"grande dame," looked, and honestly was, a little perplexed.
"How de do?" she said, with as much civility as she was in the habit of
showing to any but her immediate cronies, and turning to Blanche, "How
de do?"
Blanche happened at the moment to be standing in the full light, and as
she looked down in calm response to the little woman's greeting, even
obtuse Lady Harriot was struck by her incontestable beauty.
"She stood there like a picture," said one of the others present, when
describing the momentary scene, and though the words were childish, they
expressed the feeling.
Nevertheless, "the picture" was the first to take in the whole
situation.
"Mamma," she said quietly, "I scarcely think Lady Harriot Dunstan
recognises us."
"Oh yes, I do; at least I--I'm sure I've seen you before," began Lady
Harriot, in a nearer approach to flutter than was usual with her. For,
after all, she was "a lady born," as the poor folk express it, and
conscious of the obligations of a hostess. "I'm sure I--"
"You were so good as to come to see us when we were staying temporarily
at Blissmore," said Mrs Derwent clearly. "I believe you did so at Mrs
Lilford's request. And I should apologise for not having returned your
call sooner, but till quite lately we have been in the agonies of
furnishing and moving into our house."
A light broke over Lady Harriot's face, but with the illumination her
slight diffidence disappeared. She relapsed into her stolid,
self-satisfied self, and the change was not an improvement.
"Oh yes, I thought I'd seen you before," she said. "I've been away, but
you needn't have minded. I told the housekeeper after I saw you that
you might be coming over to see the--"
"Aunt Harriot," said a masculine voice, suddenly breaking in at this
juncture, "excuse me, but is there any reason why your friends and you
should be standing all this time? If you specially want to remain in
that part of the room, may I not at least bring some chairs forward?"
And then Blanche, lifting her eyes, saw that a man, a very young man he
seemed to her at first sight, was standing not many paces off, behind
Lady Harriot, slightly hidden by some intervening furniture or
upholstery.
He came forward as he spoke, thus entirely disengaging himself from a
little group--two or three women sitting, and another older man, who had
also, of course, risen from his chair--at one end of the room, and
Blanche's grave eyes scanned him with some interest.
It is sometimes--often--well that we are in ignorance of the unspoken
thoughts of those about us, but it is sometimes to be regretted. A link
of sympathy would have been quickly forged between the girl and the man
in this case, had she known the words which almost forced themselves
through his teeth.
"Those confounded pictures! Is Aunt Harriot an utter fool?" he said to
himself. "To speak to women like these as if they were her maid's
cousins asking to see the house!"
Lady Harriot turned, and a smile--the first of its kind that the
Derwents had seen--came over her face, mellowing its plain features with
a pleasant glow, for her husbands nephew, Archie Dunstan, owned perhaps
the softest spot in her heart.
"Certainly," she said. "Won't you sit down, Mrs--Oh, I know,"
triumphantly, "Mrs Fleming?" Irritating as it was, Blanche _could_ not
repress a smile; and the smile, like an electric spark, darted across to
Archie Dunstan, and was reflected in his face. Mrs Derwent flushed
slightly; she too was more than half inclined to laugh.
"No, Lady Harriot," she said, "I am sorry to contradict you, but in this
instance you do not `know.' My name is Derwent. It used to be
_Fenning_, in the old days when this house was almost home to me."
Mrs Derwent's intonation, as has before been mentioned, was remarkably
distinct. Her words penetrated to the group of ladies, and a slight
rustle ensued. Then a very tall, thin, still wonderfully erect figure
came forward, both hands outstretched in welcome.
"Then are you Stasy?" said a tremulous, aged voice--"little Anastasia
Fenning? And can this be your daughter? Dear me--dear me! Do you
remember me? Aunt Grace--Sir Adam's cousin? I _am_ pleased to see you
again." And the very old lady stooped to kiss her long-ago young friend
on the cheek.
"Aunt Grace!" repeated Mrs Derwent; "oh, I _am_ glad to see you;" and
her eyes glistened with more than pleasure. It seemed the first real
welcome to her old home that she had received.
Lady Harriot stood by, trying to look amiable, but feeling rather bored.
"How very interesting!" she said. "You've met before, then. Isn't it
nearly tea-time? Do sit down, Aunt Grace; you will be tired if you
stand so long." But Mrs Selwyn would not sit down till she had drawn
Mrs Derwent to a place beside her.
"Tell me all about yourselves," she said. "What a lovely daughter! She
must know Hebe.--Hebe, my dear," and she turned to look for her.
But "Hebe has gone, Mrs Selwyn," said one or two voices, the older of
the two men adding: "She is to be with us to-night, and Norman was to
meet her at the lodge, I think."
"Oh, I am sorry," said the old lady; and then seeing the puzzled look on
Mrs Derwent's face, she went on to explain. "Hebe Shetland is the
grand-daughter of one of my earliest friends. She is an orphan, and
lives with the Marths, and she is a delightful girl Lady Harriot is
really my niece on the other side, for she is no relation to Sir Adam or
Amy Lilford, whom you remember, of course?"
"Yes," said Blanche's mother, "but not very well. Dear Sir Adam, _of
course_, I remember as well as I do my father. But I began to think
something must have happened to him--he never answered my first letter."
And she went on to tell how she had written to ask Mrs Lilford about
him, and had at last received a letter from himself. And then she
repeated her expressions of pleasure at meeting Mrs Selwyn.
"I am only here for a few days," said the old lady. "In fact, I leave
to-morrow. I wish I could have seen more of you, but I fear it is
impossible. I shall be back in the autumn again, however, if I am still
alive. And you are sure to see Adam when he comes to England."
"I hope so, indeed," said Mrs Derwent fervently.
Mrs Selwyn looked at her with kind and understanding eyes.
"You must feel rather strange," she said, "and perhaps a little lonely,
after your long absence and the complete change of life. And some
English people are so dull, so slow to take in an idea. She," with a
slight inclination of her head towards their hostess, "is a good woman
in her way, but intensely dull and narrow. And I don't think you would
care much for Lady Marth. However, in this world one has to make the
best of one's neighbours, as well as of a good many other things. Now
tell me all you can about yourself and your children. But first--
Archie, I want to introduce you to my very old friend's daughter--
Blanche, did you say her name was, Stasy? How well it suits her!"
"Archie" asked nothing better; and in another moment--for he had a great
gift of chatter--he was talking to Miss Derwent in his most charming
manner, Blanche listening quietly, with a slight suspicion of
condescension in her tone, which greatly amused the young man. For,
after all, he was not so young as he looked. It set him on his mettle,
however, and made him feel it a positive triumph when he succeeded in
drawing out a smile of amusement, which lighted up her blue eyes into
new beauty.
All this time--though, in reality, no very great stretch of minutes had
passed since the mother and daughter first entered the room--Stasy was
waiting in the fly outside. But, after a while, the distractions of
wondering how her mother and Blanche were "getting on;" of listening to
the observations which the driver from time to time addressed in a
sleepy voice to his horse, while he lazily tickled its ears with the end
of his whip; or of peering in as far as she could see, in hopes of a
gleam of primroses among the thick growing shrubs at one side of the
house, began to pall upon her. And the tantalising possibility of the
primroses so near at hand carried the day.
Out of the carriage stepped Miss Stasy.
"If any one should meet me, or if mamma and Blanche were vexed, I could
say I was getting too cold sitting still, which would be perfectly
true," she said to herself.
There was no getting in among the shrubs and trees from the immediate
front; but the yellow specks were more clearly visible, and Stasy was
not a girl to be easily baffled when she had got a thing in her head.
So she made her way round by a side path skirting the house at some
little distance, saying to the driver as she passed him, that if the
ladies came out, he was to say she would be back immediately. The path
was somewhat deceptive; it led her further than she knew, till she
suddenly came out on a broader one bearing away towards another drive
some way off at the back of the house, ending in a small lodge on the
road to Crossburn.
A sort of curiosity led Stasy on.
"I'll look for primroses as I go back," she said. "I do like finding
out about places. I wonder if this way would take us back to Pinnerton
across the fields somehow."
Everything was perfectly still. She stood some little way up the drive,
looking towards the gate, and wishing she dared venture as far as the
road without risk of keeping her mother and Blanche waiting. The ground
was dry and crisp; last year's leaves were still lying thickly; and at
the other side of the drive a small fir-wood was attractively tempting.
"I wish our woods at Pinnerton were more firs than all mixed kinds of
trees as they are," thought Stasy. "I do love cones so, and the pricks
make such a nice crackle when you walk on them. We used to get tired of
the fir-woods at Arcachon, I remember. I think there is something
fresher about them in England."
And with a sigh at having to cut short the delights of her exploration,
she was turning to retrace her steps, when a sound fell on her ears
which made her stop short.
It was a woman's--a girl's--voice, singing softly, but clearly, the old
ballad of "Robin Adair." Stasy had never heard it; but she was of a
sensitive and impressionable nature, and the indescribable charm of the
song fell upon her at once. She stood motionless, till, in another
moment, the figure of the singer, advancing towards her, grew visible.
"I knew it was a girl," thought Stasy. "I hope she won't leave off, I
wish I could hide."
She glanced round her. There was no possibility of such a thing; and in
another moment the new-comer had seen her, and had left off singing.
She stopped short as she came up to Stasy, and glanced at her
inquiringly, with a slight, half-comical smile.
"Have you lost your way?" she said. "Are you not one of the Miss
Derwents? It seems always my fate to be directing one or other of you.
I met your little brother a day or two ago, looking as if _he_ had lost
his way."
"No," said Stasy laughing; "he had only lost _us_. And I have not lost
my way either, thank you. I am waiting in the fly at the door for my
mother and sister, who are calling on Lady Harriot Dunstan."
"_Are_ you?" said Lady Hebe. "_I_ should have said, do you know, that
you were wandering about the woods at the back of the house, looking
for--I don't know what."
Stasy laughed again. There was something infectious about Hebe's
comical tone.
"Primroses," Stasy replied promptly. "It was primroses that first lured
me out of the fly, I think. But now I'm beginning to be afraid that
mamma and Blanche may be waiting for me; perhaps I had better go back."
"They can scarcely be ready yet," said her new friend. "They had not
come in when I left the drawing-room, and I have not been long. I only
stopped a minute or two to speak to the dogs. There are some dear dogs
here. And tea was just about coming in. No; you are safe for a few
minutes yet. Would you"--and she hesitated a little--"would you like to
walk to the lodge with me, and a little way down the road I can show you
another way back to the front of the house?"
Stasy was delighted.
"We know who each other is--or are--oh dear, how can I say it?" she
replied as they walked on, "though we have never been introduced. I am
only sorry you were not in the house there when Blanche came in. She
would have liked to see you so much."
Lady Hebe's face flushed a little.
"I wish I had been," she said. "We must have had the same feeling. I
have wanted to meet your sister. I love her face, though I have only
seen her twice. Perhaps, some day--" Then she hesitated. "I was rather
hurried," she went on; "I promised to meet--a friend, who will walk back
to Crossburn with me."
"Then you are not staying here, at Alderwood?" said Stasy.
"Oh no; I am not staying anywhere, except at what is my home--East
Moddersham, near you. I came over here this afternoon to see Lady
Harriot, or, rather, to see a dear old lady who is staying here. I sent
my ponies on to Crossburn, as I am dining there, and shall dress there,
and drive home late."
"How nice!" said Stasy. "How delightful to have your own ponies and do
exactly as you like! I do think English girls have such nice lives--so
much fun and independence. I should have liked England ever so much
better than France if I had been brought up in it, but as it is--" And
Stasy sighed.
Lady Hebe listened with great interest. "And as it is," she repeated,
"do you not like it?"
"It is so very dull," said Stasy lugubriously. "At least, _I_ shouldn't
find it dull if I might amuse myself in ways mamma and Blanche would not
like."
Hebe looked rather startled, but Stasy was too engrossed with her own
woes to notice it. "I mean," she continued, "that there are some girls
at the school I go to for classes, who are really nice, and there are
lots who are very amusing. But mamma and Blanchie don't want me to make
friends with them, because, you see--well, they are not exactly
refined."
"I see," said Hebe gravely; "and, of course, I think your mother and
sister are quite right. But I can quite understand that it must be
dull--for your sister too, is it not? She is not much older than you."
"No," said Stasy, "but she is _different_ She has always been so very,
very good, you see. She _has_ never been--well, rather mischievous, and
wanting a lot of fun, you know."
"But she doesn't look dull," said Hebe. "She has a very bright
expression sometimes in her eyes. I am sure she has some fun in her
too. I don't think I could have been so attracted by her if she had not
had fun in her; I am so fond of it myself," she added naively.
"Oh yes," said Stasy, "Blanchie is _very_ quick, and very ready for fun
too. But she never grumbles. If things we want don't come, she is just
content without I'm not like that. Next to fun, I like grumbling. I
couldn't live without it."
Hebe smiled, but in her heart she was thinking that there _were_ some
grounds for complaint in the present life of these pretty and attractive
girls. They attracted her curiously; they were so unlike others--so
refined, and yet original; so perfectly well-bred, and yet so
unconventional.
"I wish," she began, but then she stopped. What she was going to wish
was nothing very definite, and yet it was better, perhaps, left
unexpressed.
"When I am married," she thought, "I shall have more in my power in many
ways. Norman will understand; he always does. I fear there would be no
use in trying to get Lady Marth to be kind to them. She would only
think it one of my `fads.'"
But suddenly Stasy started.
"I am afraid," she said, "that I am going too far, and mamma and Blanche
may be looking for me. Perhaps I had better go back now."
"I don't think they are likely to have come out yet," said Hebe. "But I
don't want to make you uneasy, so perhaps you had better go back.
Good-bye, and--I hope we may meet again soon."
She held out her hand, and Stasy, looking at her as she took it, felt
the indescribable charm of the sweet, sunshiny face.
"Yes," she thought, "Blanche was right, and Herty was right. She is
lovely."
"I do hope so," she replied eagerly, as they separated. Lady Hebe
walked on, thinking. For she thought a good deal.
"Poor little thing," she said to herself, "it must be very dull. Yet
they have each other, and their mother: the only things that have ever
been wanting to me, they have! But still, the strangeness and the
loneliness, and the not having any clear place of their own. I wonder
they cared to settle in England; I wonder if there is nothing I can do
for them."
She had reached the lodge gates by this time. A little further down the
road--scarcely more than a lane--was a stile, on the other side of which
lay the field path, which was the short cut to Crossburn.
And leaning by the stile was a figure, which, at the first glimpse of
Hebe emerging from the Alderwood grounds, started forward, hastening
across with eager gladness; young, manly, full of life and brightness,
he seemed almost a second Hebe, in masculine form.
"Norman," she exclaimed, "I haven't kept you long waiting, have I?"
"I enjoyed it, dear: not very long. I liked to watch for the first
gleam of you," he said simply.
And together, in the long rays of the soft evening sunshine, the two
young creatures made their way across the fields.
"What have I done," said Hebe Shetland to herself--"what have I done to
be so very, _very_ happy?"
CHAPTER TEN.
AT THE VICARAGE.
The second event which about this time made a little break in the
monotony of the lives at Pinnerton Lodge came out of the first; for it
was the result of much consideration on Lady Hebe's part as to what she
could do to enliven things for these two girls, who seemed in a sense to
have been thrown across her path.
She knew that it was useless to appeal to Lady Marth, her guardian's
wife--a woman who had deliberately narrowed her life and her sympathies
by restricting all her interests to a small and very exclusive clique,
which was the more to be regretted as she was naturally intelligent and
quick of discernment, without the excuse of poor Lady Harriot Dunstan's
intense native stupidity. But Hebe managed to have a good talk with Mrs
Selwyn--"Aunt Grace"--the very morning after the Derwents' visit to
Alderwood, and Aunt Grace's own interest in the new-comers being keen,
she was delighted to find Hebe's enlisted on their behalf.
"I am very sorry I am leaving so immediately," said Mrs Selwyn. "I
might have been of a little use to them, even though very little. You
see, no one is altogether to blame in a case like this. Life is short,
and there are only so many hours in each day, and no one can be in two
places at once, or full of conflicting interests at the same time.
People who are half their lives in London, in the thick of the things of
the day, all have too much upon them; it _is_ difficult to get to know
much of those who are quite out of it. And the Derwents are only half
English, too."
"Then do you think it a mistake for them to have come to live here?"
said Hebe.
"I scarcely know; I can't judge. They have put themselves in a
_difficult_ position, but there may have been excellent reasons for
their leaving France. If they are very high-minded, superior women,
they may be happy, and make interests for themselves, and not fret about
things they cannot have. Certainly they--the mother, I should say--is
far too refined to struggle or strain after society."
"And the elder one is, I do believe, an extraordinarily high-minded
girl," said Hebe, with a sort of enthusiasm. "Still, it isn't fair upon
her to be shut out from things; and the little one, though she is as
tall as I"--with a smile--"says frankly that she finds it woefully
dull."
"And she is only sixteen," said Mrs Selwyn; "not out, and with French
ideas about young girls. Dear me, it must be very dull indeed for a
girl brought up on those lines to think it so."
"She is not the very least French in herself," said Hebe. "Just a touch
of something out of the common in her tone and manners, perhaps. But I
never met a more thoroughly English girl in feeling. Yes, indeed. What
will she think when she _is_ grown up?"
"Let us hope that things may improve for them a little, before then,"
said Mrs Selwyn.
Then the two--the old woman and the young--put their heads together as
to what they _could_ do; the result being that, three or four days after
the drive to Alderwood, a note was brought to Blanche one morning,
inviting her and her sister to afternoon tea at the vicarage.
"I expect one or two young friends living in the neighbourhood," wrote
Mrs Harrowby, the vicaress, "whom you may like to meet, and who, on
their side, have some hopes of getting you to help in their little local
charities."
"Humph," said Stasy, when Blanche read this aloud; "I've no vocation for
that sort of thing. I think you had better go without me."
"No, I certainly won't," said her sister, without much misgiving. For
she saw that, notwithstanding Stasy's ungraciousness, she was secretly
pleased at even this mild prospect of a little variety.
Mrs Harrowby's attentions hitherto--though her good offices had been
bespoken for the Derwents by her brother at Blissmore--had been less
friendly, and more, so to say, professional. She was a very busy woman,
almost too scrupulous in her determination to be "the same to
everybody," to show no difference between her bearing towards the
retired tradespeople of Pinnerton Green, and towards Lady Marth, or
other county dignitaries; the result being, that no attention she ever
paid to any one was considered much of a compliment. But she was
well-born and well-bred, though not specially endowed with tact.
And she was honestly pleased when Lady Hebe appealed to her to suggest
_something_ that might help to enliven the sisters at Pinnerton Lodge.
"Yes," she agreed, "I have thought it must be very dull for them. And
yet I could not exactly take it upon me to suggest their making friends
with their neighbours here. Something in their manner has caused a
slight prejudice against them. None of the families here have called."
"What neighbours or families are you talking of, Mrs Harrowby?" said
Hebe quickly. She knew the vicar's wife very well--knew, too, her
peculiar way of looking at social things, and was not in the very least
in awe of her. "Lady Harriot has called, though--"
"Of course, I was not speaking of neighbours of that kind," replied Mrs
Harrowby, interrupting her. "I meant the Wandles at Pinnerton Villa,
and the Bracys: I am sure Adela Bracy is as nice a girl as one could
wish to see, and Florence Wandle is good-nature itself. It is much
wiser, as well as more Christian, to throw aside those ridiculous ideas
of class prejudice, and make the best of the people you live among."
"Then why should not all the county people call upon the Derwents, as
well as the Wandles and Bracys?" said Hebe, with a very innocent air.
Mrs Harrowby coloured a little.
"I don't know. I don't see why you should blame them if they don't, as
you evidently don't blame the Derwents for standing off from the Green
people. But, the fact of the matter is, they would have nothing in
common with the Derwents. You know yourself, Hebe, Lady Marth
_couldn't_ find anything to talk to Mrs Derwent about--now, could she?"
"She could if she chose," said Hebe; "but I don't want to talk about
Josephine"--she always called her guardian's wife, who was still a
comparatively young woman, by her first name--"she and I don't agree on
several points, but she is very good to me. I am not going to urge her
calling on Mrs Derwent, for she wouldn't, if I did. And I don't think
the Derwents could possibly like the only side of herself she would show
them. But putting her aside, I certainly don't see that the _Derwents_
would have `anything in common' with the Wandles and people like that,
if you take that ground."
"Then they _should_ have," said Mrs Harrowby, who was apt to take refuge
in didactic utterances, when she found herself driven into a corner.
Hebe laughed.
"We have not come to the point at all, though we have been talking all
this time," she said. "What I was thinking of was some plan for
enlivening the Derwent girls a little. _At present_," and she blushed
slightly, "I can do nothing, but supposing we ask them to help us with
our girls' guild? You do want to improve it, don't you? The last
meetings have been so deadly dull. And we were speaking of some new
things--cooking lessons, was it?"