two the sisters found themselves outside the vicarage, on their way
home, after saying good-bye to Mrs Harrowby, cordially on Blanche's
part, most cordially on that of the vicar's wife, somewhat stiffly on
Stasys. Mr Dunstan held the door open for them as they passed out, and
his markedly deferential bow somewhat smoothed the younger girl's
ruffled plumage.
"_That_ man knows how to behave like a gentleman," she said. "Who is
he, Blanchie? Have you seen him before?"
"Yes," said Blanche; "he was at Alderwood the afternoon mamma and I
called there. I thought he was quite a boy--he looks very young--but
I'm not sure about it now. Something in his way of speaking and his
manner altogether make me think that perhaps he is older than he looks."
Stasy listened with interest.
"I like him," she said decidedly, and for the moment Blanche forgot the
expression on her sister's face which had made her hasten the
leave-taking.
"What was the matter, Stasy?" she asked, when it recurred to her. "Why
did you look so vexed and uncomfortable?"
"Uncomfortable!" repeated Stasy. "Oh dear, no. I am not afraid of any
of those people. They _couldn't_ make me uncomfortable. I was only
angry--very angry. What do you think Mrs Harrowby said?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Blanche. "When I looked across at you, I
thought you were getting on so well. Lady Hebe said that that was Miss
Milward whom you were talking to, and that she is so nice."
"The plain girl--indeed, she is almost ugly--with the beautiful eyes,"
said Stasy eagerly; "yes, she was awfully nice. But Mrs Harrowby spoilt
it all. Just when everybody was standing up to go, she came bustling
forward--"
"She doesn't bustle," interposed Blanche.
"Well, never mind--up she came, and began talking to those Wandle girls
and me in a patronising sort of way: `Your roads lie in the same
direction; you will be going home together, I suppose?' I stared, and
to do them justice, _they_ looked uncomfortable. `Oh no,' I said, `I
think you do not know me. I came with my sister, Miss Derwent. I have
not the--' Then she interrupted me. `You don't mean to say you have not
made friends yet? and such near neighbours!' And she was on the point,
the very point, Blanche, of insisting on our `making friends,' as she
called it, when Lady Hebe came up about some books or something, and I
managed to get out of the way. That was why I was fidgeting so to get
hold of you. Blanchie, I _won't_ be treated like that. I wish we had
never gone to that horrid tea-meeting."
Blanche looked distressed.
"And yet, Stasy," she said, "you were the one to want to make friends
out of school, so to say, with some of the Blissmore girls--the very
same class as those here, some of them actually relations."
"Not all of the same class," said Stasy; "some of them are much more
ladies, only poor. And, besides, that would have been _quite_
different, don't you see, Blanchie? It would have been me, or us, being
kind to them--not us being put on a level with them, as that Mrs
Harrowby wanted to do. But I don't think she will try that sort of
thing again, with me, at least."
"How did the girls take what you said?" her sister inquired quietly.
Stasy seemed a little uncomfortable.
"Oh well, you know, it wasn't pleasant for them either. The dark one--
she's much cleverer and quicker than the pretty, stupid, fair one--the
dark one looked very grave, and I think she got a very little red."
"Poor girl!" said Blanche--and something in her tone made Stasy
wince--"I daresay she did. _They_ did not deserve to be punished, that
I can see."
"I never said they did, unless--well, if they are to be counted the same
as us, they should have tried to be kind and `neighbourly.' How I do
detest that word! It is so inconsistent. You seem to think I should
have been gushing over with amiability to them, just because they have
not even been honestly, vulgarly kind. Not that we wanted anything of
the sort, of course. We are completely and entirely independent of
them."
"Yes; and for that very reason you could well have afforded to be simply
courteous. You may be pretty sure that if they have not called, it has
been that they thought we should not like it; and I don't say that we
are in any way bound to make friends with people whose interests are
quite different from ours, and who would have very little in common with
us. But it could have done no sort of harm to have spoken pleasantly to
them, and _even_ to have walked home together, that I can see."
Stasy did not reply. She was beginning to feel rather ashamed of
herself. Had she behaved "snobbishly?" Her cheeks burned at the
thought of having appeared to do so: I fear her first misgiving dealt
more with this possible "appearing," than with the actual wrong or
contemptibleness of her feelings. Blanche walked on silently. She was
thinking to herself how the same spirit came out in different positions.
There was Stasy, now, sixteen-years-old Stasy, showing already the same
worldly narrow-mindedness, which, had not Blanche's own dignity and
self-respect been of exceptional quality, might have mortified her not a
little when shown to herself by Lady Marth.
"I would not tell Stasy of it at present, on any account," she thought;
"but some day I shall let her know how curiously the two incidents came
together, and let her draw her own deductions."
But she was sorry for Stasy too. She was at all times very tender of
her sister's faults and follies, and intensely sympathising in her
troubles. So she exerted herself to disperse the little cloud of
mortification which had gathered on Stasy's face; and when the two
entered the library, where their mother was waiting for them, they were
both bright and cheerful, and ready to relate to her all the incidents
of the afternoon which were likely to interest her.
"Lady Marth was there, you say?" she inquired. "I did not know she was
likely to belong to the girls' guild, or whatever you call it. I don't
know that I should have cared to let you go had I thought she would be
there."
Blanche looked rather surprised.
"Why, mamma, what does it matter? Do you mean because she has not
called?"
"Not exactly. But she is the sort of woman who, unless she takes it
into her head to be civil to people, can be--very much the reverse.
And"--Mrs Derwent's face hardened a little--"I don't want you and Stasy,
my darlings, to be exposed to that kind of thing. Aunt Grace hinted at
something of the kind, and since then I have remembered who Lady Marth
is. She belongs to a family of no ancestry, but which has become
rapidly prominent through a mixture of cleverness and good luck. They--
her people, the Banfleets--are now enormously rich, and pride themselves
on their extreme exclusiveness. They are _plus royalistes que le roi_."
"How detestable!" said Stasy, "and how contemptible! I am sure I don't
want to know them."
"You can't call them really contemptible," said her mother. "They are a
very talented family, in several directions too. And they are very
generous and liberal and honourable. But this one weakness--the trying
to be just the one thing they are not--spoils them."
"And, very likely, if they _were_ of very old descent, they would care
less about it," said Blanche reflectively.
"Perhaps so, but that does not always follow. Sir Conway Marth is a
much wider-minded man, but not specially clever. And he is of a very
old family. I used to know his sisters. They were thoroughly nice;
more like that girl you have taken such a fancy to--his ward, I mean,"
said Mrs Derwent. "But we cannot expect to know her in an ordinary way
if she lives with the Marths. I wish--" And then she hesitated, while a
troubled look crept over her face.
Blanche, who was sitting next her, took her hand and fondled it softly.
"I know what you are going to say, mother dear," she said, "and you are
not to say it. Everything you have done has been for the best, and with
the best motives, and you are just not to wish it undone. We have a
mass of things to be grateful for and happy about, and why should we
worry about things that, through no fault of ours, don't come in our
way."
"Some of them may come in our way," said Stasy, whoso versatile spirits
had already gone up again. "I shouldn't wonder if that nice, ugly Miss
Milward were to call on us, and ask us to go to see her.--Oh Blanchie,
there's Flopper rushing about over the flower-beds; he really must be
tied up, till he sobers down a little."
"Run out and tie him up, then," said Blanche, and off Stasy set.
Flopper was a new acquisition; a very interesting and aggravating
retriever puppy, with all the charms and foibles of puppyhood intensely
developed in him. Looking after Flopper was very wholesome for Stasy,
her sister had discovered.
Blanche turned again to her mother.
"Mamma dear," she said, "I really think we must not get into the way of
seeing the worst side of things. If we are a little lonely, any way we
have each other, and such a charming home. Could any one picture to
themselves a sweeter room than this library? How our French friends
would admire it!"
"Yes," said Mrs Derwent, "it is a delightful room. Of course, the name
is rather inappropriate, we have so few books."
"We must get some more," said Blanche; "by degrees, of course."
"I fear it must be by degrees," said her mother; "I cannot afford
anything for the house at present, it has cost so much more than I
expected. And there seems some little difficulty about our income
still; the new partners are asking for longer time to pay us out in, and
it will make it difficult to get good investments if the capital is
realised so irregularly."
"I don't understand about it," said Blanche. "But it doesn't matter for
the present. When Stasy is grown up, it would be nice to take her about
a little; perhaps to London now and then, if by that time we have made
some friends there. Mamma, couldn't we invite some of our old friends
to come to stay with us a little--Madame de Caillemont, for instance?"
"She is too frail now, I fear, to come so far," said Mrs Derwent. "And
as for any one else--no, I don't feel as if I should like it. Do not
think me small or childish, Blanchie, but--you know French peoples
ideas? They are all already expecting, from one day to another, to hear
of your making some grand marriage; they thought a good deal of us as
well-connected English people, you know. And, I confess, it would
mortify me for them, any of them, to see how--how completely `out of it
all' we are."
"Poor little mother!" said Blanche caressingly, "you really mustn't get
gloomy. _You_ don't think I want to marry and leave you, do you? I
can't _imagine_ such a thing. I cannot in my wildest dreams picture to
myself the going away from you and Stasy! Never mind about that; but I
do understand that you would feel rather sore at any friends thinking we
were more friendless here than in France. There is no need to invite
any one at present. I think I had a vague idea that it might cheer you
up a little. This house is so pretty; I should enjoy showing it off."
"I should like you to have the pleasure of doing so," said Mrs Derwent
wistfully. "You are always so sweet, my Blanchie. I can't help feeling
as if nothing and nobody would be good enough for you; the faintest idea
of any one in the very least looking down upon you is--"
"Mother dear, it is not that. These people don't know us, or anything
about us. There is nothing mortifying or worth minding that I can see
in people's ignoring you, when they know nothing about you. And as for
rudeness--that always lowers the rude person, not the object of it."
Mrs Derwent looked up quickly.
"You don't mean that any one has been actually _rude_ to you, Blanchie?
Was there anything this afternoon?"
Blanche hesitated. She was incapable of uttering a word that was not
true; yet, again, she was determined to tell her mother nothing of Lady
Marth's impertinence.
"Mamma," she said, "I am thinking a great deal about Stasy. _She_ was
rude, at least it was tacitly rude, this afternoon," and she related the
incident we know of.
"It was unladylike and unkind," said Mrs Derwent. "Yes, I am anxious
about Stasy. This uncertain position that we have got into is bad for
her in every way."
"It may all come right," said Blanche cheerfully. "But I am glad you
think I spoke properly to Stasy. Let us hope it will all come right,
mamma, if _we_ do our best to be kind and good."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A SPRAINED ANKLE.
For a time it seemed as if Blanche's hopeful prognostications were
likely to be fulfilled. The meeting with Lady Hebe at the vicarage led
to one or two others, for though Blanche was naturally quick and
orderly, it took longer than either she or her new friend had expected
to initiate her into work of which the whole idea and details were
completely new to her. And the more the two girls saw of each other,
the stronger grew the mutual attraction of which both had been conscious
since that first evening when they came together in the fog at Victoria
Station.
But Hebe was powerless to do more. She found it best to avoid all
mention even of the Derwents' name at East Moddersham, so evident was it
that Lady Marth had conceived one of her most unreasonable prejudices
against the strangers.
"It is a good deal thanks to Archie Dunstan," thought Hebe. "He made
Josephine furious that day. It's really too bad of him, and if I can,
I'll give him a hint about it. Of course, it doesn't matter to _him_
whether people are nice to the poor Derwents or not, but he's quite
worldly wise enough to know that with a woman like Josephine, and,
indeed, with all these good ladies here about, _his_ advocacy would do
them far more harm than good. Why, I've known Josephine jealous and
angry when he or Norman refused to give up an engagement of long
standing, if she chose to want them. She doesn't think Archie should
know any one whom she hasn't taken up."
She did speak to Archie, and he listened attentively. But at the close
of her oration, when his silence was encouraging her to hope that she
had made some impression, he entirely discomposed her by inquiring
calmly if there were to be any more guild meetings at the vicarage
before she went to town, as if so, he would make a point of looking in
as he had done the week before.
"How can you, Archie?" said Hebe. "The very thing I have been trying.
No," she broke off, "there are to be no more meetings, and if there
were, I would not let you know."
"All right," said Archie; "it doesn't matter in the least. I've little
birds in my service who are much more reliable sources of information
than your wise ladyship. And one of them has informed me that there is
going to be a tea-fight in the garden at Pinnerton Lodge for the damsels
who have the honour to belong to the guild. And I mean to be at it."
"Archie?" exclaimed Hebe, stopping short, and looking at him in a sort
of despair. "You go too far sometimes in your love of fun and amusing
yourself; you do, really. The Derwents are not people to take freedoms
with. Just because Blanche--Miss Derwent, I mean--is so charming and
lovely, and unlike the common run of girls, you're much mistaken if you
think that you can treat her with less deference than if she--"
"If she what?" said Archie.
"Than if she--well--belonged to our set, you know. Was quite _in_
everything."
"How do you know that I've not fallen desperately, in love with her?" he
inquired coolly, looking Hebe full in the face.
"For two reasons," she replied. "You don't know what really falling in
love means; and secondly, if such a thing had happened, you wouldn't
talk about it like that."
Archie laughed.
"All the same," he said, "I am going to be at the Pinnerton Lodge
tea-fight. See if I'm not."
Hebe turned away in indignation. She was fond of Archie, and they were
very old friends, almost on brother-and-sister-like terms, but he
sometimes made her more nearly angry than was at all usual with her.
"How glad I am Norman is not like that!" she said to herself--"turning
everything into joke. I wonder if it would be any good to make him
speak to Archie, and warn him not to begin any nonsense about Blanche
Derwent? No, I am afraid it might lead to disagreeables; Norman would
be so vexed with Archie for annoying me."
It was quite true that there was going to be an entertainment for the
members of the guild at Pinnerton Lodge. The idea had been started in
one of the talks on the affairs of the little society between Lady Hebe
and Blanche, and Mrs Derwent had taken it up with the greatest
cordiality. She was glad of anything which promised some variety for
her daughters, and delighted to be the means of giving pleasure to
others. Nor was she sorry to, as it were, assert her position in even
so simple a way as this.
"I shall be so glad to see your Lady Hebe at last," she said to Blanche.
"I am sure you will like her as much as I do," said Blanche. "Stasy has
promised me," she went on, "to be very nice indeed to those other girls,
to make up for that day at the vicarage."
A few days later the little entertainment came off. It was almost the
eve of the East Moddersham family's leaving for London. Hebe had been
staying at Crossburn for a few days, only returning home the morning of
the party, on purpose to be present at it. Rosy Milward accompanied
her, in order, as she said, to see how things went off, as she had
promised an entertainment of the same kind herself to Hebe's girls a
little later in the season.
Rosy was a little shy of offering herself as a guest to the Derwents,
for she had not succeeded in her endeavours to persuade her grandmother
to call at Pinnerton Lodge. Old Mrs Milward was becoming increasingly
frail, and even a small effort seemed painful to her. Yet, as is often
the case with elderly people in such circumstances, she stood
increasingly on her dignity, and would not hear of her grand-daughter
"calling for her," as Rosy ventured to suggest.
"We know nothing of these people," she said, "except that Grace Selwyn
knew the mother as a child. But no one else is calling on them, and I
really don't see why we need do so."
"Lady Harriot has called," said Rosy.
"I can't help that, my dear," was the reply. "Lady Harriot has no young
daughters or grand-daughters, so her calling involves nothing."
"She has a _nephew_," Rosy said to herself, for she was far too quick
not to have noticed Archie Dunstan's evident admiration of Miss Derwent.
But she had the discretion to keep this reflection to herself.
And, after all, Mrs Milward made no objection to her grand-daughter's
accompanying Lady Hebe to Pinnerton Lodge on the afternoon in question.
"That sort of thing," she remarked, with some inconsistency, "is quite
different. You can go anywhere for a fancy fair or a charity
entertainment;" forgetting that her grand-daughter was sure to be
specially thrown into the society of the Derwent girls on such an
occasion, and little suspecting that Rosy intended to profit to the
utmost by such an opportunity of seeing more of both Blanche and Stasy.
For Hebe quite reassured her as to the welcome she would receive.
"They're so _thoroughly_ nice, so simply well-bred," Hebe said, "so
pleased to give pleasure. Otherwise, I should have felt almost ashamed
to go myself, for it is much more marked for Josephine not to call, than
your grandmother--an old lady, and living at some distance."
All went well. The weather was mild, almost warm; there were no
threatening rain-clouds or clouds of any kind on the afternoon fixed
upon; so, to Stasy's great delight, it was decided that the tea-tables
should be set out in the garden, or rather on the tennis-lawn at one
side of the house. Lady Hebe and her friend were the first to arrive,
and were full of admiration of the way in which the Derwents had
arranged their preparations.
"How pretty you have made the tables look!" said Hebe to Mrs Derwent.
"It'll be quite a lesson in itself to the girls. I'm afraid our part of
the country is very deficient in taste. We are so dreadfully
old-fashioned and conservative."
"But many old-fashioned ways and things are in much better taste than
new-fashioned ones," Mrs Derwent replied. "Good taste seems to come in
cycles. I must say there was great room for improvement in such things
when I was a girl."
"You lived near here then, did you not?" said Hebe. "Yes, at Fotherley,
near Alderwood, you know," said Mrs Derwent. "I was so happy there,
that it made me choose this part of England in preference to any other,
when the time came for us to make our home here."
She sighed a little.
"It is a very nice part of the world, I do think," said Hebe. "But I
suppose it takes a little time to get to feel at home anywhere. And it
must seem very strange to you to come back to the same place after so
many years."
"It hardly seems like the same place," said Mrs Derwent, "but that would
not matter, if Blanche and Stasy get to feel at home here."
"I do hope they will," said Hebe, with such evidently sincere
earnestness, that Mrs Derwent's heart was won on the spot. "If only I
had anything in my power"--then she hesitated, and her colour deepened a
little--"I may have before long," she added with a smile. "I mean to
say," she went on, with some slight confusion, "if Miss Derwent cares to
have me as a friend, I look forward to being rather more my own mistress
than I am just now."
"You are very good," said Mrs Derwent simply; but at that moment Stasy
came dancing over the grass, to say that the guests of the day, "the
guild girls," had begun to arrive, and Lady Hebe was in request to
organise the games.
"Where is Herty?" said Mrs Derwent suddenly. "I haven't seen him for
ever so long!"
"He went off to the wood, to get some more ivy, just after luncheon,"
said Blanche. "Yes, he should have been back by now. But you needn't
be uneasy about him, mamma; he's sure to be all right."
"Still, I wish he would come back," said Mrs Derwent. "He was looking
forward to the fun of helping us with the tea and everything."
The next hour passed very busily--so busily, that, except Mrs Derwent
herself, no one gave a thought to Herty's continued absence, and even
she forgot it from time to time. But when the games had ceased for the
moment, and everybody was no less busily but more quietly occupied at
the tea-tables, the thought of Herty returned to Blanche's mind, as well
as to her mother's.
"What can he be about?" she said to herself. "I don't want to frighten
mamma, but I really think we must send some one to look for him."
She glanced round, and, thinking she would not be missed for a moment,
she hastened across the lawn towards a side gate, whence they generally
made their way into the woods by a short cut. There she stood
listening, hoping to hear the little boys whistle, or the sound of his
footsteps hurrying over the dry ground. But all was silent, save that
now and then there came the distant clatter of teacups mingled with
cheerful voices, and now and then a merry laugh.
"They won't hear me," thought Blanche, "if I call. And possibly Herty
may, if he's still in the woods."
So she called clearly, and as loudly as she could: "Herty, Herty! where
are you? Her-ty, Her-ty!" No reply.
Blanche waited a moment or two, and then tried again. This time she
thought she heard something like a far-off whistle. It was a peculiarly
still afternoon, and sound carried far. Soon, to her listening ears,
came the consciousness of approaching steps, firm and decided, not the
light footfall of a child like Herty. Blanche still lingered.
"It may be some one coming through the wood, who has seen him," she
thought; "at least I can ask." Another moment, and the new-comer was in
sight. But--Blanche had good eyesight--but for some seconds the figure
approaching her set her perception at defiance. What, who was it? An
old man with humped-up shoulders? A woodcutter carrying a load? No, it
was not an old man--it moved too vigorously; nor was it a peasant--the
step was too easy and well-balanced. And the load on its shoulders--a
moment or two more, and it all took shape. The stranger was a young
man, and--yes, undoubtedly, a _gentleman_, and he was carrying a child!
Then Blanche's heart leaped into her mouth, as the saying goes, with
horror. The child was a little boy, and--yes, it was Herty. What, oh!
what had happened to him?
She gave no thought to the person who was carrying him; she was over the
stile by the gate in half a second, and rushing in frantic haste along
the path, towards her little brother and his bearer.
"Herty, darling!" she exclaimed. "What _is_ the matter? Have you hurt
yourself?" And then, as the child did not at once reply--"Has he
fainted?" she went on. "Oh, do speak!"