Blanche
A Story for Girls
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by R. Barnes
Published by W and R Chambers, Ltd, London and Edinburgh.
Blanche, by Mrs Molesworth.
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BLANCHE, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE SUNNY SOUTH.
About a quarter of a century ago, a young English girl--Anastasia
Fenning by name--went to pay a visit of a few weeks to friends of her
family, whose home was a comfortable old house in the pleasantest part
of France. She had been somewhat delicate, and it was thought that the
milder climate during a part of the winter might be advantageous to her.
It proved so. A month or two saw her completely restored to her usual
health and beauty, for she was a very pretty girl; and, strange to say,
the visit of a few weeks ended in a sojourn of fully twenty years in
what came to be her adopted country, without any return during that long
stretch of time to her own home, or indeed to England at all.
This was how it came about. The eldest son--or rather grandson of her
hosts, for he was an orphan--Henry Derwent, fell in love with the pretty
and attractive girl, and she returned his affection. There was no
objection to the marriage, for the Derwents and Fennings were friends of
more than a generation's standing. And Henry's prospects were good, as
he was already second in command to old Mr Derwent himself, the head of
the large and well-established firm of Derwent and Paulmier, wine
merchants and vine-growers; and Anastasia, the only daughter of a
widowed country parson of fair private means, would have a "dot" which
the Derwents, even taking into account their semi-French ideas on such
subjects, thought satisfactory.
Mr Fenning gave his consent, more readily than his friends and his
daughter had expected, for he was a devoted, almost an adoring father,
and the separation from him was the one drawback in Anastasia's eyes.
"I thought papa would have been broken-hearted at the thought of parting
with me," she said half poutingly, for she was a trifle spoilt, when the
anxiously looked for letter had been received and read. "He takes it
very philosophically."
"Very unselfishly, let us say," her _fiance_ replied, though in his
secret heart the same thought had struck him.
But the enigma was only too speedily explained. Within a day or two of
the arrival of her father's almost perplexingly glad consent came a
telegram to Mr Derwent, as speedily as possible followed by a letter
written at his request by the friend and neighbour who had been with Mr
Fenning at the last. For Anastasia's father was dead--had died after
but an hour or two's acute illness, though he had known for long that in
some such guise the end must come.
He was glad for his "little girl" to be spared the shock in its near
appallingness, wrote Sir Adam Nigel; he was thankful to know that her
future was secured and safe. For he had no very near relations, and Sir
Adam himself, though Anastasia's godfather, was an old bachelor, living
alone. The question of a home in England would have been a difficult
one. And in his last moments Mr Fenning had decided that if the
Derwents could without inconvenience keep the young girl with them till
her marriage, which he earnestly begged might not be long deferred, such
an arrangement would be the wisest and best.
His wishes were carried out. The tears were scarcely dried on the newly
orphaned girl's face, ere she realised that for her husband's sake she
must try again to meet life cheerfully. And in her case it was not
difficult to do so, for her marriage proved a very happy one. Henry
Derwent was an excellent and a charming man, an unselfish and
considerate husband, a devoted though wise father. For twelve years
Anastasia's life was almost cloudless. Then, when her youngest child, a
boy, was barely a year old, the blow fell. Again, for the second time
in her life, a few hours' sharp illness deprived her of her natural
protector, and she was left alone. Much more alone than at the epoch of
her father's sudden death, for she had then Henry to turn to. Now,
though old Mr Derwent was still living, the only close sympathy and
affection she could count upon was that of her little girls, Blanche and
Anastasia, eleven and nine years of age respectively, when this first
and grievous sorrow overtook them.
For some months Mrs Derwent was almost totally crushed by her loss.
Then by degrees her spirits revived. Her nature was not a very
remarkable one, but it was eminently healthy and therefore elastic. And
in her sorrow, severe as it was, there was nothing to sour or embitter,
nothing to destroy her faith in her fellow-creatures or render her
suspicious and distrustful. And her life, both as her father's daughter
and her husband's wife, had been a peculiarly bright and sheltered one.
"Too bright to last," she thought sometimes, and perhaps it was true.
For trouble _must_ come. There are those indeed from whom, though in
less conspicuous form than that of death, it seems never absent--their
journey is "uphill all the way." There are those again, more like
Anastasia Derwent, whose path lies for long amid the flowers and
pleasant places, till suddenly a thunderbolt from heaven devastates the
whole. Yet these are not, to my mind, the most to be pitied. The
happiness of the past is a possession even in the present, and an
earnest for the future. In the years of sunshine the nature has had
time to grow and develop, to gather strength against the coming of the
storm. Not so with those who have known nothing but wintry weather,
whose faith in aught else has but the scantiest nourishment to feed
upon.
And the new phase of life to which her husband's death introduced Mrs
Derwent called for qualities hitherto little if at all required in her.
Her father-in-law, already old and enfeebled, grew querulous and
exacting. He had leant upon his son more than had been realised; his
powers could not rally after so tremendous a shock. He turned to his
daughter-in-law, in unconscious selfishness, demanding of her more than
the poor woman found it possible to give him, though she rose to the
occasion by honestly doing her best. And though this "best" was but
little appreciated, and ungraciously enough received, she never
complained or lost patience.
As the years went on and in some ways her task grew heavier, there were
not wanting those who urged her to give it up.
"He is not your own father," they said. "He is a tiresome, tyrannical
old man. You should return to England with your children; there must
still be many friends there who knew you as a girl. And this living in
France, while _not_ French, out of sympathy with your surroundings in
many ways, is not the best school for your daughters. You don't want
them to marry Frenchmen?"
This advice, repeatedly volunteered by one friend in particular, the
aged Marquise de Caillemont, herself an Englishwoman, whose own marriage
had not disposed her to take a rose-coloured view of so-called "mixed
alliances," was only received by Mrs Derwent with a shake of the head.
True, her eyes sparkled at the suggestion of a return to England, but
the time for that had not come. Blanche and Stasy were too young for
their future as yet to cause her any consideration. They were being
well educated, and if the care of their grandfather fell rather heavily
on them--on Blanche especially--"Well, after all," she said, "we are not
sent into this world merely to please ourselves. I had too little of
such training myself, I fear; my children are far less selfish than I
was. Still, I will not let it go too far, dear madame. I do not want
their young lives to be clouded. I cannot see my way to leaving the
grandfather, but time will show what is right to do."
Time did show it. When Blanche, on whose strong and buoyant nature Mr
Derwent learned more and more to rely, till by degrees she came almost
to replace to him the son he missed so sorely, and whom she much
resembled--when Blanche was seventeen, the old man died, peacefully and
gently, blessing the girl with his last breath.
They missed him, after all, for he had grown less exacting with failing
health. And while he was there, there was still the sense of
protectorship, of a masculine head of the house. Blanche missed him
most of all, naturally, because she had done the most for him, and she
was one of those who love to _give_, of their best, of themselves.
But after a while happy youth reasserted itself. She turned with fresh
zest and interest to the consideration of the plans for the future which
the little family was now free to make.
"We shall go back to England, of course, shan't we, mamma?" said Stasy
eagerly, as if the England she had never seen were the land of all her
associations.
"Of course," Mrs Derwent agreed. "The thought of it has been the
brightest spot in my mind all through these last years. How your father
and I used to talk of the home we would have there one day! Though I
now feel that _anywhere_ would have been home with him," and she sighed
a little. "He was really more English than poor grandfather, for he had
a regular public school education."
"But grandfather only came to France as a grown-up man, and papa was
born here," said Blanche. "Of the two, one would have expected papa to
be the more French, yet he certainly was not. Perhaps it was just that
dear old gran was a more clinging nature, and took the colour of his
surroundings more easily. We are just the opposite: neither Stasy nor I
could be called at all French, could we, mamma?"
She said it with a certain satisfaction, and Mrs Derwent smiled as she
looked at them. Blanche, though fair, gave one the impression of
unusual strength and vigour. Stasy was slighter and somewhat darker.
Both were pretty, and promising to grow still prettier. And from their
adopted country they had unconsciously imbibed a certain "finish" in
both bearing and appearance, which as a rule comes to Englishwomen, when
it comes at all, somewhat later in life.
"We are _not_ French-looking, mamma; now, are we?" chimed in the younger
girl.
"Well, no, not in yourselves, certainly," said Mrs Derwent. "But still,
there cannot but be a little something, of tone and air, not quite
English. How could it be otherwise, considering that your whole lives
have been spent in France? But you need not distress yourselves about
it. You will feel yourselves _quite_ English once we are in England."
"We do that already," said Blanche. "You know, mamma, how constantly
our friends here reproach us with being so English. One thing, I must
say I am glad of--we have no French accent in speaking English."
"No, I really do not think you have," Mrs Derwent replied. "It is one
of the things I have been the most anxious about. For it always sets
one a little at a disadvantage to speak the language of any country with
a foreign accent, if one's _home_ is to be in the place. How delightful
it is to think of really settling in England! I wonder if I shall find
Blissmore much changed. How I wish I could describe my old home,
Fotherley, better to you--how I wish I could make you _see_ it! I can
fancy I feel the breeze on the top of the knoll just behind the vicarage
garden; I can _hear_ the church bells sometimes--the dear, dear old home
that it was."
"I think you describe it beautifully, mamma," said Stasy. "I often lie
awake at night making pictures of it to myself."
"And we shall see it for ourselves soon," added Blanche; "that is to
say, mamma," she went on with a little hesitation, "if you quite decide
that--"
"What, my dear?" said her mother.
"Oh--that Blissmore will be the best place for us to settle at," said
Blanche, rather abruptly, as if she had been anxious to get the words
said, and yet half fearful of their effect.
Mrs Derwent's face clouded over a little.
"What an odd thing for you to say, my dear?" she replied. "You cannot
have any prejudice against my dear old home, and where else could we go
which would be so sure to _be_ home, where we should at once be known
and welcomed? Besides, the place itself is charming--so very pretty,
and a delightful neighbourhood, and not very far from London either. We
could at any time run up for a day or two."
"Ye-es," said Blanche; "the only thing is, dear mamma, I have heard so
much of English society being stiff and exclusive--"
"It's not as stiff and exclusive as French," Mrs Derwent interrupted;
"only you cannot judge of that, having lived here all your life, and
knowing every one there was to know within a good large radius, just as
_I_ knew everybody round about Blissmore when I was a girl."
"But all these years! Will they not have brought immense changes?"
still objected Blanche. "And it is not as if we were very rich or
important people. If we were going to buy some fine chateau in England
and entertain a great deal, it would be different. But, judged by
English ideas, we shall not be rich or important. Not that I should
wish to be either. I should like to live modestly, and have our own
poor people to look after, and just a few friends--the life one reads
about in some of our charming English tales, mamma."
"And why should we not have it, my dear? We shall be able to have a
very pretty house, I hope. I only wish one of those I remember were
likely to be vacant; and why, therefore, should you be afraid of
Blissmore? Surely my old home is the most natural place for us to go
to: I cannot be quite forgotten there." Blanche said no more, and
indeed it would have been difficult to put into more definite form her
vague misgivings about Blissmore. Her knowledge of English social life
was of course principally derived from books, and from her mother's
reminiscences, which it was easy to see were coloured by the glamour of
the past, and drawn from a short and youthful experience under the
happiest auspices. And Blanche was by no means inclined to prejudice;
there was no doubt, even by Mrs Derwent's own account, that her old home
had been in a peculiarly "exclusive" part of the country.
"I should not mind so much for ourselves," she said to Stasy, that same
afternoon, as they were walking up and down the stiff gravelled terrace
in the garden at the back of their house--their "town house," in
Bordeaux itself, where eight months of the year had been spent by the
Derwent family for three generations. "But I do feel so afraid of poor
mamma's being disappointed."
Stasy was inclined to take the other view of it.
"Why should we get on _less_ well at Blissmore than anywhere else?" she
said. "Of course, wherever we go, it will be strange at first, but
surely there is more likelihood of our feeling at home there than at a
totally new place. I cannot understand you quite, Blanchie."
"I don't know that I quite understand myself," Blanche replied. "It is
more an instinct. I suppose I dread mamma's old home, because she would
go there with more expectation. It will be curious, Stasy, very
curious, to find ourselves really in England. There cannot be many
English girls who have reached our age without having even seen their
own country."
"And to have been so near it all these years," said Stasy, "Oh, it is
too delightful to think we are really going to live in England--dear,
dear England! Of course I shall always love France; we have been very
happy in many ways, except for our great sorrows," and her bright,
sparkling face sobered, as, at April-like sixteen, a face can sober, to
beam all the more sunnily the next moment--"we have been very happy, but
we are going to be still happier, aren't we, Blanchie?"
"I hope so, darling. But you will have to go on working for a good
while once we are settled again, you know. And I too. We are both very
ignorant of much English literature, though, thanks to papa's library
and grandfather's advice, I think we know some of the older authors
better than some English girls do. I wonder what sort of teaching we
can get at Blissmore; we are rather too old for a governess."
"Oh dear, yes. Of course we can't have a governess," said Stasy. "We
must go to _cours_--`classes,' or whatever they are called. I suppose
there is something of the kind at Blissmore."
"I don't know that there is. I don't know what will be done about
Herty," said Blanche. "I'm afraid he may have to go to school, and we
should miss him so, shouldn't we?"
"There may be a school near enough for him to come home every evening,"
said Stasy, who was incapable of seeing anything to do with their new
projects in other than the brightest colours. "There he is--coming to
call us in.--Well, Herty, what is it?" as a pretty, fair-haired boy came
racing along the straight paths to meet them.
"The post has come, and mamma has a letter from England, and dinner will
be ready directly, and--and--my guinea-pigs' salad is all done, and
there is no more of the right kind in the garden," said the little boy.
"What shall I do?"
"After dinner you shall go with Aline to the vegetable shop near the
market place and buy some lettuce--that is the proper word--not `salad,'
when it is a guinea-pig's affair," said Stasy.
For it was early summer-time, and the evenings were long and light.
Blanche smiled.
"My dear Stasy, your English is a little open to correction as well
as Herty," she said. "You must not speak of a vegetable
shop--`greengrocers' is the right name, and--there was something rather
odd about the last sentence, `a guinea-pig's affair.'"
"Well, you can't say `a guinea-pig's business,' can you?" said Stasy.
"Let us ask mamma. I am, above all, anxious to speak perfect English.
Let us be most particular for the next few weeks; let us pray mamma to
correct us if we make the slightest mistake."
"I wonder what the letter is that has come," said Blanche. "I think we
had better go in now. Mamma may want us. After dinner, perhaps, she
will come out with us a little. How difficult it is to picture this
dear old house inhabited by strangers! I think it is charming here in
summer; we have never been in the town so late before. I like it ever
so much better than Les Rosiers--that is so modern. I wish we were
going to stay here till we leave."
She stood still and gazed on the long, narrow house--irregular and
picturesque from age, though with no architectural pretensions at all--
which for seventeen years had been her home. The greyish-white walls
stood out in the sunshine, one end almost covered with creepers,
contrasting vividly with the deep blue sky of the south. Some pigeons
flew overhead on their way to their home high up in the stable-yard, the
old coachman's voice talking to his horses sounded in the distance, and
the soft drip of the sleepy fountain mingled with the faint noises in
the street outside.
"I shall often picture all this to myself," thought Blanche. "I shall
never forget it. Even when I am very old I shall be able to imagine
myself walking up and down, up and down this path, with grandpapa
holding my arm. And over there, near the fountain, how well I remember
running to meet dear papa the last time he came back from one of his
journeys to Paris! I suppose it is best to go to what is really our own
country, but partings, even with things and places that cannot feel, are
sad, very sad."
CHAPTER TWO.
FOGS.
The old house in Bordeaux was not to be sold, but let for a long term of
years. An unexpectedly good offer was made for it, and a very short
time after the evening in which in her heart Blanche had bidden it a
farewell, the Derwents gave up possession to their tenants. For the few
months during which Mrs Derwent's presence was required in France on
account of the many and troublesome legal formalities consequent upon
her father-in-law's death and the winding-up of his affairs, the family
moved to Les Rosiers, the little country-house where they had been
accustomed to spend the greater part of the summer months.
They would have preferred less haste. It would in many ways have been
more convenient to have returned to Bordeaux in the autumn, and thence
made the final start, selecting at leisure such of the furniture and
other household goods as they wished to take to their new home. But the
late Mr Derwent's partner, Monsieur Paulmier, and his legal adviser,
Monsieur Bergeret, were somewhat peremptory. The offer for the house
was a good one; it might not be repeated. It was important for Madame,
in the interests of her children, to neglect no permanent source of
income.
Their tone roused some slight misgiving in Mrs Derwent, and she
questioned them more closely. Were things not turning out as well as
had been expected? Was there any cause for anxiety?
Monsieur Paulmier smiled reassuringly, but looked to Monsieur Bergeret
to reply. Monsieur Bergeret rubbed his hands and smiled still more
benignly.
"Cause for uneasiness?" Oh dear, no. Still, Madame was so intelligent,
so full of good sense, it was perhaps best to tell her frankly that
things were not turning out _quite_ so well as had been hoped. There
had been some bad years, as she knew--phylloxera and other troubles; and
Monsieur, the late head of the firm, had been reluctant to make any
changes to meet the times, too conservative, perhaps, as was often the
case with elderly folk. Now, if Madame's little son had been of an age
to go into the business--no doubt he would inherit the excellent
qualities of his progenitors--_that_ would have been the thing, for then
the family capital might have remained there indefinitely. As it was,
by the terms of Monsieur's will, all was to be paid out as soon as
possible. It would take some years at best, for there was not the
readiness to come forward among eligible moneyed partners that had been
expected. The business wanted working up, there was no doubt, and
rumour exaggerated things. Still--oh no, there was no cause for alarm;
but still, even a small certainty like the rent of the house was not to
be neglected.
So "Madame" of course gave in--the offer was accepted; a somewhat
hurried selection of the things to be taken to England made, the rest
sold. And the next two months were spent at Les Rosiers, a place of no
special interest or association, though there were country neighbours to
be said good-bye to with regret on both sides.
The "letter from England" which little Hertford Derwent had told of the
evening he ran out to his sisters in the garden, had been a
disappointment to their mother, for it contained, returned from the
dead-letter office, one of her own, addressed by her some weeks
previously to her old friend, Sir Adam Nigel, at the house near
Blissmore, which she had believed was still his home.
"Not known at Alderwood," was the curt comment scored across the
envelope.
"I cannot understand it," she said to her daughters. "Alderwood was his
own place. Even if he were dead--and I feel sure I should have heard of
his death--some of his family must have succeeded him there."
"I thought he was an old bachelor," said Blanche.
"Yes, but the place--a family place--would have gone to some one
belonging to him, a nephew or a cousin. He was not a _nobody_, to be
forgotten."
"The place may have been sold," Blanche said again. "I suppose even old
family places are _sometimes_ sold in England."
But still Mrs Derwent repeated that she could scarcely think so; at
least she felt an instinctive conviction that she would have heard of
it.
"It may possibly be let to strangers, and some careless servant may have
sent back the letter without troubling to inquire," she said. "Of
course I can easily find out about it once we are there, but I feel
disappointed. I had counted on Sir Adam's helping me to find a suitable
house."
"How long is it since you last heard from him?" said Stasy.
"Oh, a good while. Let me see. I doubt if I have written to him
since--since I wrote to thank him for writing to me when--soon after
your father's death," replied Mrs Derwent.
"That is several years ago," said Blanche gently. "I fear, dear mamma,
your old friend must be dead."
"I hope not," said her mother; "but for the present it is much the same
as if he were. Let me see. No, I cannot think of any one it would be
much use to write to at Blissmore. We must depend on ourselves."
"Who is the vicar at Fotherley now--at least, who came after our
grandfather?" asked Blanche.
Mrs Derwent looked up.
"That is not a bad idea. I might write to him. Fleming was his name.
I remember him vaguely; he was curate for a time. But that is now
twenty years ago: it is by no means certain he is still there, and I
don't care to write letters only to have them returned from the
post-office. Besides, I have not an altogether pleasant remembrance of
that Mr Fleming. His wife and daughter were noisy, pushing women, and
it was said the living was given to him greatly out of pity for their
poverty. Sir Adam told me about it in one of his letters: he regretted
it. Dear Sir Adam! He used to write often in those days."
"I daresay it will not make much difference in the end," said Blanche.
"No one can really choose a house for other people. Nothing could have
been decided without our seeing it."
"No; still it would have been nice to know that there were any promising
ones vacant. However, we have to be in London for a short time, in any
case. We must travel down to Blissmore from there, and look about for
ourselves."
The Derwents' first experience of their own, though unknown country was
a rather unfortunate one. Why, of all months in the year, the Fates
should have conspired to send them to London in November, it is not for
me to explain. No doubt, had Mrs Derwent's memories and knowledge of
the peculiarities of the English climate been as accurate as she liked
to believe they were of everything relating to her beloved country, she
would have set the Fates, or fate, at defiance, if such a thing be
possible, by avoiding this mysteriously doleful month as the date of her
return thither. But long residence in France, where, though often
without any spite or _malice prepense_, people _are_ very fond of
taunting British foreigners with the weak points in their national
perfection, had developed a curious, contradictory scepticism in her, as
to the existence of any such weak points at all.
"People do talk such _nonsense_ about England," she would say to her
daughters, "as if it were always raining there when it is not foggy. I
believe they think we never see the sun at all. Dear me! when I look
back on my childhood and youth, I cannot remember anything _but_
sunshiny days. It seems to have been always summer, even when we were
skating on the lake at Alderwood."
She smiled, and her daughters smiled. They understood, and believed
her--believed, Stasy especially, almost too unquestioningly. For when
the train drew up in Victoria Station that mid-November afternoon, the
poor girl turned to her mother with dismay.
"Mamma," she exclaimed, "it isn't three o'clock, and it is quite dark.
And such a queer kind of darkness! It came all of a sudden, just when
the houses got into rows and streets. I thought at first it was smoke
from some great fire. But it can't be, for nobody seems to notice it--
at least as far as I can see anybody. And the porters are all going
about with lanterns. Oh mamma, can it be--surely it isn't always like
this?"
And Stasy seemed on the point of tears.
Poor Mrs Derwent had had her unacknowledged suspicions. But she looked
out of the window as if for the first time she had noticed anything
amiss.
"Why, yes," she replied, "it is rather unlucky; but, after all, it will
be an amusing experience. We have made our debut in the thick of a real
London fog!"
Herty, who had been asleep, here woke up and began coughing and choking
and grumbling at what he called "the fire-taste" in his mouth; and even
the cheerful-minded Aline, the maid, looked rather blank.
Blanche said nothing, but from that moment a vague idea that, if no
suitable house offered itself at Blissmore, she would use her influence
in favour of London itself as their permanent headquarters, was
irrevocably dismissed from her mind.
"We should die!" she said to herself; "at least mamma and Stasy, who are
not as strong as I, would. Oh dear, I hope we are not going to regret
our great step!"
For they had left Bordeaux in the full glow of sunshine--the exquisite
"autumn summer" of the more genial south, where, though the winter may
not infrequently be bitingly cold, at least it is restricted to its own
orthodox three months.
"And this is only November," proceeded Blanche in her unspoken
misgivings. "Everybody says an English spring _never_ really sets in
till May, if then. Fancy fully five months of cold like this, and not
improbable fog. No, no; we cannot stay in London: the cold must be
faced, but not the fog."
Yet she could scarcely help laughing at the doleful expression of her
sister's face, when the little party had disentangled themselves and
their belongings from the railway carriage, and were standing,
bewildered and forlorn, trying to look about them in the murky air.
"Mustn't we see about our luggage, mamma?" said Blanche, feeling herself
considerably at a disadvantage in this strange and all but invisible
world. "It is managed the same way as in France, I suppose. We must
find the--what do they call the room where we wait to claim it?"
"I--I really don't know," said Mrs Derwent. "It will be all right, I
suppose, if we follow the others."
But there were no "others" with any very definite goal, apparently.
There were two or three little crowds dimly to be seen at different
parts of the train, whence boxes seemed to be disgorging.
"It is much more puzzling than in France," said Blanche, her own spirits
flagging. "I do hope we shall not have long to wait. This air is
really choking."
She had Herty's hand in hers, and moved forward towards a lamp, with
some vague idea that its light would lessen her perplexity. Suddenly a
face flashed upon her, and a sense of something bright and invigorating
came over her almost before she had time to associate the two together.
The face was that of a person standing just under the lamp--a girl, a
tall young girl with brilliant but kindly eyes, and a general look of
extreme, overflowing youthful happiness. She smiled at Blanche,
overhearing her last words.
"You should call a porter," she said. "They are rather scarce to-night,
the train was so full, and the fog is so confusing. Stay--there is
one.--Porter!--He will see to your luggage. You won't have as long to
wait as in Paris."
A sort of breath of thanks was all there was time for, then the girl
turned at the sound of a name--"Hebe"--through the fog, and was
instantly lost to view. But her face, her joyous face, in its strange
setting of dingy yellow-brown, streaked with the almost dingier
struggling gas-light, was impressed upon Blanche's memory, like a
never-to-be-forgotten picture.
"Hebe," she said to herself, as she explained to her mother, just then
becoming visible, that the porter would take charge for them--"Hebe: how
the name suits her!"
An hour later saw them in their temporary haven of refuge--a private
hotel in Jermyn Street. In this hotel Mrs Derwent had once spent a
happy week with her father when she was eighteen, and she was delighted
when, in reply to her letter bespeaking accommodation for herself and
her family, there came a reply in the same name as she remembered had
formerly been that of the proprietor.
"It _is_ nice that the landlord is still there: I wonder if they will
perhaps recollect us," she said. "Your grandfather always put up there.
They were such civil people."
"Civil" they still were, and had reason to be, for it is not every day
that a family party takes up its quarters indefinitely in a first-class
and expensive London hotel. And it had not occurred to Mrs Derwent to
make any very special inquiry as to their charges.
So in the meantime ignorance was bliss, and the sitting-room, though
small, with two bedrooms opening out of it on one side and one on the
other, looked fairly comfortable, despite the insidious fog lurking in
every corner. For there was a good fire blazing, and promise of tea on
a side-table. But it was all so strange, so very strange! A curious
thrill, almost of anguish, passed through Blanche, as she realised that
for the time being they were--but for this--homeless, and as if to mock
her, there came before her mental vision the dear old house--sunny, and
spacious, and above all familiar, which they had left for ever! Had it
been well to do so? The future alone could show.
But a glance at her mother's face, pale and anxious, under a very
obtrusive cheerfulness, far more touching than expressed misgiving,
recalled the girl to the small but unmistakable duties of the present.
"I mustn't begin to be sentimental about our old home," she said to
herself. "Mamma has acted from the very best possible motives, and I
must support her by being hopeful and cheerful."
And she turned brightly to Stasy, who had thrown herself on to a low
chair in front of the hearth, and was holding out her cold hands to the
blaze.
"What a nice fire!" said the elder girl. "How beautifully warm!"
"Yes," Stasy agreed. "I am beginning already to understand the English
devotion to one's own fireside. Poor things! There cannot be much
temptation--in London, at least--to stray far from it. Imagine walking,
or even worse, _driving_ through the streets! And I had looked forward
to shopping a little, and to seeing some of the sights of London. How
do people ever do _anything_ here?"
Her extreme dolefulness roused the others to genuine laughter.
"My dearest child," said her mother, "you don't suppose London is always
like this? Why, I don't remember a single fog when I was a girl, and
though I did not live in London, I often paid visits here, now and then
in the winter."
"Oh, but, mamma, you can't remember anything in England but
delightfulness," said Stasy incredulously. "Why, I know one day you
told us it seemed to have been summer even when you were skating. And I
daresay fogs have got worse since then. Very likely we shall be told
that they are beginning to spread all over the country. I know I read
or heard somewhere that they were getting worse."
"Only in London," said Blanche, "and that is because it is growing and
growing so. That does not affect the rest of England. The fogs are the
_revers de la medaille_ of these lovely, hot coal-fires, I suppose."
She stooped and took up the tongs to lift a red-hot glowing morsel that
had fallen into the grate, taking advantage of the position to whisper
into her sister's ears a word of remembrance.
"Do try to be a little brighter, Stasy, for mamma's sake."
The entrance of tea at that moment did more perhaps in the desired
direction than Blanche's hint. Stasy got up from her low chair and
looked about her.
"How long has there been fog like this?" she asked the waiter, as he
reappeared with a beautifully toasted tea-cake.
"Yesterday, miss. No, the day before, I think," he replied, as if fog
or no fog were not a matter of special importance.
"And how long do they last generally?" Stasy continued.
"As bad as this--not often over a day or two, miss," he replied. "It
may be quite bright to-morrow morning."
"There now, Stasy," said her mother. "I told you so. There is nothing
to be low-spirited about. It is just--well, just a little unlucky. But
we are all tired, and we will go to bed early, and forget about the
fog."
"Besides," said Blanche, quietly, "we are not going to live in London.--
Herty, you had better come close to the table; and if you mean to have
any dinner, you had better not eat _quite_ as much as you can, at
present."
"I don't want any dinner," said Herty. "English boys don't have late
dinner. They have no little breakfast, but a big one, early, and then a
dinner instead of big breakfast, and just tea at night. Don't they,
mamma? And I am going to be quite English, so I shall begin now at
once. Please may I have some more bread-and-butter, mamma?"
Mrs Derwent looked at him rather critically.
"Yes," she said, "you may have some more if you really mean what you
say. But it won't do for you to come, in an hour or two, saying you are
so hungry, you really must have some dinner, after all."
"No," said Herty, "I won't do that."
"And remember," said Stasy severely, "that this is a hotel, not our own
house. Whatever you eat here has to be paid for separately. It's not
like having a kitchen of our own, and Felicie going out and buying
everything and cooking for us. _Then_ it didn't make much difference
whether you ate a great deal or not." Herty took the slice of
bread-and-butter, in which he had just made a large semicircular hole,
out of his mouth, and looked at Stasy very gravely. This was a new idea
to him, and a rather appalling one.
"Yes," his sister repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her
words, "you'll have to think about it, Herty. Mamma isn't as rich as
she used to be; we haven't got vineyards and great cellars all full of
wine now. And when you go to school, that will cost a lot. English
schools are very dear."
Herty slowly turned his head round and gazed, first at his mother, then
at Blanche. The round of bread-and-butter had disappeared by this time,
so he was able to open his mouth wide, which he proceeded to do
preparatory to a good howl.
"Mamma," he was beginning, but Blanche stepped in to the rescue.
"Stasy," she said, though she could scarcely help laughing, "how can you
tease him so?"
For it was one of Stasy's peculiarities that, in a certain depressed
mood of her very April-like temperament, the only relief to her feelings
was teasing Herty. The usual invigoration seemed to have followed the
present performance; her colour had returned, and her eyes were
sparkling.
"Blanchie, Blanchie," said Herty, wavering for moment in his intention,
"is it true? Will poor mamma have to pay a great lot of money if I eat
much bread-and-butter?"
"No, no; of course not. Can't you see when Stasy's teasing you, you
silly boy?" said Blanche caressingly. "Why, you are eight years old
now! You should laugh at her. Mamma has plenty of money to pay for
everything we need, though of course you mustn't be greedy."
"But hotels _are_ dear," persisted Stasy calmly.
"Well, we are not going to live at a hotel for ever," said Blanche.
"Nor for very long, I hope," added her mother. "I do look forward to
being settled. Though, if the weather were pretty good, it would be
nice to be in London for a little. We must get to know some of the
shops, for living in the country makes one rather dependent upon writing
to London for things."
Blanche was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up suddenly.
"Have you no friends to go to see here, mamma? Is there nobody who can
give us a little advice how to set about our house-hunting?"
"I scarcely thought it would be necessary to have any," said Mrs
Derwent. "My plan was simply to go down with one or both of you to
Blissmore for a day, and look about for ourselves. You see, I shall
feel quite at home once I am there, and it would be easy to ask at the
inn or at the principal shop--old Ferris's--if any houses are vacant.
They always used to have notice of things of the kind."
"But mamma, dear," said Blanche softly, "all that is more than twenty
years ago."
Mrs Derwent was giving Herty a second cup of tea, and did not seem to
catch the words.
CHAPTER THREE.
THEN AND NOW.
Negatively, the waiter's prediction was fulfilled the next morning.
That is to say, the fog was gone; but as to the "quite bright"--well,
opinions vary, no doubt, as to "quite brightness." Stasy stood at the
window overlooking the street, when she felt a hand on her shoulder,
and, glancing round, saw that it was her sister's.
"Well, dear," said Blanche, "it is an improvement on last night, isn't
it?"
"I don't know," said Stasy dubiously. "It's certainly better than fog,
but then, fog isn't _always_ there; and this sort of dull grey look is
the regular thing in London, I suppose. I have often heard it was like
that, but I don't think I quite believed it before."
"But we are not going to live in London," said Blanche, "and the country
in some parts of England is very bright and cheerful. Of course, this
is the very dullest time of the year; we must remember that. Perhaps it
is a good thing to begin at the worst; people say so, but I am not quite
sure. There is a great deal in first impressions--bright ones leave an
after-glow."
Just then their mother came into the room.
"Isn't it nice that the fog has gone?" she said. "And to me there is
something quite exhilarating in the sight of a London street! Dear me,
how it carries one back--"
She stood just behind the two girls, and as Blanche glanced round at
her, she thought how very pretty her mother still was. Her eyes were so
bright, and the slight flush on her cheeks made her look so young.
"You have slept well, mamma, haven't you?" she said affectionately.
"You seem quite fresh and energetic."
"Yes, I feel so; and hungry too. I always think London air makes me
hungry, even though people abuse it so. Here comes breakfast.--You look
well too, Blanchie.--But Stasy, have you not got over your fatigue yet?"
"I don't know," said Stasy. "Perhaps not; everything feels so strange.
I don't think I like London, mamma."
Mrs Derwent laughed, but she seemed a little troubled too. Stasy, like
herself, was very impressionable, but less buoyant. She had been full
of enthusiastic delight at the thought of coming to England, and now she
seemed in danger of going to the other extreme.
Blanche darted a somewhat reproachful look at her sister.
"Mamma," she said, "are you going to make some sort of plans? It would
be as well to do so at once, don't you think? For if we are to be
settled in a home of our own by Christmas, as we have always hoped,
there is not much time to lose about finding a house. And if there was
nothing at Blissmore--"
"Oh, but there _must_ be something at Blissmore," said Mrs Derwent
confidently. "And I quite agree with you, Blanchie, about not losing
time. I wonder what is the best thing to do," she went on,
consideringly.
The waiter just then entered the room.
"Can you let me see a railway guide?" she asked.
"A Bradshaw, ma'am, or a `Hay, B, C'?" said the man.
"A _what_?" enquired Mrs Derwent, perplexed.
"A `Hay, B, C,'" he repeated. "They are simpler, ma'am, more suited to
ladies, begging your pardon."
"Please let me see one, then.--It must be some new kind of guide since
my time, I suppose," she added, turning to the others. "I must confess,
Bradshaw would be a labyrinth to me. I want to see exactly how long it
takes to Blissmore, and if we could get back the same evening." And as
the waiter reappeared with the yellow-paper-covered guide in one hand,
and the _Morning Post_ in the other, she exclaimed, as soon as she had
glanced at the former, "Oh, _what_ a nice guide! B--`Blackheath,'
`Blendon'--yes, here it is, `Blissmore.'"
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Mrs Derwent spoke again:
"Yes, I think we can manage it in a day--the first time, at any rate.
There is a train at--let me see.--Blanchie, do you hear?"
But Blanche was immersed in the newspaper. The outside column of houses
to let had caught her eye.
"Mamma," she said suddenly, "is there more than one Blissmore?" And her
fair face looked a little flushed. "If not, it is really a curious
coincidence. Look here," and she held the paper for her mother to see,
while she read aloud:
"Shire. Country residence to be let unfurnished, one mile from
Blissmore Station. Contains"--and then followed the number of rooms,
stabling for three horses, ending up with "quaint and well-stocked
garden. Rent moderate. Apply to Messrs Otterson and Bewley,
house-agents, Enneslie Street, Blissmore."
"Otterson and Bewley," Mrs Derwent repeated. "Who can they be? I don't
remember the name at all. Enneslie Street? Let me see; that was--"
"Never mind about that, mamma dear," said Stasy, who had brightened up
wonderfully as she listened to her sister; "I do feel so excited about
this house. It seems the very thing for us. Shall we go down to
Blissmore at once to see it? I do hope it won't be taken."
"That is not likely," said Blanche. "It is not everybody that has any
peculiar attraction to Blissmore. And just look at the list of houses
to let!" she added, holding up the paper as she spoke. "But I do think
it would be well to write about it, don't you, mamma?"
"Certainly I will. And I am glad to know the name of a house-agent,
though it seems strange that there should be such a person at a tiny
place like Blissmore. I can't even remember Enneslie Street, though
there seems--oh yes, that must be why the name seems familiar. There
was a family called Enneslie at a pretty place a short way from
Blissmore--Barleymead--yes, that was it. The Enneslies must have been
building some houses, I suppose."
And as soon as the obliging waiter had removed the breakfast things, Mrs
Derwent got out her writing materials, and set to work at a letter to
Messrs Otterson and Bewley.
It was just a little difficult to her to write anything of a formal or
business-like nature in English. For as a young girl, nothing of the
kind had been required of her, and since her marriage, though the
Derwent family had been faithful to their own language among themselves,
all outside matters were of course transacted in French. So Blanche and
Stasy were both called upon for their advice and opinion.
"How do you begin in English, when it is to a firm?" said Blanche. "In
French it is so easy--`Messieurs'--but you can't say `Sirs,' can you?"
Mrs Derwent hesitated.
"I really don't know," she said frankly. "You sometimes wrote for your
grandfather to bankers and such people, didn't you, Blanche? Can't you
remember?"
Blanche considered.
"I don't recollect ever writing anything but `Sir' or `Dear sir,'" she
said.
The three looked at each other in perplexity.
Suddenly a bright idea struck Mrs Derwent.
"I will write it in the third person," she said. "Mrs Derwent will be
obliged, etc."
"That is a capital plan," said Blanche, and in a few minutes the letter
was satisfactorily completed.
It read rather quaintly, notwithstanding the trouble that had been taken
with its composition. The clerk in Messrs Otterson and Bewley's small
back office, whose department it was to open the letters addressed to
the firm, glanced through it a second time and then tossed it over to
young Mr Otterson, who was supposed to be learning the business as a
junior in his father's employ.
"Foreigners, I should say," observed the clerk.
"Better show it to the governor before you send an order to view,"
replied the other.
Mr Otterson, senior, looked dubious.
"Send particulars and an order," he said, "but mention that no
negotiations can be entered upon without references. We must be
careful: this school is bringing all sorts of impecunious people about
the place."
So the reply which found its way to the private hotel in Jermyn Street,
though, strictly speaking, civil, was not exactly inviting in its tone.
Mrs Derwent read it, then passed it on to her elder daughter. She felt
disappointed and rather chilled. They had been looking for the letter
very eagerly, for time hung somewhat heavy on their hands. They had no
one to go to see, and very little shopping to do, owing partly to their
still deep mourning. And the noise and bustle of the London streets,
even at this dead season, was confusing and tiring; worst of all, there
was an incipient fog about still, as is not unusual in November.
"What do you think of it?" said Mrs Derwent, when Blanche had read the
letter.
"It is dear, surely," said Blanche. "Let me see--one hundred and twenty
pounds; that is, three thousand francs. I thought small country-houses
in England were less than that."
"So did I," her mother replied. "Still, we can afford that. Of course,
if it had not been for my own money turning out so much less than was
expected, we could have bought a little place, which would have been far
nicer."
"I don't know that," said Blanche. "At least, it would not have been
wise to buy a place till we had tried it. And you have still a little
money, mamma, besides what we get from France. We shall have quite
enough."
Mrs Derwent's "own money," inherited from her father, had been unwisely
invested by him; when it came to be realised after his death, it proved
a much less important addition to Henry Derwent's income than had been
anticipated.