careful. You have always treated some things so lightly, it makes it
difficult to believe you could be in earnest. And in this case--under
the circumstances"--She did not like to say what was in her mind--that
serious attentions on the part of the rich and much-made-of Archie
Dunstan to Blanche Derwent, however charming personally, would appear in
the eyes of the world highly improbable. Doubly so considering the
change in the latter's position. "I mean," she went on hesitatingly,
"you must be very careful."
Archie smiled at this somewhat lame conclusion to her warning.
"You may trust me, dear Hebe," he said, as he pressed her hand in
farewell, and then he was gone.
But Hebe sat thinking deeply for some time after he had left her.
"_What_ would Josephine say?" she thought to herself. "What a romantic
goose she would think me. But I have never seen Archie quite like this
before. And if such a thing came to pass--if I could be sure he is in
earnest for once--it would be delightful in many ways. But"--and here a
new view of the subject struck her--"I don't believe Blanche would
accept him," she thought. "She is proud, rightly proud, and she has
seen so little of him. She is not a girl to marry a man without
thoroughly caring for him. No, I don't believe she would accept him.
But if he is in earnest now, he has certainly never been so before."
Mr Dunstan returned to Alderwood that same evening, having already
written to Norman Milward with some suggestion of the proposed plan, and
promising to see him in London early the following week.
"It would have been perfectly impossible to refuse Hebe," he thought to
himself, as he was sitting alone in the small room where dinner had been
served for him, "but it does seem dreadfully unlucky. I don't see my
way at all, and yet can I go away for an indefinite time and leave
things as they are? I must trust to chance, I suppose. I _must_ call
there to-morrow, for I promised Hebe to give her message. Beyond that,
I see nothing."
Mr Dunstan's visit had not made any great impression on the members of
the little household in the High Street, with the exception possibly of
Miss Halliday and Herty.
An unexpected and rather important order coming at a dull season had
made the milliner and her young assistants unusually busy, and it was
not without a feeling almost amounting to annoyance that Blanche found
herself called away from the workroom the day after Archies return from
London, to join her mother in the drawing-room.
"Do you want me particularly, mamma?" she said as she went in. "I am so
busy just now. I could come in half an hour or so."
As she spoke she suddenly became aware that her mother was not alone.
Mr Dunstan was standing by the window.
"I did not know any one was here," she went on, with an instinct of
apology, "I had not heard the bell ring."
"I am exceedingly sorry for interrupting you," said the young man as he
came forward, "but I could hardly help myself. I promised to see you
personally to give you a message from Lady Hebe. I have been telling
Mrs Derwent about it, but I know it would be a satisfaction to Hebe to
hear that I had seen you, yourself."
Blanche looked perplexed, and glancing at her mother's face, she saw
that it was unusually grave.
"Is there anything the matter?" she said quickly.
"Yes," said Mrs Derwent. "You will be very sorry for poor Lady Hebe. A
great trouble has come upon her."
"Has anything happened to Mr Milward?" asked Blanche, and somehow Archie
felt pleased that this was her first idea.
"No," he answered. "Norman is all right. The trouble has come to Hebe
herself, though, of course, it is terrible for him too."
And then he went on to give the details of the grievous loss with which
the young girl was threatened.
Blanche's face grew graver and graver as he spoke. "Oh dear!" she
exclaimed, when he had finished. "How dreadfully sad! Those pretty,
happy eyes of hers. I can't believe it. May I write to her, Mr
Dunstan, do you think? I do feel so inexpressibly sorry for her.
Mamma, our troubles don't seem much in comparison with this, do they?"
"No, indeed," Mrs Derwent agreed heartily. "But still it is not
hopeless by any means, is it, Mr Dunstan?"
"I trust and believe not," he replied. "But then I have only Hebe's own
account, you see. I shall know more after I have seen Norman and the
Marths.--About writing to her," he continued, turning to Blanche, "I
don't quite know. I don't fancy she's allowed to read at all, and you
might not care for your letter going through other hands."
Blanche looked disappointed.
"Then will you tell her from me?" she began, but he interrupted her.
"I'll tell you what," he said, "if you won't think me officious--if you
like to write to her and will give me the letter, I'll take it myself,
and she can have it read to her by some one you would not mind--Rosy--
Rosy Milward, perhaps."
"Thank you," said Blanche. "I would like to write a little, however
little, if I were sure she would get it herself. I can write it at
once," she went on, "if you don't mind waiting a few minutes;" and she
left the room as she spoke. She had hardly done so, when Stasy made her
appearance.
"Blanche," she said, as she came in, "Miss Halliday does so want you--
How do you do, Mr Dunstan? I did not know you were here.--Where is
Blanchie, mamma?"
"She is writing a note," Mrs Derwent replied--"something rather
particular. Can I not do instead of her?"
"Oh, well, perhaps you can; it's about a letter she is wanted," said
Stasy. "If you could come, Miss Halliday will explain about it." And
with a word of apology to Mr Dunstan, Mrs Derwent left the room with her
younger daughter.
"What a life of slavery for women in their position!" said Archie to
himself. "To be at the beck and call of all the Blissmore shopkeepers.
It is insufferable!"
He strolled restlessly to the window and stood looking out, feeling very
indignant with the world in general and, most unreasonably, with Miss
Halliday in particular.
He had not stood there long when Blanche returned with an envelope in
her hand.
"This is my little letter," she said, holding it out to him. "Thank you
for taking charge of it, though it does not say half--not a hundredth
part--of what I feel for her."
"I know that she will value your sympathy," said Archie, wishing he
could think of something less commonplace to say.
He stood there, feeling, if not looking, uncertain and embarrassed,
Blanche's evident expectation--for she did not sit down again--that he
was on the point of going, not tending to set him more at his ease.
Suddenly he spoke.
"I know you are busy, Miss Derwent," he began. "I've no doubt you are
wishing I would go. But the truth of it is, I can't go without saying
something more to you."
Blanche looked up, a gleam of surprise in her face.
"I am busy," she said, smiling a little. "But if it is anything
important, I can wait a few minutes."
Archie glanced irresolutely towards the window.
"_Would_ you mind," he said, "coming out into the garden. It _is_
something important, and if we stay here they will be calling for you
immediately."
CHAPTER TWENTY.
A NEPHEW AND AN AUNT.
Blanche did "mind," for she was anxious to go back to the workroom. But
Mr Dunstan had been very kind, and it was not in her nature to be
unyielding in small lings.
"Perhaps he has something more to tell me about, Hebe," she thought, as
she led the way out through the open glass door.
"Miss Derwent," began Archie again, when they had strolled towards the
farther end of the long strip, "the fact of the matter is--and you must
forgive me if it seems impertinent--I cannot stand this."
"What?" asked Blanche, looking up in bewilderment.
"This--this position for you," he said. "This horrid slavery."
"Oh," said Blanche, somewhat coldly. "I couldn't think what you meant.
It's very good of you, but you really needn't trouble about it. On the
whole, I think we are very fortunate indeed. Lots of people have far
worse things to bear. I thought you were going to tell me something
about Hebe."
"I see you do think me impertinent," Mr Dunstan resumed, with some
slight bitterness in his tone. "You don't understand. I don't care
about `lots of people's' troubles. It is _you_ I care about. It is for
_you_ I can't endure it."
Blanche looked up again, this time with slightly deepened colour.
"Thank you again," she said, "for your kindly meant sympathy. But if
you knew me better, or had known me longer, you would understand that
there are many kinds of troubles which would be much worse to me. I am
really not unhappy at all--none of us are. Indeed, in some ways, the
having more to do makes life more interesting." And then she stopped,
at a loss what more to say--feeling, indeed, that there was nothing more
to be said.
Archie grew desperate.
"You are not like any girl I have ever met," he said; "you won't
understand me. Can't you see that the reason I mind it so much is that
I care so much for you?"
"Mr Dunstan!" exclaimed Blanche, and in the two words a calmer hearer
would have detected some indignation as well as the astonishment which
was unmistakable. "No, I don't understand you," she went on. "We are
almost strangers."
"Strangers!" he repeated reproachfully. "You have never seemed a
stranger to me since the first day I saw you, for since then you have
never been out of my thoughts. You _must_ understand me now. Can I
speak more plainly? I don't want to vex you by seeming exaggerated, but
I care for you, and have done so all these months, as much, I honestly
believe, as it is possible for a man to care for a woman. I did not
mean to have said this so soon. Of course I don't ask you to say you
care for me as yet, but don't you think you might get to do so in time?
I could be _very_ patient."
It was impossible to reply with any feeling of indignation to a suit so
gently urged.
"I am very sorry," was all Blanche could say.
"I would do anything," he went on--"anything in the world that you
wished. I am perfectly independent, entirely my own master, and I have
no one very near me. Your family would be like my own to me. It would
be a delight to be able to release them from any necessity like this
present arrangement."
"You are very good," murmured Blanche, really touched, "but--"
"Don't say `but' just yet; let me finish," he went on. "I am leaving
England almost immediately, for two months at least. I won't ask to see
you again till I come back. I won't say anything if you feel that you
must stay on here in the meantime, though I would give worlds to see you
back in your own home. If you will only agree to think it over, to try
to get accustomed to the idea? That is all I ask just now."
Blanche stopped short. They had been walking on slowly.
"Please don't say any more," she said. "Mr Dunstan, I can't agree to
anything, I don't care for you--I mean, I don't love you in the _very_
least. I never dreamt of your having thought of me in any way. You
must see, under the circumstances, it would be perfectly impossible for
me to say I would try to get to care for you, except as a friend. Your
very goodness and kindness make it impossible. I do thank you most
heartily for what you have said about us all I am not proud in some
ways. If--if I loved anybody, it would not be painful to me to accept
whatever he was able to do for those I love. But you wouldn't have me
try to care for you because of that?"
"It might come to be for myself," said Archie. "Certainly, I agree with
you that nothing I could possibly do would deserve such a reward."
"I don't mean that," said Blanche. "I could never disassociate the two.
I should always feel that pity and sympathy had made you imagine your
own feelings deeper than they were."
"No, no," he almost interrupted. "It was long before I knew of all
this. It is hard upon me that you will not even give me the chance,
which you might have done had circumstances been otherwise."
Blanche shook her head.
"I want to be quite fair," she said. "Honestly, I can't imagine myself
ever caring for you in that way, putting all secondary feelings out of
consideration."
"You are so young," he said, "you can't judge."
"I think I can," she replied. "I am older in some ways than you
imagine. Good-bye, Mr Dunstan," she went on. "I am glad you are going
away, for I hate to feel myself ungrateful, and yet, what could I do?
Good-bye."
She held out her hand.
"Good-bye, then," he repeated, and in another moment he was gone.
She was wanted indoors, Blanche knew. A quarter of an hour before, she
had felt almost feverishly anxious for Mr Dunstan to leave, for she was
much interested in the important order they had unexpectedly received.
Nevertheless, when she had seen the young man's figure disappear into
the house, she turned again and slowly retraced her footsteps along the
gravel walk to the farther end of the garden, feeling that for a few
minutes she must be alone.
Every sensation seemed absorbed for the time in an intense, overpowering
rush of pity for the disappointment she felt she had inflicted.
"I wonder if all girls feel like this when this sort of thing happens,"
she said to herself. "If so, I pity _them_; it is quite horrible. I
feel as if I had been so terribly unkind and ungrateful. But how could
I have guessed that such a thing was in his mind! It seems too
extraordinary. And why should he have thought of _me_, among the crowds
of girls he must meet?"
She went on musing to herself a little longer. Then, though not without
some amount of effort, she made her way slowly back to the house.
"I will not tell mamma," she decided. "I don't think it would be wrong
not to do so, and though she is so good and unworldly, she might feel,
considering everything, a little disappointed that I had been so decided
about it."
Five minutes later she was in the middle of a discussion as to the
prettiest shade of blue for Miss Levett's bridesmaids' hats.
The next few weeks passed, on the whole, quickly; for though it was what
Miss Halliday described as "between the seasons," the good woman had
never, even in her palmiest days, been so busy. She was overflowing
with delight; her most sanguine dreams bade fair to be realised.
It was an unusually fine and hot summer, and early autumn crept on
imperceptibly, so mild and genial did the weather continue. Blissmore
and the neighbourhood broke out into an unprecedented succession of
tennis and garden-parties, picnics and the like. And whether the
entertainers and the entertained on these festive occasions belonged to
the exclusive county society or to the inhabitants of the town itself,
the practical result, so far as the milliner and her friends were
concerned, was the same.
Everybody needed new hats and bonnets, for a fine and prolonged summer
necessarily makes great havoc with such articles of feminine attire, and
orders succeeded orders from all directions with almost overwhelming
rapidity.
The secret of the young milliners' extended fame was not long left
undivulged. For one day, a week or two after young Mr Dunstan's visit,
a carriage from Alderwood drew up again at the door in the High Street,
and from it descended, without any preliminary summons by bell or
knocker, the short stout figure of Lady Harriot in person.
She walked straight into the shop, looking round as she did so with
short-sighted eyes. The first person they lighted upon was Miss
Halliday.
"Oh--ah," began the visitor, "I came to see Miss Derwent. Is she not
here?"
Blanche emerged from the farther part of the shop and came forward.
"How de do?" began the old lady, holding out her hand with what she
intended for marked affability. "I'm pleased to see you again. Well,
now, I don't exactly know whether I should say that. At least, I mean,
I should rather have seen you at Pinnerton than here. I'm very sorry
for what's happened--I am indeed. Mrs Selwyn told me all about it, and
I promised her I'd look you up as soon as I came back. I think you're a
very brave girl, I do indeed, my dear. I wish you success with all my
heart."
"Thank you," said Blanche cordially. "It was very good of Mrs Selwyn to
think of us. And is there anything I can do for you, Lady Harriot?" she
went on, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. "I do hope you want a new
bonnet."
The fun was lost upon Lady Harriot, whose density was her predominating
characteristic, but the practical suggestion was quite to her mind.
"Yes," she said, "that's just what I do want. I've gone through such a
number this year in London, with the fine weather and the sun and the
dust. And I was going to bring down one or two new ones with me, just
when I saw Aunt Grace; so then I said to her I would wait till I came
back here, and see what you could do for me. And I hope to get you some
more customers, but the best way to begin is by getting something for
myself. One's head shows off a bonnet so, you know."
Blanche glanced up at the good woman's headgear with some trepidation.
She felt rather caught in her own trap, for Lady Harriot's bonnets were
remarkable, to say the least. Like many stout, elderly ladies, she
loved bright colours, and was by no means amenable to her milliners
suggestions, and Blanche's misgivings were great as to the desirability
of Lady Harriot in the shape of an advertisement.
An amusing consultation followed. Blanche would have liked to summon
Stasy to her aid, but she dared not.
"What would happen," she asked herself, "if Stasy made fun of the old
woman to her face? _I_ couldn't keep my gravity, even if Lady Harriot
didn't find it out."
And probably her own tact and powers of persuasion were far more
effectual than Stasy's rather despotic decisions on all questions of
taste or arrangement.
And Lady Harriot departed in immense satisfaction, firmly convinced that
the bonnet was to owe its success to her own suggestions, and that
Blanche Derwent was really "a sensible girl, with no nonsense about
her."
"And really very pretty," she added to herself. "I must call on their
mother the next time I am in the town, and I mustn't forget to speak
about them everywhere. I do hope, for their sakes as well as my own,
that she'll remember all I said about the bonnet."
Two or three days later saw her again at Miss Halliday's. The bonnet
was ready, and this time Stasy was with her sister, having faithfully
promised to behave with immaculate propriety. Blanche's face was very
grave as she lifted out her handiwork--or more strictly speaking,
Stasy's, for it was the young girls clever fingers that were usually
entrusted with orders of special importance--out of its nest of
tissue-paper, and held it up for their visitors inspection.
Out came Lady Harriot's _pince-nez_.
"Very nice, very nice indeed, so far as I can tell before trying it on.
I will do so at once." And she proceeded to divest herself of the
bonnet she had on, a creation which Stasy's eyes took in with silent
horror.
"Stasy!" said Blanche, when the new erection was placed on Lady
Harriot's head, and there was a decided touch of triumph in her tone.
Stasy came a little nearer.
"It must be just a shade farther forward," she said, skilfully touching
it as she spoke.
Lady Harriot submitted, but looked at the girl with surprise.
"Do you mean to say?" she began, hesitating.
"Oh yes," said Blanche, replying to the unspoken inquiry. "My sister's
much cleverer at millinery than I am. She always does our most
particular things."
"Really," said Lady Harriot; but she could not say more, for by this
time she was absorbed in her own reflection in the looking-glass.
"Doesn't it look nice?" said Blanche gleefully. "You _are_ pleased with
it, aren't you, Lady Harriot?"
"Yes; it really does you great credit. I like it better than any bonnet
I've had in London this year. You have so thoroughly carried out all my
suggestions--that is a great point for young beginners."
"And, of course, we have the benefit of Miss Halliday's experience,
too," said Blanche, glancing towards their good little friend, who, she
was determined, should not be left altogether out in the cold.
Miss Halliday smiled back to her. It was a proud day for the milliner
when a woman of Lady Harriot's position patronised her shop, but she was
well content that all the honour and glory should fall to the sisters'
share.
"Ah yes, of course," Lady Harriot replied civilly. "Now, my dear Miss
Derwent, I shall make a point of wearing this bonnet everywhere. I wish
my nephew could see me in it. He is very particular about what I wear,
and he's really quite rude about my bonnets sometimes. I must get my
winter ones from you, and then he will see them, for he is out of
England just now for some time.--Is Mrs Derwent at home this afternoon?"
she went on. "Do you think she could see me?"
"I am sure she would be very pleased," said Blanche readily. "She is in
the drawing-room," and as she spoke she led the way thither.
Lady Harriot exerted herself to be more than agreeable, and Mrs Derwent
was really won over, by her visitors praise of her daughters, to meet
her present cordiality responsively.
"By-the-bye," said Lady Harriot, as she rose to take leave, "I expect a
few neighbours the day after to-morrow at afternoon tea. I shall have
some people staying in the house by then, and we like to have tea in the
garden in this lovely weather. Couldn't you manage to come over?"
Blanche glanced at her mother doubtfully.
"We are really very busy," Blanche began; but her mother interrupted
her.
"I think you might give yourselves a holiday for once," she said, and
the old lady hastened to endorse this.
"Yes, indeed," she said good-naturedly. "All work and no play. Oh
dear, I forget the rest, but I'm sure it meant it wasn't a good thing.
Won't you bring them yourself, Mrs Derwent? Your younger daughter is
not out, I suppose; but you know this sort of thing doesn't count, does
it?"
Mrs Derwent smiled.
"We can't think much about questions of that kind, now," she said. "But
I shall be very glad to bring Stasy too."
"That's right," said Lady Harriot, increasingly pleased with them
because she was feeling so very pleased with herself. "Then I shall
expect you between four and five. You may like to walk about the
grounds a little if you come early," she added to Mrs Derwent, "as you
used to know the place so well.--And remember, my dear," she said to
Blanche in conclusion, "that whomever I introduce you to, it will be
done with a purpose. It will be an excellent thing for you to see some
of the people about, especially as I shall make a point of wearing my
bonnet."
Blanche's face looked very grave when their visitor had taken leave, and
her mother glanced at her anxiously, fearing that Lady Harriot's
eminently clumsy remarks at the end had annoyed her.
"You mustn't mind it, dear," she said. "She is a stupid, awkward woman,
but she means to be kind now, and we must really take people as we find
them, to some extent."
Blanche started as if recalling her thoughts, which had, indeed, been
straying in a perfectly different direction.
"Of course we must," she said cheerfully. "I don't mind what she said
in the very least. I don't particularly care about going there, it is
true; but if it amuses Stasy, and if you don't mind it, mamma, I daresay
I shall like it very well. We may see Miss Milward, and hear about poor
Lady Hebe." And then for the moment the subject was dismissed, though
Mrs Derwent had her own thoughts about it.
"It is strange," she said to herself, "how things come about. To think
that our first invitation of any kind from the people I used to be one
of, should have come in this way--almost out of pity."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
MRS BURGESS'S CAPS.
Blanche's hope or expectation of meeting Miss Milward at Alderwood was
not fulfilled. She had not, however, been there many minutes before she
caught sight of Mrs Harrowby, the wife of the Pinnerton vicar, among the
guests, and of her she made inquiry as to Rosy's absence.
She was away, paying visits, for a few weeks, Mrs Harrowby replied; and
something in her manner made Blanche feel that it was better to hazard
no further inquiry, as she had been half-intending to do, about Lady
Hebe herself. For some slight allusion to the East Moddersham family
only drew forth the remark that the Marths were expected back some time
in October.
"Either," thought Blanche, "she doesn't know how bad it is, or she has
been asked not to speak of it."