Blanche: A Story for Girls

So Blanche and Stasy walked up and down the Blissmore streets, intent on such amount of shopping as Mrs Derwent would allow them to do there, or marched out bravely to Pinnerton and back, however cold it was, rejoicing in the "delightful English freedom," as Stasy called it, which made it possible for them to do so without any breach of accepted rules, innocent of the remarks and comments their appearance in public called forth.

"I _can't_ make them out," said the wife of one of the doctors-- Blissmore now rejoiced in four or five, though formerly one and an assistant had been all that was required--the wife, unluckily, of _the_ doctor whose house in the High Street was nearest to Miss Halliday's. "I _can't_ make them out. Do they never mean to know anybody or tell who they are? People who have come from abroad _should_ tell all about themselves, or how can they expect any one to notice them."

Which was, to say the least, a begging-the-question kind of reproach, seeing that in no way had the Derwent family expected, or seemed to expect, the "notice" of Mrs Burgess or any of her coterie!

But it is not only the brave that chance sometimes favours. It favours the idle and inquisitive and the busy-bodies too, now and then. And I am afraid, without judging her too harshly, Mrs Burgess might come under these heads.

The chance was that of Stasy getting a sore throat. It was not a very bad one, but she was rather subject to sore throats, and the change of climate made Mrs Derwent extra cautious about her. It got suddenly worse one evening, and though Stasy was not cowardly or impatient when she was ill, she had to own to feeling pretty bad, and depressing visions of a quinsy she had had on one or two occasions rose before her.

"We must not trifle with it," her mother decided, and Miss Halliday was summoned and consulted as to sending for the doctor. Her own doctor, the one of oldest standing in the place, was unfortunately away for a few days, she happened to know. But there were others. Mr Meyrick was considered second best, but he lived quite at the other side of the town, and--

"I do not think it is anything complicated," said Mrs Derwent. "If we were at home"--and she sighed just a little--"I should know how to treat it myself. But I have forgotten the names of English medicaments, and, indeed, I doubt if we could get the herbs and simple drugs here at all. No, it is best to have a doctor. Who is the nearest, Miss Halliday?"

"Mr Burgess lives only a few doors off," the little woman replied. "And he is clever, I believe."

"But you don't like him, I see," said Mrs Derwent. "Is there anything against him?"

"Oh dear, no. But they--Mr Burgess and his wife--are not like Dr Summers and Miss Summers. Mrs Burgess has the name of chattering a great deal, and rather spitefully sometimes," Miss Halliday admitted.

The Derwents only smiled.

"That really does not matter," said the mother. "We shall have nothing to do with the wife. I think you had better send round for Mr Burgess and ask him to look in at once."

The throat was not a quinsy, but still rather troublesome and painful. Mr Burgess doctored it--or Stasy rather--skilfully enough, and being pleasant and good-tempered, a certain amount of friendliness naturally sprang up between himself and his new patient's family, including Stasy herself.

"_He_ is not his wife, and you can say anything to a doctor," she replied to Blanche, when, some days later--by which time Stasy was almost quite well again--the elder sister was remonstrating with her for talking too fast to her new friend, considering the warning they had been given. "Besides, there is no secret about who we are, and where we come from, or anything about us."

"Certainly not," said her mother, "but we do not want these Blissmore ladies to begin calling upon us simply out of curiosity, and I did hear you saying to the doctor this morning that it was very dull not to have any friends here. I daresay he will have sense enough not to pay any attention to it, otherwise, it almost sounded like asking his wife to call."

But Stasy was sure she could not have been so misunderstood, and the subject dropped. Only, however, to be revived more disagreeably when, two days later, Mrs Burgess _did_ call. Her husband was really not to blame for it, but he was an easy-going man, and, by a great show of sympathy "with the poor things," feeling so lonely as they must be doing, she extracted from him a reluctant half-consent to her taking advantage of his professional acquaintance with the ladies, whose doings had so occupied her empty head.

They were at home, and Deborah, somewhat overcome by the honour of a call from Mrs Burgess, admitted and announced her without hesitation. It was not in lady nature, certainly not in Mrs Derwent's nature, to be other than perfectly courteous in her own house to any visitor, however little desired, and, as was almost a matter of course with a woman of Mrs Burgess's calibre, she mistook the gentle gravity with which she was received for somewhat awe-struck gratification at her visit, and speedily proceeded to make herself very much at home, very much at home indeed.

This process consisted of several stages. In the first place, after ensconsing herself in the most comfortable chair--Mrs Burgess had a quick eye for a comfortable chair--and amiably waving her hostess to one conveniently near, and, as she expressed it, on her "best side"--for the doctor's wife was deaf--she loosened her cloak, remarking that, though cold out-of-doors, it was rather "warm in here," the ceilings were low, and low rooms get quickly "stuffy."

"Indeed," said Mrs Derwent. "I am sorry you find it so. We think these rooms very well ventilated. Old-fashioned, thick-walled houses are often warm in winter as well as cool in summer."

"Pr'aps so," said Mrs Burgess, "but I'm all for modern improvements. We've done a deal to our house; we'd almost better have rebuilt it. But you've been living abroad, I believe. Foreign houses are quite another style of thing, I suppose? Very rough compared with English."

Mrs Derwent could not repress a smile.

"`Foreign' is a wide word," she said, "if you mean it in the sense of anything or everything not _English_. No, I cannot say that we have been accustomed to living in very rough ways, and there are many beautiful houses in the south of France."

"Oh, the south of France!" repeated her visitor, who had not very clearly caught the rest of Mrs Derwent's speech. "Yes, I suppose that's very much improved by so many English going over there for the winters. And was it for health, then, that you lived there? These young ladies don't look so very strong. I must tell Mr Burgess to keep his eye on them--living so near, it would be quite a pleasure. But, oh, I was forgetting. You're thinking of living out of town a bit?"

"Yes," said Mrs Derwent. "I have taken a house at Pinnerton Green-- Pinnerton Lodge."

Mrs Burgess screwed up her lips.

"Damp," she said oracularly. "I don't hold with all these trees. And these delicate girls--"

"Thank you, you are very kind," said Mrs Derwent, more stiffly; "but my daughters are _not_ delicate, and--"

The only word that caught Mrs Burgess's ears was the objectionable adjective.

"Of course, of course," she repeated; "I could see it in a moment. But I'll tell you what you must do--have the trees thinned. That's what the Wandles did in their grounds at Pinnerton; they had the trees _well thinned_, especially at the side of the house, where the children's windows look out. Mrs Wandle is most kind. I'm sure a word from me, and she'd come to see you and tell you all about it. You don't know her, of course? Never mind; I'll ask her to call. You see this is a great tree country, and if you're not used to--"

"I know all about this part of the country very well, thank you; and I think it particularly healthy. I was brought up here, and we are not the least afraid of Pinnerton being damp," said Mrs Derwent, in her irritation adding more than she need have done, or had meant to do.

Mrs Burgess, in her eagerness at some volunteered information, had listened with extra attention.

"You were brought up here?" she exclaimed. "Where? Here, at Blissmore?"

"No; at Fotherley," Mrs Derwent replied, in a sort of desperation, thinking, perhaps, that the best policy would be to tell all there was to tell, and so get rid of this unwelcome visitor. "My father, Mr Fenning, was the vicar of Fotherley, and I lived there with him till a short time before his death. I married abroad, and have never been in England since."

"Dear, dear, how very interesting!" Mrs Burgess exclaimed. "I have heard the name, Mr Fleming of Fotherley; though, of course, it was before my time."

"_Fenning_, not Fleming," said Mrs Derwent, who had reason for objecting to this mistake.

"Ah yes; _Fleming_," responded Mrs Burgess serenely.

And Mrs Derwent, afraid of beginning to laugh out of sheer nervousness and irritation, gave up the attempt to set her right.

Then followed more cross-questioning, in which the doctor's wife was almost as great an adept as the smartest of great ladies. She varied her inquiries skilfully from mother to daughters, and back to mother again, till none of the three felt sure what sort of correct or "crooked" answers they had been beguiled into giving, and finally took leave in high good-humour, reiterating at the last that she would not forget to speak to Mrs Wandle; Mrs Derwent might depend upon her. "A word from me will be enough: we are such great friends. I am sure she will call as soon as she hears how anxious you are to see her."

As the door closed upon her, Mrs Derwent and Blanche looked first at each other, then at Stasy, who put on an expression of extra innocence and indifference. This hardened Blanche's heart.

"Well, Stasy," she said, "I hope you are satisfied. See what you have done by telling Mr Burgess we felt dull, and so on."

"_I_ don't mind her having called," said Stasy, determined to keep up a brave front. "I think she is most amusing; and what possible harm can she do us?"

"Every harm of the kind; though, of course, I suppose one should try to be above those things," said Blanche doubtfully. "But still, we didn't come to live in England to have as our only friends and companions people we _cannot_ feel in sympathy with. It is not wrong not to want to live among coarse-natured, vulgar-minded people, if it isn't one's duty to do so."

"There are vulgar minds in every class, I fear," said Mrs Derwent. "Still, that is a different matter. I do wish this had not begun; for I do not like to seem arrogant or ill-natured. And it is very difficult to keep a pushing woman like this Mrs Burgess at a distance, without being really disagreeable to her."

"We could stand _her_ even," said Blanche, regretfully. "There would be a sort of excuse for it, as she is the doctor's wife; but it is all these other awful people she is going to bring down upon us, `butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers,' like the nursery rhyme you used to say, mamma! And if other people--refined people--hear we are in the midst of such society as that, _they_ won't want to know us. I wish we hadn't come to Blissmore."

It was not often that Blanche was so discomposed. Her mother tried to soften matters.

"It will only call for a little tact, my dear," she said. "I am sure we shall be able to make them understand. It is not as if we were going to live in the town."

"But Pinnerton Green is a nest of them," said Blanche.

"That won't matter so much. Once we are in our own house we can draw our own lines. And when other people--better people--come to see us, these good folk will keep out of the way," said Mrs Derwent.

"Well, I wish you would look up some of them, mamma," said Stasy. "For my part, I would rather amuse myself with the Goths and Wandles, than know nobody at all."

The others could not help laughing; but, nevertheless, Blanche still felt not a little annoyed. She was more concerned for her sister than for herself; for there was a vein in Stasy's character which sometimes caused her mother and Blanche uneasiness--a love of excitement and amusement at all costs.

"She _must_ have some really good companions," thought the elder girl.

And that very evening she persuaded her mother to write to Mrs Lilford, Sir Adam Nigel's niece, recalling herself to that lady's memory. The letter was addressed to Alderwood, and marked "to be forwarded."

"I hope something will come of it," said Blanche. "And you must try to remember some other nice people, mamma; though, if Mrs Lilford is kind, she can do a good deal in the way of introducing us, even though she no longer lives here herself."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

MRS LILFORD'S TENANT.

In the increasing interest of getting the house at Pinnerton Green into order, the arrival of the furniture from Bordeaux, the unpacking of various precious belongings which had been left to come with the heavy things by sea, all of which necessitated almost daily expeditions to the new home, Mrs Derwent and her daughters forgot to think much of Mrs Burgess and her unwelcome offers of introductions.

And as Mrs Wandle did not present herself, they began to hope that perhaps the doctor's wife was as short of memory as she was hard of hearing.

Still the latent fear was there, though what was to be done to evade the acquaintance, it was difficult to say.

One afternoon--a dull, December afternoon, when the air was misty and penetratingly cold, and one could only feel thankful it had not the addition of smoke to turn it into fog of the first quality--the little family was sitting in Miss Halliday's well-warmed, best parlour, glad that the walk to Pinnerton Lodge had taken place that morning, before the day had become so ungenial; and Stasy was proposing that, to cheer them up a little, they should have afternoon tea rather earlier than usual, when suddenly a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door--for the house owned both knocker and bell--followed by a resounding tinkle, made them all start.

"Who can it be?" said Blanche. "It isn't often that any one both rings and knocks."

"A telegram," said Mrs Derwent. "No; that isn't likely. There is no one to telegraph to us."

Then Deborah was heard hurrying along the passage; her footsteps sounded as if she were somewhat flurried with the anticipation of a visitor of more importance than the postman or milkman. The ladies listened with curiosity, as a colloquy ensued between Deborah and some person or persons unknown, ending, after some little delay, by footsteps slow and heavy, following the small servant's patter along the passage.

Blanche glanced at her mother.

"Mrs Wandle," she ejaculated in a stage whisper.--"Stasy, jump up. For goodness' sake, let us be dignified to her."

For Stasy was sitting on a low footstool on the hearthrug, doing nothing, as was rather a favourite occupation of hers, and greatly enjoying the agreeable glow of the fire, which had sunk down to the pleasant redness preceding the sad necessity of "fresh coals," and the consequent "spoiling it all" for the next half-hour.

"Coal-fires are very interesting, I find," she had just been saying. "It almost makes up for the pleasure of turning the logs and seeing the sparks fly out, to watch the pictures in a coal-fire. The fairy castles and the caverns, and the--Oh, there is Monsieur Bergeret's nose! Do look, Blanche. Did you ever see anything so exactly like?"

But "Jump up, Stasy," was all the reply she got, and as the door slowly opened, a repeated whispered warning--"Mrs Wandle."

The name was not clearly audible which Deborah announced, but she announced _something_, and to the prepossessed ears of her audience it sounded as like "Mrs Wandle" as anything else. And in trotted, with as much dignity as a stout, short person can achieve, a lady enveloped in furs and wraps, who, after glancing round her with a sort of "nonchalant" curiosity, held out a somewhat limp hand to Mrs Derwent.

"How de do?" she began. "I heard from Mrs--" (afterwards, with a sensation of guilt and self-reproach, Blanche had to own to herself that the name had _not_ sounded like "Burgess") "that you--I mean that she would like me to call, though it's quite out of my way to come into Blissmore. Are these your daughters?--How de do? how de do?"

And then she sank into a chair, apparently at an end of her conversational resources.

"What an impertinent, vulgar old cat!" thought Stasy, shivering prospectively at the "all your doings" which she felt sure were in reserve for her.

But aloud, of course, she said nothing, only sat motionless, her great dark eyes fixed on the stranger with a peculiar expression which Blanche knew well.

For a moment or two there was silence. Then Mrs Derwent's clear, quiet tones sounded through the room.

"I am sorry you should have inconvenienced yourself by coming out of your way to see us," she said. "I trust you will not dream of giving yourself the trouble a second time."

"Well, no, I don't think I shall," the visitor replied calmly. "I hear you are going to live at Pinnerton. I should be glad to show you the pictures, and anything else you care to see, if you come over some day. It's not a very long walk over the fields."

"Some of us go to Pinnerton nearly every day," said Mrs Derwent, "but it is too far for me to walk. When I go, I drive. But I did not know there was a short cut to Pinnerton. We have always gone by the road."

"I didn't say to Pinnerton," said the visitor. "I said _from_ Pinnerton. _I_ don't live there, but I heard you were going to live there."

"So we are," Mrs Derwent replied, rather bewildered.

Evidently this could not be _the_ Mrs Wandle, the Pinnerton Green Mrs Wandle, that was to say, and yet--she had distinctly said that she had been _asked_ to call upon them.

"You used to live in our neighbourhood, I hear," the stout lady proceeded. "Fleming, I think that was the name?"

"No," Mrs Derwent replied rather sharply. If there was one thing in the world she cordially detested, it was to be confused with the Fleming family, whom she remembered, before they came to Fotherley, as very objectionable. "No, my name was _Fenning_. My father was vicar of Fotherley, and Mr Fleming, who succeeded him there, and was once his curate, had a small living in the neighbourhood."

"Oh, indeed--yes, Fenning or Fleming. I knew it was some such name. Well, Mrs Flem--I beg your pardon, Mrs Derwent. If you like to come over some day when you are at Pinnerton, you can see through the house, even if I am not at home. I will leave orders. I can't promise to go to see you at Pinnerton, for it's quite out of my way. Even when I am at East Moddersham, I always go and come by the other side."

"At East Moddersham?" said the Derwents to themselves, more completely perplexed than ever. "Did the Wandles visit _there_?"

"East Moddersham is Sir Conway Marth's, is it not?" said Blanche. "Can you tell me if that charming-looking girl whom I have seen riding about there is his niece?"

The visitor looked at her for a moment without speaking. It was a calm, deliberate taking stock of her, of which Blanche felt the extreme though, quite possibly, not intended rudeness, and her cheeks grew crimson. On the whole, the taking stock seemed to result favourably.

"No, but she is his ward," the stout lady replied; "I suppose you mean Lady Hebe Shetland. She is very lovely," and a softer and more genial expression came over the plain face as she spoke. "You have lived a great deal in France, I hear," she went on, continuing to address Blanche. "It must have been a great advantage to you. I suppose you speak French _quite_ well--without any accent?"