I should be no worse off,” continued she, musingly; “I could give music lessons.  It’s hard on you, of course; but, Harry, do, pray, whatever are the consequences, tell him.”

“But you don’t realize the consequences.  I should be obliged to go to sea, leave you alone, and have scarcely any money to send you.  But if he took it pleasantly, he could make it worth my while to leave the navy, which he has always wished me to do, or let us have sufficient coin for you to come to any port I am stationed at.  As long as it was only myself, I didn’t care so much; yet Bromley Towers is worth saving, if possible.”  A pause.  “But I can’t think what you will do while I am away.”