letter as she spoke. "I don't understand," she went on again, "I don't
understand what they mean by the `recent rise in house rents owing to
the improvements in the town.' What improvements can there be?"
"Gas, perhaps, or electric light," said Blanche.
"_Gas_, my dear child!" repeated her mother. "Of course, there has
always been gas there. It was not such a barbarous, out-of-the-way
place as all that. Still, I scarcely think they can have risen to the
heights of electric lighting yet. But we must go down and see for
ourselves. These agents ask for references, too: I wonder if that is
usual in England? No doubt, however, it will be all right when I tell
them who I was."
"But if they did want formal references," said Blanche hesitatingly,
"have we any one whose name we could give?"
"My bankers," Mrs Derwent replied promptly. "Monsieur Bergeret opened a
private account for me with the firm's bankers here. I do wish I could
identify the house," she added. "I am sure I never heard the name
before--`Pinnerton Lodge'--and yet I have a vague remembrance of
`Pinnerton.'"
"Just as you had of `Enneslie,' mamma," said Stasy. "Well, when are we
to go to see it? To-morrow?"
"Yes; I see no use in delaying it," said Mrs Derwent.
So the next morning saw the mother and daughters again at Victoria
Station, Master Herty having been given over with many charges to the
care of the faithful Aline.
They were in more than good time; their train was not due for some
twenty minutes or so, and as they walked up and down the platform, the
picture of their first arrival there returned to Blanche's mind.
"Did you see that girl the other night, mamma?" she said. "The girl who
hailed a porter for us. No, I don't think you did. The fog was so
thick. I never saw such a charming face: the very incarnation of youth
and happiness she seemed to me;" and she related the little incident to
her companions.
Stasy sighed.
"I daresay she has got a lovely home somewhere, and relations who make a
great pet of her, and--and--oh, just everything in the world she wants,"
she said.
Blanche looked at her sister doubtfully.
"Perhaps she has, but perhaps not," she replied. "It isn't always those
lucky people who are the happiest. But, Stasy, I do wish you wouldn't
be so lugubrious: the air of London doesn't seem to suit you."
"I am not lugubri--what a dreadful word!--I am quite cheerful to-day.
It is so interesting to be going to choose our new house. Mamma, shall
we have to buy a lot of furniture, or will there be enough of what we
had at home?"
"My dear Stasy--of course not. What a baby you are! Don't you remember
that we sold by far the greater part to the Baron de Var? Dear me, yes;
we shall have to buy all sorts of things."
Stasy's eyes sparkled.
"That will be delightful," she said. "I _am_ so glad. So if we settle
to take the house at once, we shall be ever so busy choosing things.
That's just what I like."
Her good spirits lasted, and, indeed, increased, to the end of the
journey. It was exhilarating to get out of the murky London air, even
though in the country it was decidedly cold, and even slightly misty.
As they approached her old home, Mrs Derwent grew pale with excitement.
"To think," she said to her daughters, "of all that has happened since I
left it, a thoughtless girl, that bright October morning, when my father
drove me in to the station, and gave me in charge to the friend who was
to take me to Paris, where young Madame de Caillemont, as we called
her--the daughter-in-law of our old friend--met me, to escort me to
Bordeaux. To think that I never came back again till now--with you two,
my darlings, fatherless already in your turn, as I was so soon to be
then."
"But not _motherless_?" said Stasy, nestling in closer, "as you were,
you poor, dear, little thing. And you hadn't even a brother or sister!
Except for marrying papa, you would have been very lonely. But I wish
you'd look out of the window now, mamma, and see if you remember the
places. We must be getting very near Blissmore."
The train was an express one, which in itself had surprised Mrs Derwent
a little: express trains used not to stop at Blissmore. They whizzed
past some roadside stations, of which, with some difficulty the girls
made out the names, in one or two instances familiar to their mother.
Then signs of a more important stopping-place began to appear; rows of
small, "run-up" cottages, such as one often sees on the outskirts of a
town that is beginning to "grow;" here and there a tall chimney,
suggestive of a brewery or steam-laundry, were to be seen, on which Mrs
Derwent gazed with bewildered eyes.
"This surely cannot be Blissmore," she exclaimed, as the train
slackened. "I have not recognised the neighbourhood at all. It must be
some larger town that I had forgotten, or else the railway comes along a
different route now."
But Blissmore it was. Another moment or two left no room for doubt;
and, feeling indeed like a stranger in a strange land, Mrs Derwent
stepped on to the platform of what was now a fairly important railway
station.
"A fly, ma'am--want a fly?" said several voices, as the three made their
way to the outside, where several vehicles were standing, and some
amount of bustle going on.
Mrs Derwent looked irresolutely at her daughters. "I had thought of
walking to the house-agents'," she said; "but now I doubt if I should
find the way. It all seems so utterly changed."
"We should need a carriage in any case to get to the place we have come
to see," said Blanche. "It is a mile or more from the station, they
said."
"Pinnerton Lodge," said Mrs Derwent to the foremost of the flymen; "do
you know where that is?"
"Pinnerton Lodge," repeated the man. Then, his memory refreshed by some
of the standers-by, he exclaimed: "Oh, to be sure--out Pinnerton Green
way. There's two or three houses out there."
"Then I shall want you to drive us there; but go first to Enneslie
Street--Messrs Otterson and Bewley, the house-agents," said Mrs Derwent,
as she got into the fly, followed by her daughters.
"Pinnerton Green," she repeated as they were driving off. "Oh yes; I
remember now. That was what was in my mind. It was a sort of little
hamlet near Blissmore, with an old-world well in the middle of the
green. They must have built houses about there. How they have been
building!" she continued, as the fly turned into the High Street of the
little town. "I know where I am now; but really--it is almost
incredible."
Blanche and Stasy were looking about them with interest. But in
comparison with London and Paris, and even Bordeaux, Blissmore did not
strike them as anything but a small town. They had not their mother's
associations with grass-grown streets, and but one thoroughfare worthy
the name, and two or three sleepy shops, whose modest windows scarcely
allowed the goods for sale to be seen at all.
"It is a nice, bright, little place, I think," said Blanche, as some
rays of wintry sunshine lighted up the old church clock, which at that
moment pealed out noon, sonorously enough, eliciting the exclamation,
"Ah yes; there is a familiar sound," from Mrs Derwent.
A moment later and they had turned into a side-street, to draw up, a few
yards farther on, in front of a very modern, spick-and-span-looking
house, half shop, half office, with the name they were in quest of,
"Messrs Otterson and Bewley, House-agents, Auctioneers, etc," in large
black-and-gold letters, on the plate-glass.
"Enneslie Street," said Mrs Derwent. "Why, this used to be Market
Corner! There were only about half-a-dozen cottages, and, on market
days, a few booths. Dear me! I feel like Rip Van Winkle."
CHAPTER FOUR.
PINNERTON LODGE.
Mr Otterson received the strangers with formal and somewhat pompous
civility, and a somewhat exaggerated caution, not to say suspiciousness
of manner, which struck disagreeably on Mrs Derwent and Blanche,
accustomed to have to do with people who knew as much about them as they
did themselves.
The house could be seen at once, certainly; as to that there was no
difficulty. But before entering further into the matter, Mr Otterson
begged to be excused, but might he remind the ladies that his client
empowered him to deal with no applicants whose references were not
perfectly sufficient and satisfactory. Clear understanding in such
cases was, according to his experience, the best in the end, even if it
should cause a little delay at the outset.
"No delay need be caused in _my_ case," said Mrs Derwent, with a touch
of haughtiness which her daughters enjoyed. "My references will be
found perfectly satisfactory. Is this--this ultra caution, _usual_ in
such transactions," she continued, flushing a little, "may I ask?"
And as she spoke, she drew out of her bag and deposited on the table two
letters she had had the foresight to bring with her--one from the firm
at Bordeaux, enclosing an acknowledgment to them of the money placed to
the credit of "Mrs Anastasia Derwent" with their London bankers.
Mr Otterson's keen eyes took in the nature of their contents even while
scarcely seeming to glance at them. His manner grew a trifle less
stilted.
"Cautious we have to be, madam," he replied, "though you will not find
us exaggeratedly so, I trust. And in the interests of our clients, we
naturally feel it our duty to give the preference to the most desirable
among the constantly increasing applications for houses here. In your
case, possibly, being foreigners, a little extra--"
"We are _not_ foreigners," said Blanche; "and if we were? I certainly
am not surprised at the small number of upper-class `foreigners' who
come to England, if this is the sort of thing they have to go through."
The house-agent glanced at her with a mixture of annoyance and
admiration. She looked beautiful at that moment. Her fair face
flushed, her usually gentle eyes sparkling.
"You--you misunderstand, madam," he was beginning, when Mrs Derwent in
her turn interrupted him.
"On the contrary, sir," she said very quietly, "I think, it is
distinctly you who have misunderstood us. As my daughter says, we are
not foreigners. Beyond the statement of that fact, which you seem to
consider important, I do not think we need waste time by entering into
further particulars. The matter is a purely business one. If you do
not find my references satisfactory, be so good as to say so at once,
and I will apply to London agents about a house."
In his heart Mr Otterson had no wish to let these really very promising
applicants for the honour of inhabiting Pinnerton Lodge escape him. On
the contrary, they struck him as just the sort of people its owner would
approve of--not unwilling to lay out a little money on repairs and
improvements, etc.
"I have in no way implied, madam, that the names you have submitted to
me are unsatisfactory references," he said, not without a touch of
dignity. "As you observe, it is a matter of business, and if you
approve, I will send a clerk at once to the house to have it all open
for you."
"He can go on the box of our fly," said Mrs Derwent, with a glance out
of the window; "I understand it is some little way off." And as Mr
Otterson touched a hand-bell standing beside him on the table, Mrs
Derwent addressed him again.
"What has caused this increased demand for houses here?" she said.
"What has led to the many changes in the place--the sudden growth of
it?"
Mr Otterson raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Naturally, of course, in the first instance, the school," he replied.
"And the breweries--the two large companies of brewers have brought a
great many working men to the place, and the school even more. It has
led to an immense amount of building--private houses of all classes, as
the advantages and cheapness of the education to be got here are now
almost unparalleled."
Mrs Derwent looked surprised.
"I do not remember any school here in the old days," she said. "At
least--there was a small old school--but--"
"That is the same, no doubt," said the house-agent. "The foundation has
been altered, by Act of Parliament, of course. The accumulated funds
were very large: it is now a first-rate school for middle-class, indeed
for upper-class boys, where economy is a consideration. Families have
been in consequence flocking to Blissmore. But the last year or two has
cooled down the rush a little. At one time it was almost alarming; but
things are settling themselves now."
Just then the clerk appeared. Mr Otterson opened the door, speeding the
parting guests with more urbanity than he had received them.
"I will look in here on my return," said Mrs Derwent, with a
sufficiently courteous bow, "and tell you what we think of the house."
"Oh mamma," exclaimed Stasy, as soon as the three found themselves again
in the privacy of the fly, "how _horrid_ England is--how horrid English
people are! How dared that common man speak to you like that, when you
think how Monsieur Bergeret, who was far, _far_ more a gentleman than
he, used to treat you, as if you were a queen! Why, he used to look as
proud as anything if you shook hands with him! Oh Blanchie, do let us
go back--go home again. I have been feeling it ever since we arrived,
that first night with the dreadful fog, though I didn't like to say so."
And poor Stasy looked up with tearful and beseeching eyes as she
repeated:
"Oh, do let us go home again."
Mrs Derwent was sorry and distressed. But, on the whole, Blanche took
it more seriously. For her mother was still to some extent under the
glamour of her old associations, and "After all," thought the elder girl
to herself, "she must know better than we can. Perhaps it will come
right in the end."
So she said nothing, resolutely crushing back the strong inclination she
felt to join in the cry, "Oh, do, mamma, do let us go home," while she
listened to her mother's expostulations with poor Stasy.
"There are vulgar-minded and disagreeable people everywhere, my dear
child. And perhaps, after all, the man only meant to do his duty. I
daresay now, if we were going over to France for the first time,
inexperienced and strange, we should find just as much to complain of
there. You will feel quite different when we are settled in a pretty
house of our own. And think how interesting it will be to choose the
furnishing and everything. Do try, dear, to be more cheerful--for my
sake, too."
Stasy wiped off such of her tears as had found their way to the surface,
and swallowed down the others, though the choking in her throat
prevented her speaking for a moment or two. But she took hold of her
mother's hand and stroked it.
"I think," said Blanche, smiling a little at the remembrance, "the man
got as good as he gave. I hope that isn't a very vulgar expression,
mamma? I have read it often, though I never heard it. Was I too
scornful to him? I did feel _so_ angry; perfectly boiling for a moment
or two. I don't often feel like that."
Stasy began to smile too.
"You were splendid, Blanchie. He was _shaking_; he was, really. I am
so glad I was there to see it. And he had begun to look ashamed when
mamma laid the letters on the table in that nice grand way. Oh yes, I
do hope the house will be pretty. Are we getting near it, do you think,
mamma? The road seems quite country now."
Mrs Derwent looked out of the window scrutinisingly.
"I think we must be nearly there," she replied, "but I do not know this
side of Blissmore nearly as well as _our_ side. I am glad to see there
is not so much building hereabouts. Oh yes," as the fly rather suddenly
turned down a lane, "I know where we are now; it is all coming back to
me. This lane comes out on to Pinnerton Green. There is an old well in
the centre, and five or six cottages, and the church, and a pretty
little vicarage. I will shut my eyes, and you girls tell me if I am not
right. The church stands right opposite the side of the green, where we
come out--now, doesn't it?"
Mrs Derwent was quite excited; the two girls scarcely less so. And as
the fly emerged on to the opener ground, for a moment or two no one
spoke. Then Blanche exclaimed, half hesitatingly:
"Yes, there is the church. A dear old church, just across the green,
all covered with ivy. And the vicarage. But the cottages--where can
they be? And mamma, there are ever so many big, or _rather_ big houses,
with gardens opening on to the green. Oh, you must open your eyes,
dear. I can't make it out." Mrs Derwent did as she was told, and
looked about her.
What a metamorphosis! There remained the church and the vicarage and
the old well as landmarks certainly, but beyond these, everything was
new.
The houses struck her herself less pleasantly than Blanche. They were
of the essentially English modern "villa" class, a class really unknown
in France, in old-world France especially. She gave a little gasp of
surprise and disappointment, but without speaking. And the next moment
she felt more than glad that she had not put her impression into words,
when poor Stasy exclaimed brightly:
"Oh, what nice cheerful houses; so fresh and new looking. And what
pretty, neat gardens. I do wonder which is Pinnerton Lodge! I feel
quite happy again about living in England, mamma."
Mrs Derwent smiled back at her, of course, though her own heart was
going down a little. Blanche's face expressed nothing but gentle and
resigned expectancy.
They were not long left in doubt as to "which" was their destination.
The fly, after some fumbling on the part of Messrs Otterson and Bewley's
clerk at a rusty padlock on the chain, which fastened a gate, turned in
at a short but shady drive, and Pinnerton Lodge in another moment stood
full before them.
Mrs Derwent's heart went up again. And glancing at her, Blanche's face
too relaxed into less constrained, or restrained lines; her eyes
brightened, and looked ready for a smile.
It was several degrees better than the obtrusively smart villas, though,
very possibly, less materially convenient and complete. It was nothing
more nor less than an enlarged and transmogrified cottage. The gable
end and deep-eaved roof were still to be seen at one side; the faithful,
clinging, all-the-year-round ivy; the more fitful summer friends--
old-fashioned climbing roses, honeysuckle, and the like--would reappear
again in due season, one felt instinctively. And the additions had not
been badly managed; there was no glaring incongruity between the new and
the old, and already the busy, patient ivy was doing its utmost to
soften with its veiling green all offensive contrasts.
"A nice little place of its kind," the boyish-looking clerk ventured to
remark to the three strangers, gazing before them in silence. "What you
call `quaint;' but some admire that style. It's not up to the mark of
the other houses on the green, but that's not to be expected. You see
it was the first start here, and the owner added on to the two old
cottages, instead of pulling them down and building all new, like the
rest;" and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the villas.
"Thank Heaven he did nothing of the sort," ejaculated Mrs Derwent. And
the clerk stared at her so, that she checked herself with a smile. "I
like it just as it is," she said by way of explanation. "It is a
picturesque-looking house; but it seems very small, I fear. From the
rent named, I expected a larger place."
"Rents have gone up about Blissmore quite astonishing," said the young
man. "And these odd houses are sometimes roomier than you'd think.
You'd like to see through it, no doubt. I have all the keys."
He moved forward, as he spoke, to the front of the house.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting in the porch for a minute or two," he
said. "The quickest way for me to get in is by the back door; the front
one is barred inside."
The porch was charming. Deep and shady, and with tiny lattice-windows
high up at each side, through which the wintry sun was sending a few
rays. There were seats and a red-tiled floor. The two girls gave a
quick exclamation of pleasure.
"It is like a little room," said Stasy. The clerk's face brightened.
He seemed to feel a personal interest in the matter.
"There is no one living in the house, then, to take care of it?"
inquired Mrs Derwent. "Is that not necessary?"
"Not in the fine season," was the reply. "We were just thinking of
putting some one in against the winter, if nothing came of the
advertisement. But in the summer it's very dry--very dry, indeed."
He turned away towards the back premises, and soon they heard his
footsteps returning through the passages. Then some unbolting and
unbarring ensued, and the door was thrown open.
They all entered eagerly. It was rather dark, but this their guide
explained was partly the result of unnecessarily closed shutters and
untrimmed ivy round some of the upper windows, though partly owing, no
doubt, to the oak wainscoting of the small square hall itself.
"It would look much cheerfuller with a nice paper--picked out with a
little gold, perhaps. But the woodwork has a style of its own; the late
owner was all for the antique."
"The _late_ owner," repeated Mrs Derwent. "Is he dead, then? Has the
house been long uninhabited?"
"Only since last spring. Mr Bartleman scarce lived in it himself. He
found the winters too cold. Then it was let to Major Frederic, and he
and his family lived here five years, till the young gentlemen had
finished their schooling. There were several after it in the summer,
but they mostly objected to the distance from the school."
"But how is it, then, that the villas are all let?" asked Blanche. "At
least, I suppose they are."
"They're not let, Miss. They're mostly lived in by their owners--
parties from the town, who have moved out, finding they could get a good
rent for their houses near the school. There's Mr Belton, the principal
draper at Blissmore, lives next door; and Mr Wandle, junior partner in
Luckworth and Wandle's brewery. The neighbours are highly respectable."
Mrs Derwent did not speak. Stasy was smothering a laugh. Blanche led
the way into the rooms opening on to the hall.
They were nice--decidedly tempting, though not large. But they were
depressingly out of repair. The Frederic schoolboys had evidently
bestowed upon the house more than the legitimate "wear and tear" during
their five years' occupancy. The drawing-room, especially, was scarcely
deserving of the name: it looked as if it had been a playroom _pur et
simple_. The attentive clerk was ready with his explanations.
"Major Frederic never furnished this room," he said. "It was kept empty
for the young gentlemen."
"It might be a very pretty room," said Blanche, "but it needs
_everything_ doing to it."
The dining-room, though it had been furnished and used in a nominally
orthodox way, was in not much better case. Still, a dining-room never,
to ladies especially, seems such a serious matter. The library was the
best-cared-for room, and it opened into a small boudoir or study, which
was really charming. There were great capabilities about the house,
though hitherto these had but scantily been made available. Up-stairs
it was brighter. There was a sufficient number of rooms, though
everywhere the same story of needful repair and embellishment.
Outside, to somewhat inexperienced eyes, it looked in fair order, for it
needs the full luxuriance of summer vegetation to show how, in a
neglected or semi-neglected garden, the weeds grow apace with or outrun
the orthodox inhabitants of the soil.
The clerk was very patient. The minute attention bestowed by the
visitors upon the little place seemed to him to savour of hope, and it
was in his own interests, poor fellow, to secure a "let," as it would
increase his chances of promotion in the office. But at last Mrs
Derwent and her daughters seemed satisfied.
"We shall miss our train to London," said the former, "if we stay any
longer; for I must see Mr Otterson on our way through the town."
So saying, she led the way out, turning, as she stepped on to the drive,
to give a last look at the house, with already a slight sense of
prospective proprietorship. But she said nothing, and the two girls
were quick-witted enough to follow her lead.
The flyman, for reasons best known to himself, had seen fit to drive out
into the road again, and was waiting, more than half asleep, at the
gate.
Blanche glanced round, and an idea struck her.
"Mamma," she said, "if you are not tired, might we walk on a little way?
I should like to have some idea of the neighbourhood, and to look in at
the church for a moment."