Blanche: A Story for Girls, Page 3

Rosiers--that is so modern. I wish we weregoing to stay here till we leave."

  She stood still and gazed on the long, narrow house--irregular andpicturesque from age, though with no architectural pretensions at all--which for seventeen years had been her home. The greyish-white wallsstood out in the sunshine, one end almost covered with creepers,contrasting vividly with the deep blue sky of the south. Some pigeonsflew overhead on their way to their home high up in the stable-yard, theold coachman's voice talking to his horses sounded in the distance, andthe soft drip of the sleepy fountain mingled with the faint noises inthe street outside.

  "I shall often picture all this to myself," thought Blanche. "I shallnever forget it. Even when I am very old I shall be able to imaginemyself walking up and down, up and down this path, with grandpapaholding my arm. And over there, near the fountain, how well I rememberrunning to meet dear papa the last time he came back from one of hisjourneys to Paris! I suppose it is best to go to what is really our owncountry, but partings, even with things and places that cannot feel, aresad, very sad."

  CHAPTER TWO.

  FOGS.

  The old house in Bordeaux was not to be sold, but let for a long term ofyears. An unexpectedly good offer was made for it, and a very shorttime after the evening in which in her heart Blanche had bidden it afarewell, the Derwents gave up possession to their tenants. For the fewmonths during which Mrs Derwent's presence was required in France onaccount of the many and troublesome legal formalities consequent uponher father-in-law's death and the winding-up of his affairs, the familymoved to Les Rosiers, the little country-house where they had beenaccustomed to spend the greater part of the summer months.

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

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

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

  "Cause for uneasiness?" Oh dear, no. Still, Madame was so intelligent,so full of good sense, it was perhaps best to tell her frankly thatthings were not turning out _quite_ so well as had been hoped. Therehad been some bad years, as she knew--phylloxera and other troubles; andMonsieur, the late head of the firm, had been reluctant to make anychanges to meet the times, too conservative, perhaps, as was often thecase with elderly folk. Now, if Madame's little son had been of an ageto go into the business--no doubt he would inherit the excellentqualities of his progenitors--_that_ would have been the thing, for thenthe 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 aspossible. It would take some years at best, for there was not thereadiness to come forward among eligible moneyed partners that had beenexpected. The business wanted working up, there was no doubt, andrumour 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 tobe neglected.

  So "Madame" of course gave in--the offer was accepted; a somewhathurried selection of the things to be taken to England made, the restsold. And the next two months were spent at Les Rosiers, a place of nospecial interest or association, though there were country neighbours tobe said good-bye to with regret on both sides.

  The "letter from England" which little Hertford Derwent had told of theevening he ran out to his sisters in the garden, had been adisappointment to their mother, for it contained, returned from thedead-letter office, one of her own, addressed by her some weekspreviously to her old friend, Sir Adam Nigel, at the house nearBlissmore, which she had believed was still his home.

  "Not known at Alderwood," was the curt comment scored across theenvelope.

  "I cannot understand it," she said to her daughters. "Alderwood was hisown place. Even if he were dead--and I feel sure I should have heard ofhis 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 onebelonging to him, a nephew or a cousin. He was not a _nobody_, to beforgotten."

  "The place may have been sold," Blanche said again. "I suppose even oldfamily places are _sometimes_ sold in England."

  But still Mrs Derwent repeated that she could scarcely think so; atleast she felt an instinctive conviction that she would have heard ofit.

  "It may possibly be let to strangers, and some careless servant may havesent back the letter without troubling to inquire," she said. "Ofcourse I can easily find out about it once we are there, but I feeldisappointed. I had counted on Sir Adam's helping me to find a suitablehouse."

  "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 himsince--since I wrote to thank him for writing to me when--soon afteryour 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 sameas if he were. Let me see. No, I cannot think of any one it would bemuch use to write to at Blissmore. We must depend on ourselves."

  "Who is the vicar at Fotherley now--at least, who came after ourgrandfather?" 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 nowtwenty years ago: it is by no means certain he is still there, and Idon't care to write letters only to have them returned from thepost-office. Besides, I have not an altogether pleasant remembrance ofthat Mr Fleming. His wife and daughter were noisy, pushing women, andit was said the living was given to him greatly out of pity for theirpoverty. Sir Adam told me about it in one of his letters: he regrettedit. 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 havebeen decided without our seeing it."

  "No; still it would have been nice to know that there were any promisingones vacant. However, we have to be in London for a short time, in anycase. We must travel down to Blissmore from there, and look about forourselves."

  The Derwents' first experience of their own, though unknown country wasa rather unfortunate one. Why, of all months in the year, the Fatesshould have conspired to send them to London in November, it is not forme to explain. No doubt, had Mrs Derwent's memories and knowledge ofthe peculiarities of the English climate been as accurate as she likedto believe they were of everything relating to her beloved country, shewould have set the Fates, or fate, at defiance, if such a thing bepossible, by avoiding this mysteriously doleful month as the date of herreturn thither. But long residence in France, where, though oftenwithout any spite or _malice prepense_, people _are_ very fond oftaunting British foreigners with the weak points in their nationalperfection, had developed a curious, contradictory scepticism in her, asto the existence of any such weak points at all.

  "People do talk such _nonsense_ about England," she would say to herdaughters, "as if it were always raining there when it is not foggy. Ibelieve they think we never see the sun at all. Dear me! when I lookback on my childhood and youth, I cannot remember anything _but_sunshiny days. It seems to have been always summer, even when we wereskating on the lake at Alderwood."


  She smiled, and her daughters smiled. They understood, and believedher--believed, Stasy especially, almost too unquestioningly. For whenthe train drew up in Victoria Station that mid-November afternoon, thepoor 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 whenthe houses got into rows and streets. I thought at first it was smokefrom 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 goingabout with lanterns. Oh mamma, can it be--surely it isn't always likethis?"

  And Stasy seemed on the point of tears.

  Poor Mrs Derwent had had her