cold, was clear and bracing; very different from the murkiness of
London, which had been peculiarly trying to nerves and lungs accustomed
to the pure smokeless air of southern France. And the work at Pinnerton
Lodge was already begun. It was most interesting to go all over the
house again with the delightful sense of proprietorship, planning which
rooms should be for what and for whom; how the old furniture would "come
in," and what it would be necessary to add to it. And an occasional day
in London, with definite shopping for its object, made Stasy allow that
for some things, and in some ways, the great city was not altogether a
bad place after all.
Still, though they were not "dull" in the sense of having nothing to do,
and feeling in consequence listless and dreary, the little family felt
curiously lonely.
Miss Halliday was no gossip--that is to say, she drew the line at the
concerns of her visitors, and sternly refused to tell any of her cronies
anything about them. And though this rule of hers was well known, still
it added a slight element of mystery to her present lodgers, which, in
reality, led to more gossip about them than they were in the least aware
of. It was not often that visitors stayed so long at Miss Halliday's;
as a rule, her rooms were merely taken as a half-way house for a very
few days, by families pitching their tents in the now sought-after
little town. And for some time no one knew anything about Pinnerton
Lodge, as the distance between it and Blissmore was sufficient, in
winter especially, to prevent much passing by. Added to which one of
the good qualities of the Otterson and Bewley firm was discretion
carried to the limits of surliness, in their determination that all
knowledge of their clients' affairs should be confined to the office
itself.
So Blanche and Stasy walked up and down the Blissmore streets, intent on
such amount of shopping as Mrs Derwent would allow them to do there, or
marched out bravely to Pinnerton and back, however cold it was,
rejoicing in the "delightful English freedom," as Stasy called it, which
made it possible for them to do so without any breach of accepted rules,
innocent of the remarks and comments their appearance in public called
forth.
"I _can't_ make them out," said the wife of one of the doctors--
Blissmore now rejoiced in four or five, though formerly one and an
assistant had been all that was required--the wife, unluckily, of _the_
doctor whose house in the High Street was nearest to Miss Halliday's.
"I _can't_ make them out. Do they never mean to know anybody or tell
who they are? People who have come from abroad _should_ tell all about
themselves, or how can they expect any one to notice them."
Which was, to say the least, a begging-the-question kind of reproach,
seeing that in no way had the Derwent family expected, or seemed to
expect, the "notice" of Mrs Burgess or any of her coterie!
But it is not only the brave that chance sometimes favours. It favours
the idle and inquisitive and the busy-bodies too, now and then. And I
am afraid, without judging her too harshly, Mrs Burgess might come under
these heads.
The chance was that of Stasy getting a sore throat. It was not a very
bad one, but she was rather subject to sore throats, and the change of
climate made Mrs Derwent extra cautious about her. It got suddenly
worse one evening, and though Stasy was not cowardly or impatient when
she was ill, she had to own to feeling pretty bad, and depressing
visions of a quinsy she had had on one or two occasions rose before her.
"We must not trifle with it," her mother decided, and Miss Halliday was
summoned and consulted as to sending for the doctor. Her own doctor,
the one of oldest standing in the place, was unfortunately away for a
few days, she happened to know. But there were others. Mr Meyrick was
considered second best, but he lived quite at the other side of the
town, and--
"I do not think it is anything complicated," said Mrs Derwent. "If we
were at home"--and she sighed just a little--"I should know how to treat
it myself. But I have forgotten the names of English medicaments, and,
indeed, I doubt if we could get the herbs and simple drugs here at all.
No, it is best to have a doctor. Who is the nearest, Miss Halliday?"
"Mr Burgess lives only a few doors off," the little woman replied. "And
he is clever, I believe."
"But you don't like him, I see," said Mrs Derwent. "Is there anything
against him?"
"Oh dear, no. But they--Mr Burgess and his wife--are not like Dr
Summers and Miss Summers. Mrs Burgess has the name of chattering a
great deal, and rather spitefully sometimes," Miss Halliday admitted.
The Derwents only smiled.
"That really does not matter," said the mother. "We shall have nothing
to do with the wife. I think you had better send round for Mr Burgess
and ask him to look in at once."
The throat was not a quinsy, but still rather troublesome and painful.
Mr Burgess doctored it--or Stasy rather--skilfully enough, and being
pleasant and good-tempered, a certain amount of friendliness naturally
sprang up between himself and his new patient's family, including Stasy
herself.
"_He_ is not his wife, and you can say anything to a doctor," she
replied to Blanche, when, some days later--by which time Stasy was
almost quite well again--the elder sister was remonstrating with her for
talking too fast to her new friend, considering the warning they had
been given. "Besides, there is no secret about who we are, and where we
come from, or anything about us."
"Certainly not," said her mother, "but we do not want these Blissmore
ladies to begin calling upon us simply out of curiosity, and I did hear
you saying to the doctor this morning that it was very dull not to have
any friends here. I daresay he will have sense enough not to pay any
attention to it, otherwise, it almost sounded like asking his wife to
call."
But Stasy was sure she could not have been so misunderstood, and the
subject dropped. Only, however, to be revived more disagreeably when,
two days later, Mrs Burgess _did_ call. Her husband was really not to
blame for it, but he was an easy-going man, and, by a great show of
sympathy "with the poor things," feeling so lonely as they must be
doing, she extracted from him a reluctant half-consent to her taking
advantage of his professional acquaintance with the ladies, whose doings
had so occupied her empty head.
They were at home, and Deborah, somewhat overcome by the honour of a
call from Mrs Burgess, admitted and announced her without hesitation.
It was not in lady nature, certainly not in Mrs Derwent's nature, to be
other than perfectly courteous in her own house to any visitor, however
little desired, and, as was almost a matter of course with a woman of
Mrs Burgess's calibre, she mistook the gentle gravity with which she was
received for somewhat awe-struck gratification at her visit, and
speedily proceeded to make herself very much at home, very much at home
indeed.
This process consisted of several stages. In the first place, after
ensconsing herself in the most comfortable chair--Mrs Burgess had a
quick eye for a comfortable chair--and amiably waving her hostess to one
conveniently near, and, as she expressed it, on her "best side"--for the
doctor's wife was deaf--she loosened her cloak, remarking that, though
cold out-of-doors, it was rather "warm in here," the ceilings were low,
and low rooms get quickly "stuffy."
"Indeed," said Mrs Derwent. "I am sorry you find it so. We think these
rooms very well ventilated. Old-fashioned, thick-walled houses are
often warm in winter as well as cool in summer."
"Pr'aps so," said Mrs Burgess, "but I'm all for modern improvements.
We've done a deal to our house; we'd almost better have rebuilt it. But
you've been living abroad, I believe. Foreign houses are quite another
style of thing, I suppose? Very rough compared with English."
Mrs Derwent could not repress a smile.
"`Foreign' is a wide word," she said, "if you mean it in the sense of
anything or everything not _English_. No, I cannot say that we have
been accustomed to living in very rough ways, and there are many
beautiful houses in the south of France."
"Oh, the south of France!" repeated her visitor, who had not very
clearly caught the rest of Mrs Derwent's speech. "Yes, I suppose that's
very much improved by so many English going over there for the winters.
And was it for health, then, that you lived there? These young ladies
don't look so very strong. I must tell Mr Burgess to keep his eye on
them--living so near, it would be quite a pleasure. But, oh, I was
forgetting. You're thinking of living out of town a bit?"
"Yes," said Mrs Derwent. "I have taken a house at Pinnerton Green--
Pinnerton Lodge."
Mrs Burgess screwed up her lips.
"Damp," she said oracularly. "I don't hold with all these trees. And
these delicate girls--"
"Thank you, you are very kind," said Mrs Derwent, more stiffly; "but my
daughters are _not_ delicate, and--"
The only word that caught Mrs Burgess's ears was the objectionable
adjective.
"Of course, of course," she repeated; "I could see it in a moment. But
I'll tell you what you must do--have the trees thinned. That's what the
Wandles did in their grounds at Pinnerton; they had the trees _well
thinned_, especially at the side of the house, where the children's
windows look out. Mrs Wandle is most kind. I'm sure a word from me,
and she'd come to see you and tell you all about it. You don't know
her, of course? Never mind; I'll ask her to call. You see this is a
great tree country, and if you're not used to--"
"I know all about this part of the country very well, thank you; and I
think it particularly healthy. I was brought up here, and we are not
the least afraid of Pinnerton being damp," said Mrs Derwent, in her
irritation adding more than she need have done, or had meant to do.
Mrs Burgess, in her eagerness at some volunteered information, had
listened with extra attention.
"You were brought up here?" she exclaimed. "Where? Here, at
Blissmore?"
"No; at Fotherley," Mrs Derwent replied, in a sort of desperation,
thinking, perhaps, that the best policy would be to tell all there was
to tell, and so get rid of this unwelcome visitor. "My father, Mr
Fenning, was the vicar of Fotherley, and I lived there with him till a
short time before his death. I married abroad, and have never been in
England since."
"Dear, dear, how very interesting!" Mrs Burgess exclaimed. "I have
heard the name, Mr Fleming of Fotherley; though, of course, it was
before my time."
"_Fenning_, not Fleming," said Mrs Derwent, who had reason for objecting
to this mistake.
"Ah yes; _Fleming_," responded Mrs Burgess serenely.
And Mrs Derwent, afraid of beginning to laugh out of sheer nervousness
and irritation, gave up the attempt to set her right.
Then followed more cross-questioning, in which the doctor's wife was
almost as great an adept as the smartest of great ladies. She varied
her inquiries skilfully from mother to daughters, and back to mother
again, till none of the three felt sure what sort of correct or
"crooked" answers they had been beguiled into giving, and finally took
leave in high good-humour, reiterating at the last that she would not
forget to speak to Mrs Wandle; Mrs Derwent might depend upon her. "A
word from me will be enough: we are such great friends. I am sure she
will call as soon as she hears how anxious you are to see her."
As the door closed upon her, Mrs Derwent and Blanche looked first at
each other, then at Stasy, who put on an expression of extra innocence
and indifference. This hardened Blanche's heart.
"Well, Stasy," she said, "I hope you are satisfied. See what you have
done by telling Mr Burgess we felt dull, and so on."
"_I_ don't mind her having called," said Stasy, determined to keep up a
brave front. "I think she is most amusing; and what possible harm can
she do us?"
"Every harm of the kind; though, of course, I suppose one should try to
be above those things," said Blanche doubtfully. "But still, we didn't
come to live in England to have as our only friends and companions
people we _cannot_ feel in sympathy with. It is not wrong not to want
to live among coarse-natured, vulgar-minded people, if it isn't one's
duty to do so."
"There are vulgar minds in every class, I fear," said Mrs Derwent.
"Still, that is a different matter. I do wish this had not begun; for I
do not like to seem arrogant or ill-natured. And it is very difficult
to keep a pushing woman like this Mrs Burgess at a distance, without
being really disagreeable to her."
"We could stand _her_ even," said Blanche, regretfully. "There would be
a sort of excuse for it, as she is the doctor's wife; but it is all
these other awful people she is going to bring down upon us, `butchers
and bakers and candlestick-makers,' like the nursery rhyme you used to
say, mamma! And if other people--refined people--hear we are in the
midst of such society as that, _they_ won't want to know us. I wish we
hadn't come to Blissmore."
It was not often that Blanche was so discomposed. Her mother tried to
soften matters.
"It will only call for a little tact, my dear," she said. "I am sure we
shall be able to make them understand. It is not as if we were going to
live in the town."
"But Pinnerton Green is a nest of them," said Blanche.
"That won't matter so much. Once we are in our own house we can draw
our own lines. And when other people--better people--come to see us,
these good folk will keep out of the way," said Mrs Derwent.
"Well, I wish you would look up some of them, mamma," said Stasy. "For
my part, I would rather amuse myself with the Goths and Wandles, than
know nobody at all."
The others could not help laughing; but, nevertheless, Blanche still
felt not a little annoyed. She was more concerned for her sister than
for herself; for there was a vein in Stasy's character which sometimes
caused her mother and Blanche uneasiness--a love of excitement and
amusement at all costs.
"She _must_ have some really good companions," thought the elder girl.
And that very evening she persuaded her mother to write to Mrs Lilford,
Sir Adam Nigel's niece, recalling herself to that lady's memory. The
letter was addressed to Alderwood, and marked "to be forwarded."
"I hope something will come of it," said Blanche. "And you must try to
remember some other nice people, mamma; though, if Mrs Lilford is kind,
she can do a good deal in the way of introducing us, even though she no
longer lives here herself."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
MRS LILFORD'S TENANT.
In the increasing interest of getting the house at Pinnerton Green into
order, the arrival of the furniture from Bordeaux, the unpacking of
various precious belongings which had been left to come with the heavy
things by sea, all of which necessitated almost daily expeditions to the
new home, Mrs Derwent and her daughters forgot to think much of Mrs
Burgess and her unwelcome offers of introductions.
And as Mrs Wandle did not present herself, they began to hope that
perhaps the doctor's wife was as short of memory as she was hard of
hearing.
Still the latent fear was there, though what was to be done to evade the
acquaintance, it was difficult to say.
One afternoon--a dull, December afternoon, when the air was misty and
penetratingly cold, and one could only feel thankful it had not the
addition of smoke to turn it into fog of the first quality--the little
family was sitting in Miss Halliday's well-warmed, best parlour, glad
that the walk to Pinnerton Lodge had taken place that morning, before
the day had become so ungenial; and Stasy was proposing that, to cheer
them up a little, they should have afternoon tea rather earlier than
usual, when suddenly a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door--for the
house owned both knocker and bell--followed by a resounding tinkle, made
them all start.
"Who can it be?" said Blanche. "It isn't often that any one both rings
and knocks."
"A telegram," said Mrs Derwent. "No; that isn't likely. There is no
one to telegraph to us."
Then Deborah was heard hurrying along the passage; her footsteps sounded
as if she were somewhat flurried with the anticipation of a visitor of
more importance than the postman or milkman. The ladies listened with
curiosity, as a colloquy ensued between Deborah and some person or
persons unknown, ending, after some little delay, by footsteps slow and
heavy, following the small servant's patter along the passage.
Blanche glanced at her mother.
"Mrs Wandle," she ejaculated in a stage whisper.--"Stasy, jump up. For
goodness' sake, let us be dignified to her."
For Stasy was sitting on a low footstool on the hearthrug, doing
nothing, as was rather a favourite occupation of hers, and greatly
enjoying the agreeable glow of the fire, which had sunk down to the
pleasant redness preceding the sad necessity of "fresh coals," and the
consequent "spoiling it all" for the next half-hour.
"Coal-fires are very interesting, I find," she had just been saying.
"It almost makes up for the pleasure of turning the logs and seeing the
sparks fly out, to watch the pictures in a coal-fire. The fairy castles
and the caverns, and the--Oh, there is Monsieur Bergeret's nose! Do
look, Blanche. Did you ever see anything so exactly like?"
But "Jump up, Stasy," was all the reply she got, and as the door slowly
opened, a repeated whispered warning--"Mrs Wandle."
The name was not clearly audible which Deborah announced, but she
announced _something_, and to the prepossessed ears of her audience it
sounded as like "Mrs Wandle" as anything else. And in trotted, with as
much dignity as a stout, short person can achieve, a lady enveloped in
furs and wraps, who, after glancing round her with a sort of
"nonchalant" curiosity, held out a somewhat limp hand to Mrs Derwent.
"How de do?" she began. "I heard from Mrs--" (afterwards, with a
sensation of guilt and self-reproach, Blanche had to own to herself that
the name had _not_ sounded like "Burgess") "that you--I mean that she
would like me to call, though it's quite out of my way to come into
Blissmore. Are these your daughters?--How de do? how de do?"
And then she sank into a chair, apparently at an end of her
conversational resources.
"What an impertinent, vulgar old cat!" thought Stasy, shivering
prospectively at the "all your doings" which she felt sure were in
reserve for her.
But aloud, of course, she said nothing, only sat motionless, her great
dark eyes fixed on the stranger with a peculiar expression which Blanche
knew well.
For a moment or two there was silence. Then Mrs Derwent's clear, quiet
tones sounded through the room.
"I am sorry you should have inconvenienced yourself by coming out of
your way to see us," she said. "I trust you will not dream of giving
yourself the trouble a second time."
"Well, no, I don't think I shall," the visitor replied calmly. "I hear
you are going to live at Pinnerton. I should be glad to show you the
pictures, and anything else you care to see, if you come over some day.
It's not a very long walk over the fields."
"Some of us go to Pinnerton nearly every day," said Mrs Derwent, "but it
is too far for me to walk. When I go, I drive. But I did not know
there was a short cut to Pinnerton. We have always gone by the road."
"I didn't say to Pinnerton," said the visitor. "I said _from_
Pinnerton. _I_ don't live there, but I heard you were going to live
there."
"So we are," Mrs Derwent replied, rather bewildered.
Evidently this could not be _the_ Mrs Wandle, the Pinnerton Green Mrs
Wandle, that was to say, and yet--she had distinctly said that she had
been _asked_ to call upon them.
"You used to live in our neighbourhood, I hear," the stout lady
proceeded. "Fleming, I think that was the name?"
"No," Mrs Derwent replied rather sharply. If there was one thing in the
world she cordially detested, it was to be confused with the Fleming
family, whom she remembered, before they came to Fotherley, as very
objectionable. "No, my name was _Fenning_. My father was vicar of
Fotherley, and Mr Fleming, who succeeded him there, and was once his
curate, had a small living in the neighbourhood."
"Oh, indeed--yes, Fenning or Fleming. I knew it was some such name.
Well, Mrs Flem--I beg your pardon, Mrs Derwent. If you like to come
over some day when you are at Pinnerton, you can see through the house,
even if I am not at home. I will leave orders. I can't promise to go
to see you at Pinnerton, for it's quite out of my way. Even when I am
at East Moddersham, I always go and come by the other side."
"At East Moddersham?" said the Derwents to themselves, more completely
perplexed than ever. "Did the Wandles visit _there_?"
"East Moddersham is Sir Conway Marth's, is it not?" said Blanche. "Can
you tell me if that charming-looking girl whom I have seen riding about
there is his niece?"
The visitor looked at her for a moment without speaking. It was a calm,
deliberate taking stock of her, of which Blanche felt the extreme
though, quite possibly, not intended rudeness, and her cheeks grew
crimson. On the whole, the taking stock seemed to result favourably.
"No, but she is his ward," the stout lady replied; "I suppose you mean
Lady Hebe Shetland. She is very lovely," and a softer and more genial
expression came over the plain face as she spoke. "You have lived a
great deal in France, I hear," she went on, continuing to address
Blanche. "It must have been a great advantage to you. I suppose you
speak French _quite_ well--without any accent?"
"Naturally," said Stasy, and her clear, rather shrill voice almost made
the others jump. "How could we help speaking it perfectly, when it was
the language of the country we were born and brought up in?" She got no
reply. The lady glanced at her for half an instant, as if to say, "What
an impertinent child!"--then turned again to Blanche. "I should like
you to come to luncheon with me some day. I will let you know a day
that I shall be quite alone, so that we could talk French all the time.
I want to rub up my French. Mr Dunstan and I go abroad every year, and
I like to speak French perfectly."
Then, quite satisfied that she had made herself most agreeable, the
visitor rose, and saying as she shook hands, "I shall tell Mrs Lilford I
saw you. And you must come over to see the pictures some day," she
slowly made her way to the door, which Blanche had scarcely presence of
mind enough left to open for her. There was no need to ring for
Deborah, who was waiting in the passage, in a state of flutter.
"Deborah," said Blanche, as soon as the front door, disclosing a view of
a ponderous-looking carriage in attendance, had finally closed, "Who is
that lady? Is it a Mrs Wandle, or who?"
"Lor, Miss--Mrs Wandle! No indeed, Miss; its Lady Harriot Dunstan--the
lady as lives at Alderwood Park."
Blanche went back into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
"Mamma," she said, "do you know who that was? It was Mrs Lilford's
friend--at least I suppose she is her friend, as well as her tenant--
Lady Harriot Dunstan."
"And we thought she was Mrs Wandle, the brewers wife!" said Stasy, going
off into a fit of laughter. "Whoever she is, she is a vulgar,
impertinent old cat.--Oh, mamma, are all English people so stupid and
horrid? Why, she's worse than Mrs Burgess."
The mention of Mrs Burgess brought a look of annoyance to Blanche's
face.
"It has all come of your hinting to Mr Burgess that we should like his
wife to call, Stasy," she said. "Lady Harriot may not be the most
charming or intelligent of human beings, but still, if we hadn't had our
heads full of Wandles and Burgesses, we should have met her differently,
and perhaps got on better with her. She must have thought us very stiff
and queer in our manners."
"Yes," agreed Mrs Derwent, "I am sorry about it, certainly. This Lady
Harriot seems the only direct link I have, as she is evidently an
intimate friend of Mrs Lilford, Sir Adam's niece. It must be in
consequence of my letter to Mrs Lilford that she has called. But--she
surely cannot have been told much about us, or she would not have been
so--so--"
"So horribly rude and patronising," said Stasy. "Oh, mamma, whoever she
is, and even if we were never to make any friends at all, don't let us
have anything to do with such people as that. And I--I used to think
English people were all so nice and refined!"