Читать книгу Blanche: A Story for Girls - Molesworth Mrs. - Страница 2

The old house in Bordeaux was not to be sold, but let for a long term of years. An unexpectedly good offer was made for it, and a very short time after the evening in which in her heart Blanche had bidden it a farewell, the Derwents gave up possession to their tenants. For the few months during which Mrs Derwent’s presence was required in France on account of the many and troublesome legal formalities consequent upon her father-in-law’s death and the winding-up of his affairs, the family moved to Les Rosiers, the little country-house where they had been accustomed to spend the greater part of the summer months.

They would have preferred less haste. It would in many ways have been more convenient to have returned to Bordeaux in the autumn, and thence made the final start, selecting at leisure such of the furniture and other household goods as they wished to take to their new home. But the late Mr Derwent’s partner, Monsieur Paulmier, and his legal adviser, Monsieur Bergeret, were somewhat peremptory. The offer for the house was a good one; it might not be repeated. It was important for Madame, in the interests of her children, to neglect no permanent source of income.

Their tone roused some slight misgiving in Mrs Derwent, and she questioned them more closely. Were things not turning out as well as had been expected? Was there any cause for anxiety?

Monsieur Paulmier smiled reassuringly, but looked to Monsieur Bergeret to reply. Monsieur Bergeret rubbed his hands and smiled still more benignly.

“Cause for uneasiness?” Oh dear, no. Still, Madame was so intelligent, so full of good sense, it was perhaps best to tell her frankly that things were not turning out quite so well as had been hoped. There had been some bad years, as she knew – phylloxera and other troubles; and Monsieur, the late head of the firm, had been reluctant to make any changes to meet the times, too conservative, perhaps, as was often the case with elderly folk. Now, if Madame’s little son had been of an age to go into the business – no doubt he would inherit the excellent qualities of his progenitors —that would have been the thing, for then the family capital might have remained there indefinitely. As it was, by the terms of Monsieur’s will, all was to be paid out as soon as possible. It would take some years at best, for there was not the readiness to come forward among eligible moneyed partners that had been expected. The business wanted working up, there was no doubt, and rumour exaggerated things. Still – oh no, there was no cause for alarm; but still, even a small certainty like the rent of the house was not to be neglected.

So “Madame” of course gave in – the offer was accepted; a somewhat hurried selection of the things to be taken to England made, the rest sold. And the next two months were spent at Les Rosiers, a place of no special interest or association, though there were country neighbours to be said good-bye to with regret on both sides.

The “letter from England” which little Hertford Derwent had told of the evening he ran out to his sisters in the garden, had been a disappointment to their mother, for it contained, returned from the dead-letter office, one of her own, addressed by her some weeks previously to her old friend, Sir Adam Nigel, at the house near Blissmore, which she had believed was still his home.

“Not known at Alderwood,” was the curt comment scored across the envelope.

“I cannot understand it,” she said to her daughters. “Alderwood was his own place. Even if he were dead – and I feel sure I should have heard of his death – some of his family must have succeeded him there.”

“I thought he was an old bachelor,” said Blanche.

“Yes, but the place – a family place – would have gone to some one belonging to him, a nephew or a cousin. He was not a nobody, to be forgotten.”

“The place may have been sold,” Blanche said again. “I suppose even old family places are sometimes sold in England.”

But still Mrs Derwent repeated that she could scarcely think so; at least she felt an instinctive conviction that she would have heard of it.

“It may possibly be let to strangers, and some careless servant may have sent back the letter without troubling to inquire,” she said. “Of course I can easily find out about it once we are there, but I feel disappointed. I had counted on Sir Adam’s helping me to find a suitable house.”

“How long is it since you last heard from him?” said Stasy.

“Oh, a good while. Let me see. I doubt if I have written to him since – since I wrote to thank him for writing to me when – soon after your father’s death,” replied Mrs Derwent.

“That is several years ago,” said Blanche gently. “I fear, dear mamma, your old friend must be dead.”

“I hope not,” said her mother; “but for the present it is much the same as if he were. Let me see. No, I cannot think of any one it would be much use to write to at Blissmore. We must depend on ourselves.”

“Who is the vicar at Fotherley now – at least, who came after our grandfather?” asked Blanche.

Mrs Derwent looked up.

“That is not a bad idea. I might write to him. Fleming was his name. I remember him vaguely; he was curate for a time. But that is now twenty years ago: it is by no means certain he is still there, and I don’t care to write letters only to have them returned from the post-office. Besides, I have not an altogether pleasant remembrance of that Mr Fleming. His wife and daughter were noisy, pushing women, and it was said the living was given to him greatly out of pity for their poverty. Sir Adam told me about it in one of his letters: he regretted it. Dear Sir Adam! He used to write often in those days.”

“I daresay it will not make much difference in the end,” said Blanche. “No one can really choose a house for other people. Nothing could have been decided without our seeing it.”

“No; still it would have been nice to know that there were any promising ones vacant. However, we have to be in London for a short time, in any case. We must travel down to Blissmore from there, and look about for ourselves.”

The Derwents’ first experience of their own, though unknown country was a rather unfortunate one. Why, of all months in the year, the Fates should have conspired to send them to London in November, it is not for me to explain. No doubt, had Mrs Derwent’s memories and knowledge of the peculiarities of the English climate been as accurate as she liked to believe they were of everything relating to her beloved country, she would have set the Fates, or fate, at defiance, if such a thing be possible, by avoiding this mysteriously doleful month as the date of her return thither. But long residence in France, where, though often without any spite or malice prepense, people are very fond of taunting British foreigners with the weak points in their national perfection, had developed a curious, contradictory scepticism in her, as to the existence of any such weak points at all.

“People do talk such nonsense about England,” she would say to her daughters, “as if it were always raining there when it is not foggy. I believe they think we never see the sun at all. Dear me! when I look back on my childhood and youth, I cannot remember anything but sunshiny days. It seems to have been always summer, even when we were skating on the lake at Alderwood.”

She smiled, and her daughters smiled. They understood, and believed her – believed, Stasy especially, almost too unquestioningly. For when the train drew up in Victoria Station that mid-November afternoon, the poor girl turned to her mother with dismay.

“Mamma,” she exclaimed, “it isn’t three o’clock, and it is quite dark. And such a queer kind of darkness! It came all of a sudden, just when the houses got into rows and streets. I thought at first it was smoke from some great fire. But it can’t be, for nobody seems to notice it – at least as far as I can see anybody. And the porters are all going about with lanterns. Oh mamma, can it be – surely it isn’t always like this?”

And Stasy seemed on the point of tears.

Poor Mrs Derwent had had her unacknowledged suspicions. But she looked out of the window as if for the first time she had noticed anything amiss.

“Why, yes,” she replied, “it is rather unlucky; but, after all, it will be an amusing experience. We have made our début in the thick of a real London fog!”

Herty, who had been asleep, here woke up and began coughing and choking and grumbling at what he called “the fire-taste” in his mouth; and even the cheerful-minded Aline, the maid, looked rather blank.

Blanche said nothing, but from that moment a vague idea that, if no suitable house offered itself at Blissmore, she would use her influence in favour of London itself as their permanent headquarters, was irrevocably dismissed from her mind.

“We should die!” she said to herself; “at least mamma and Stasy, who are not as strong as I, would. Oh dear, I hope we are not going to regret our great step!”

For they had left Bordeaux in the full glow of sunshine – the exquisite “autumn summer” of the more genial south, where, though the winter may not infrequently be bitingly cold, at least it is restricted to its own orthodox three months.

“And this is only November,” proceeded Blanche in her unspoken misgivings. “Everybody says an English spring never really sets in till May, if then. Fancy fully five months of cold like this, and not improbable fog. No, no; we cannot stay in London: the cold must be faced, but not the fog.”

Yet she could scarcely help laughing at the doleful expression of her sister’s face, when the little party had disentangled themselves and their belongings from the railway carriage, and were standing, bewildered and forlorn, trying to look about them in the murky air.

“Mustn’t we see about our luggage, mamma?” said Blanche, feeling herself considerably at a disadvantage in this strange and all but invisible world. “It is managed the same way as in France, I suppose. We must find the – what do they call the room where we wait to claim it?”

“I – I really don’t know,” said Mrs Derwent. “It will be all right, I suppose, if we follow the others.”

But there were no “others” with any very definite goal, apparently. There were two or three little crowds dimly to be seen at different parts of the train, whence boxes seemed to be disgorging.

“It is much more puzzling than in France,” said Blanche, her own spirits flagging. “I do hope we shall not have long to wait. This air is really choking.”

She had Herty’s hand in hers, and moved forward towards a lamp, with some vague idea that its light would lessen her perplexity. Suddenly a face flashed upon her, and a sense of something bright and invigorating came over her almost before she had time to associate the two together.

The face was that of a person standing just under the lamp – a girl, a tall young girl with brilliant but kindly eyes, and a general look of extreme, overflowing youthful happiness. She smiled at Blanche, overhearing her last words.

“You should call a porter,” she said. “They are rather scarce to-night, the train was so full, and the fog is so confusing. Stay – there is one. – Porter! – He will see to your luggage. You won’t have as long to wait as in Paris.”

A sort of breath of thanks was all there was time for, then the girl turned at the sound of a name – “Hebe” – through the fog, and was instantly lost to view. But her face, her joyous face, in its strange setting of dingy yellow-brown, streaked with the almost dingier struggling gas-light, was impressed upon Blanche’s memory, like a never-to-be-forgotten picture.

“Hebe,” she said to herself, as she explained to her mother, just then becoming visible, that the porter would take charge for them – “Hebe: how the name suits her!”

An hour later saw them in their temporary haven of refuge – a private hotel in Jermyn Street. In this hotel Mrs Derwent had once spent a happy week with her father when she was eighteen, and she was delighted when, in reply to her letter bespeaking accommodation for herself and her family, there came a reply in the same name as she remembered had formerly been that of the proprietor.

“It is nice that the landlord is still there: I wonder if they will perhaps recollect us,” she said. “Your grandfather always put up there. They were such civil people.”

“Civil” they still were, and had reason to be, for it is not every day that a family party takes up its quarters indefinitely in a first-class and expensive London hotel. And it had not occurred to Mrs Derwent to make any very special inquiry as to their charges.

So in the meantime ignorance was bliss, and the sitting-room, though small, with two bedrooms opening out of it on one side and one on the other, looked fairly comfortable, despite the insidious fog lurking in every corner. For there was a good fire blazing, and promise of tea on a side-table. But it was all so strange, so very strange! A curious thrill, almost of anguish, passed through Blanche, as she realised that for the time being they were – but for this – homeless, and as if to mock her, there came before her mental vision the dear old house – sunny, and spacious, and above all familiar, which they had left for ever! Had it been well to do so? The future alone could show.

But a glance at her mother’s face, pale and anxious, under a very obtrusive cheerfulness, far more touching than expressed misgiving, recalled the girl to the small but unmistakable duties of the present.

“I mustn’t begin to be sentimental about our old home,” she said to herself. “Mamma has acted from the very best possible motives, and I must support her by being hopeful and cheerful.”

And she turned brightly to Stasy, who had thrown herself on to a low chair in front of the hearth, and was holding out her cold hands to the blaze.

“What a nice fire!” said the elder girl. “How beautifully warm!”

“Yes,” Stasy agreed. “I am beginning already to understand the English devotion to one’s own fireside. Poor things! There cannot be much temptation – in London, at least – to stray far from it. Imagine walking, or even worse, driving through the streets! And I had looked forward to shopping a little, and to seeing some of the sights of London. How do people ever do anything here?”

Her extreme dolefulness roused the others to genuine laughter.

“My dearest child,” said her mother, “you don’t suppose London is always like this? Why, I don’t remember a single fog when I was a girl, and though I did not live in London, I often paid visits here, now and then in the winter.”

“Oh, but, mamma, you can’t remember anything in England but delightfulness,” said Stasy incredulously. “Why, I know one day you told us it seemed to have been summer even when you were skating. And I daresay fogs have got worse since then. Very likely we shall be told that they are beginning to spread all over the country. I know I read or heard somewhere that they were getting worse.”

“Only in London,” said Blanche, “and that is because it is growing and growing so. That does not affect the rest of England. The fogs are the revers de la médaille of these lovely, hot coal-fires, I suppose.”

She stooped and took up the tongs to lift a red-hot glowing morsel that had fallen into the grate, taking advantage of the position to whisper into her sister’s ears a word of remembrance.

“Do try to be a little brighter, Stasy, for mamma’s sake.”

The entrance of tea at that moment did more perhaps in the desired direction than Blanche’s hint. Stasy got up from her low chair and looked about her.

“How long has there been fog like this?” she asked the waiter, as he reappeared with a beautifully toasted tea-cake.

“Yesterday, miss. No, the day before, I think,” he replied, as if fog or no fog were not a matter of special importance.

“And how long do they last generally?” Stasy continued.

“As bad as this – not often over a day or two, miss,” he replied. “It may be quite bright to-morrow morning.”

“There now, Stasy,” said her mother. “I told you so. There is nothing to be low-spirited about. It is just – well, just a little unlucky. But we are all tired, and we will go to bed early, and forget about the fog.”

“Besides,” said Blanche, quietly, “we are not going to live in London. – Herty, you had better come close to the table; and if you mean to have any dinner, you had better not eat quite as much as you can, at present.”

“I don’t want any dinner,” said Herty. “English boys don’t have late dinner. They have no little breakfast, but a big one, early, and then a dinner instead of big breakfast, and just tea at night. Don’t they, mamma? And I am going to be quite English, so I shall begin now at once. Please may I have some more bread-and-butter, mamma?”

Mrs Derwent looked at him rather critically.

“Yes,” she said, “you may have some more if you really mean what you say. But it won’t do for you to come, in an hour or two, saying you are so hungry, you really must have some dinner, after all.”

“No,” said Herty, “I won’t do that.”

“And remember,” said Stasy severely, “that this is a hotel, not our own house. Whatever you eat here has to be paid for separately. It’s not like having a kitchen of our own, and Félicie going out and buying everything and cooking for us. Then it didn’t make much difference whether you ate a great deal or not.” Herty took the slice of bread-and-butter, in which he had just made a large semicircular hole, out of his mouth, and looked at Stasy very gravely. This was a new idea to him, and a rather appalling one.

“Yes,” his sister repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words, “you’ll have to think about it, Herty. Mamma isn’t as rich as she used to be; we haven’t got vineyards and great cellars all full of wine now. And when you go to school, that will cost a lot. English schools are very dear.”

Herty slowly turned his head round and gazed, first at his mother, then at Blanche. The round of bread-and-butter had disappeared by this time, so he was able to open his mouth wide, which he proceeded to do preparatory to a good howl.

“Mamma,” he was beginning, but Blanche stepped in to the rescue.

“Stasy,” she said, though she could scarcely help laughing, “how can you tease him so?”

For it was one of Stasy’s peculiarities that, in a certain depressed mood of her very April-like temperament, the only relief to her feelings was teasing Herty. The usual invigoration seemed to have followed the present performance; her colour had returned, and her eyes were sparkling.

“Blanchie, Blanchie,” said Herty, wavering for moment in his intention, “is it true? Will poor mamma have to pay a great lot of money if I eat much bread-and-butter?”

“No, no; of course not. Can’t you see when Stasy’s teasing you, you silly boy?” said Blanche caressingly. “Why, you are eight years old now! You should laugh at her. Mamma has plenty of money to pay for everything we need, though of course you mustn’t be greedy.”

“But hotels are dear,” persisted Stasy calmly.

“Well, we are not going to live at a hotel for ever,” said Blanche.

“Nor for very long, I hope,” added her mother. “I do look forward to being settled. Though, if the weather were pretty good, it would be nice to be in London for a little. We must get to know some of the shops, for living in the country makes one rather dependent upon writing to London for things.”

Blanche was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up suddenly.

“Have you no friends to go to see here, mamma? Is there nobody who can give us a little advice how to set about our house-hunting?”

“I scarcely thought it would be necessary to have any,” said Mrs Derwent. “My plan was simply to go down with one or both of you to Blissmore for a day, and look about for ourselves. You see, I shall feel quite at home once I am there, and it would be easy to ask at the inn or at the principal shop – old Ferris’s – if any houses are vacant. They always used to have notice of things of the kind.”

“But mamma, dear,” said Blanche softly, “all that is more than twenty years ago.”

Mrs Derwent was giving Herty a second cup of tea, and did not seem to catch the words.