Blanche: A Story for Girls

Archie almost felt as if he were dreaming, and yet – there could be no doubt that all he had heard was true. The facts spoke for themselves. Here the Derwents were, installed in the back rooms of the Blissmore milliner’s house.

And yet how nice it was! The sunny afternoon and the old garden; nothing to jar even upon the ultra refinement with which he was often taxed. Was it that Blanche Derwent, by the perfect sweetness and dignity of her presence, shed harmony and beauty about her wherever she might happen to be? He almost thought that herein was to be found the secret of it all.

“Why are we all standing?” said Stasy, with her rather incisive, girlish abruptness. Her voice recalled the young man to matters of fact. He hastily turned to draw forward some of the seats that were standing about.

“I daresay mamma won’t come down for a minute or two,” Stasy continued. “She told me just now that she had two or three letters that she must finish for the post.”

Mr Dunstan looked rather guilty.

“I do hope she will not hurry on my account,” he said. “I am in no hurry, but I do want to see Mrs Derwent. I have a” – and he hesitated – “a message for her from an old friend. At least I promised to give her news of him the first time I saw her.”

“Indeed,” said Blanche, who, if she felt curious as to who the old friend might be, for her own reasons repressed her curiosity.

But Stasy was less self-contained.

“An old friend,” she repeated eagerly. “How interesting! I wonder who it was. Do tell us, Mr Dunstan.”

Archie was by no means reluctant to do so. Anything to get out of the stilted commonplace-isms which had begun the conversation.

“It is no one you know personally,” he said, turning rather pointedly to Stasy; “though you have probably heard of him, as he was your grandfathers greatest friend – I mean old Sir Adam Nigel.”

Stasy almost clapped her hands.

“Oh, how glad I am,” she exclaimed, “and how delighted mamma will be! She has been longing to hear of him again. Is he in England? He was to have come in the spring.”

“No,” Mr Dunstan replied, “I came across him at Cannes. I ran down there for a week last month to see an old relation of mine. Sir Adam has not been in England for two years, but he hopes to come over before very long, and he is sure to stay at Alderwood with my aunt, if he does so, as Mrs Lilford has suggested it. He asked me if I had met Mrs Derwent when I was staying there, and he was so pleased to hear about you all. I am staying at Alderwood again just now, you know, for a day or two by myself.”

Blanche suddenly raised her eyes and looked at him.

“Does,” she said – “did Sir Adam know, when you saw him, of – of what had happened to us? That we had lost all our money?”

“No,” said Archie. He could not hesitate or feel awkward, when the girl was so straightforward. “No, he certainly had heard nothing about it. I doubt if he has heard it even now.”

“I am glad of that,” said Blanche, “for he has not written.”

“I did not know myself – I had not the slightest idea of it – till two days ago, when I came down here,” said the young man; “and I cannot tell you how dreadfully sorry I was, for I suppose it is all quite true?”

“Quite true,” replied Blanche. “Thank you for being sorry about it. I am rather surprised at your not having heard of it before. Not, of course, that our affairs are of general interest. But have you not seen Lady Hebe lately? I wrote to tell her about it, because it affected the work I had undertaken to do for her.”

“And has she not written to you direct?” inquired Mr Dunstan quickly.

Blanche shook her head slightly.

Archies face darkened.

“I don’t understand her,” he said, as if speaking to himself. – “No,” he went on aloud, “I have not seen her for some time; she has been away for several weeks at Coblenz, of all places in the world at this time of year. She is back in London now, but I didn’t call before coming down,” he finished, rather abruptly.

“I thought you were such very great friends,” said Stasy, looking him full in the face. “Have you had a quarrel?”

“Stasy!” said Blanche, her colour rising as she spoke.

But before she had time to say more, the rustle of a skirt across the grass made her start up. Their mother had just come out to join them.

Chapter Eighteen

Herty’s Confidences

Derwent greeted Mr Dunstan with quiet courtesy, scarcely, however, amounting to friendliness. He was instantly conscious of the slight change in her manner, and at exerted himself to regain the ground he found he had somehow lost. This, under usual conditions, would have required little effort on the young man’s part, for he was gifted with that charm of manner which springs from a really unaffected and unselfish character. “Spoilt” he might well have been, and to some extent, in fact, he was so. But the spoiling did not go far below the surface. Yet it was second nature to him to feel himself more than welcome wherever he chose to go. Awkwardness of any kind was a perfectly novel sensation.

What was the matter this afternoon? He felt embarrassed and self-conscious, as if treading on ground where he had no right to be.

Mrs Derwent’s attitude was that of tacit expectation, as if waiting to hear the reason of his visit, so Archie’s preliminary remarks about the heat in London, and the refreshment of getting a day or two in the country, fell rather flat.

So at last he plunged abruptly into the only tangible explanation of his visit he could lay hold on.

“I have just been telling Miss Derwent,” he began, “that I met a very old friend of yours the other day at Cannes. He is an old friend of some of my people’s too – Sir Adam Nigel – who used long ago to live at Alderwood, you know.”

Mrs Derwent’s manner grew more cordial, and her face lighted up.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad to hear about him. He spoke of us – of me – then, to you?”

“Oh dear, yes,” said Archie, delighted at his success. “He asked me no end of questions about you, when he heard I had had the pleasure of meeting you. And he begged me to give you all kinds of messages, as I told him I was sure to see you again before long. I’m always turning up in this neighbourhood,” he went on, “though my own home is in another county, for my uncle Dunstan was my guardian, and they’ve been at Alderwood for fifteen years or so now. Mrs Lilford has never really settled there.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Derwent, “that makes it seem still longer since it was almost like home to me,” and her face saddened again a little. “Did Sir Adam say nothing about coming over this year?” she added. “I had hoped to see him before this.”

“Mamma,” said Blanche gently, “Mr Dunstan tells us that Sir Adam had no idea of what has happened, or that we had left Pinnerton Lodge.”

“No indeed,” said Archie eagerly.

Mrs Derwent’s face cleared again.

“I am not surprised,” she said. “Indeed, I felt sure of it, from his not having written again.”

“He is pretty certain to be in this neighbourhood before the winter,” added Archie, “and then, of course.” But he hesitated. It was not his place to assure Mrs Derwent that her old friend would look her up.

“Yes; then, of course, I shall see him,” she said, finishing the sentence for him. “But I think perhaps I will write, as, no doubt, Mr Dunstan, you can give me his present address.”

“Certainly I can,” the young man replied. “That’s to say, I can give you the Cannes address, and from there his letters are sure to be forwarded.”

Just then Herty reappeared, carefully carrying a plateful of buttered toast.

“There were no tea-cakes,” he said apologetically; “so Aline and me have been making this.”

“Buttered toast in July!” exclaimed Stasy contemptuously. “And you look as if you’d been toasting your face too, Herty; you’re as red as a turkey-cock.”

Herty’s beaming face clouded over.

“I thought you’d like it so much,” he said. “You generally do, Stasy.”

“Of course we like it,” said Blanche, as she began to pour out the tea.

“I think there’s nothing better than buttered toast at any time of the year,” said Archie heartily, at once following Blanche’s lead.

He was beginning to feel quite himself again. More than that, indeed, when Blanche glanced at him with an approving smile such as she had not yet favoured him with. How lovely she looked! He had always thought her lovely, but never, it seemed to him, had he seen her to such advantage as now; the afternoon sunshine adding a glow to her fair hair, and a touch of warmth to the delicate tints of her face, which had struck him as rather pale when he first saw her. Yet nothing could be simpler than the holland dress she was wearing. What made it so graceful in its folds? He had often condemned holland as too stiff and ungracious a material to be becoming, for Archie was a great connoisseur in such matters. Its creamy shade even seemed to deepen her blue eyes, lighted up by the transient smile. He had been a little doubtful about the colour of her eyes before, but now he was quite satisfied. They were thoroughly blue, but never had he seen so rich a shade in conjunction with that complexion and hair. He forgot he was looking at her, till a slight flush, for which the sunshine was not responsible, creeping over the girl’s cheeks, made him realise his unconscious breach of good manners.

The little bustle of handing cups and plates covered his momentary annoyance with himself.

“Really,” he thought, “what’s coming over me? I must be losing my head.”

The next quarter of an hour or so, however, passed very pleasantly. Mr Dunstan began to hope that he might feel himself re-established in the little family’s good graces.

“Are you going to be at Alderwood for some time?” asked Mrs Derwent in the course of conversation. “Isn’t it rather dull for you?”

“I don’t mind it,” replied Archie. “I’m rather used to being alone – in the country, that’s to say. I’ve no one but myself at my own home. I’ve been an orphan, you know, since I was a little fellow, and my only sister has been married for several years. Her husband is Norman Milward’s half-brother, Charles Conniston. They live in Ireland. By the way, you must have seen them that – that first afternoon I met you at Alderwood. They were staying at Crossburn then.”

“No,” said Blanche, whom he seemed to be addressing. “I don’t think I remember any one except old Mrs Selwyn that day, though I have seen young Mr Milward – Lady Hebe’s fiancé– once or twice, and his sister several times.”

“Oh, Rosy!” said Mr Dunstan. “Isn’t she nice? But isn’t she plain – almost odd-looking?”

Blanche did not reply.

“Blanche never thinks people that she likes, plain,” said Stasy.

“I beg your pardon,” said Blanche, “I’m not so silly. But the word doesn’t seem to me to suit Miss Milward, she has such wonderful eyes.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Archie, almost too evidently eager to endorse whatever Blanche said. “I quite agree with you. They are really beautiful eyes, because there’s no sham about them. She is as good as they would lead you to believe.”

Again the same bright smile of approval came over Blanche’s face, and Mr Dunstan felt himself rewarded. Just then Aline appeared at the door.

“Mademoiselle,” she said; then coming closer, she spoke to Blanche in a lower voice, though unluckily Mr Dunstan was so near that he could not but overhear what she said.

“Some ladies are in the shop. Miss Halliday is very sorry, but she fears you must come.”

“Of course,” said Blanche, springing to her feet – for the moment, she had begun to forget the present facts of her daily life, and she gave herself a sort of mental shake – “of course,” she repeated, “I’ll come at once. – Mr Dunstan, will you excuse me?” and she held out her hand, as if in farewell.

The young man’s face had grown visibly redder.

“Good-bye,” he said, repressing the effect that Alines words had had upon him.

Then turning to Mrs Derwent:

“Will you allow me to call again?” he said very clearly. “I intend to stay at Alderwood for two or three days longer.”

“Oh, certainly, if you happen to be anyway near,” she replied simply.

Then a bright idea struck Archie, as his glance fell on Herty.

“I wish you’d allow this young man to spend a day with me,” he said. “I’d take good care of him, and it is holidays just now, I know. I shall be driving in to-morrow morning in my dog-cart, and I will call for him, if he may come.”

“Oh mamma, mamma,” said Herty, ecstatically, “do say I may!”

It would have required a heart of stone to refuse the poor little fellow, and Mrs Derwent’s heart was by no means of that material.

“It is very good indeed of you, Mr Dunstan,” she replied; “and I am sure Herty would enjoy it immensely. Of course he has not nearly so much to amuse him here as at Pinnerton.”

“Then I will call for him at – let me see – shall we say eleven o’clock? and I’ll bring him safe back in the afternoon. Between four and five, if that will do?”

“Perfectly,” said Mrs Derwent, and then Mr Dunstan left taking care not to glance into the shop as he passed its open door on his way out.

Herty was ready the next morning betimes. Long before eleven had struck he was fidgeting about, asking every one half-a-dozen times in a minute what o’clock it was, so that it was a relief to everybody when the dog-cart drew up to the door and Herty was safely hoisted up to his seat beside his friend.

“I was so afraid it would rain or something, and that perhaps you wouldn’t come,” said the little boy.

“I would have come all the same if it had rained,” said Archie. “I could have wrapped you up in a mackintosh, and I daresay we’d have found something to amuse you at Alderwood.”

“These holidays are very dull,” said Herty with a sigh. “I have got no rabbits, nor nothing like I had at Pinnerton. I’d almost rather go back to France.”

“There’s no chance of that?” said Mr Dunstan quickly.

“Oh no,” said Herty. “Blanchie says we must stay here for – always, I suppose. Anyway, till I’m a man; and then I mean to make money for them. You know we’ve got no money now, at least scarcely any except what they make with having a shop. It’s rather horrid, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” agreed Archie, somewhat incautiously; “I think it’s exceedingly horrid. And I can quite understand that you feel in a great hurry to be a man, so as to be able to help them.”

“It’ll take a good while, though,” said Herty prudently, and then he began talking about the horse, extracting a promise from Archie that he would let him hold the reins when they got to a perfectly quiet part of the road.

But with some skill Mr Dunstan managed to bring him back to the subject they had been discussing.

“Do you think your sister minds much?” he asked, when Herty had been retailing some of his own grievances.

Herty considered.

“Well,” he said, “she hadn’t any rabbits, you see, and I think she likes making bonnets. They made them for the girls at Pinnerton, you know. But I think she does rather mind not having such a nice garden; she minds it for mamma, you see. And Stasy gets awfully cross sometimes! I heard Blanche speaking to her one day about being cross to the people in the shop.”

“And is Blanche never cross?” inquired Mr Dunstan, with great interest.

“Not like Stasy,” said Herty. “But she was very angry with me once when I was little. It was when I cut some hairs off Flopper’s tail. Flopper was grandpapa’s dog, an English dog, and those hairs are very particular, and then – and then,” said Herty, very slowly, “I said I hadn’t done it. It was that made Blanchie so cross. Telling a story, you know.”

“Yes,” said Archie, with preternatural gravity. “But that was a long time ago; of course you know better now,” he went on, cheerfully. “You never vex your sister now.”

“No, not as badly as that,” said Herty. “But one day, not long ago, I did see her crying. It wasn’t my fault, but I was very sorry; I think she had a headache, perhaps.”

The horse gave a spring forward at that moment, nearly dislodging Master Herty from his seat.

“I say, Mr Archie,” he exclaimed reproachfully, “what are you whipping him for? He’s going along quite nicely! I nearly tumbled out, I really did.”

“I beg your pardon, Herty,” said Mr Dunstan. “I’ll be more careful in future. I suppose I wasn’t thinking.”

Herty’s visit was a great success, the day passing to his complete satisfaction; and between four and five that afternoon the pair of friends found themselves at Miss Halliday’s door. Not this time in the dog-cart, for Mr Dunstan had left it at the “George,” a little way down the High Street.

“I won’t come in, I think, Herty,” he said, as Aline appeared in answer to the bell.

But Herty clung on to him.

“Oh, you must, just for a minute,” said the child. “I’m sure mamma would like to see you.”

“Madame is in the drawing-room,” put in Aline discreetly.

So, between the two, Archie allowed himself to be over-persuaded.

As Mr Dunstan, an hour later, passed the post-office on his way to the “George,” it suddenly struck him that he might call for the afternoon letters. There were two for himself, forwarded from his club – one of no special interest; the other a few hurried words from Norman Milward, whom he had not seen for a considerable time. “Hebe wants to see you,” he wrote. “She is back in London, but we have been in great anxiety lately. She wants to tell you about it herself. Do come as soon as you can.”

Chapter Nineteen

Something Important

The very next afternoon found Mr Dunstan standing at the door of the Marths’ house in London.

“Is Lady Hebe at home?” he inquired at once when it was opened, glancing up with some anxiety as he asked the question.

But nothing was to be learned from the man-servant’s impassive face, though – yes, it was surely unusually grave, for Archie was no stranger to him.

Her ladyship was at home, he replied, and expecting Mr Dunstan. For Archie had telegraphed that he would call at a certain hour.

Then he was ushered up-stairs to Hebe’s own little sitting-room, where many a happy half-hour had been spent by the circle of young “old friends.”

“Well, Hebe,” he said, as the door closed behind him, “here I am. I only got Norman’s letter yesterday afternoon, for I have been out of town for a few days. What an age it is since I have seen you!”

He had hardly as yet noticed her face, for the room was very dark; but as she came forward, holding out her hand, he almost started. She was unusually pale.

“You’ve not been ill, have you?” he said. “Its surely not that that has been the matter?”

“Then Norman did tell you something was the matter?” were her first words. “No, I have not been ill, at least not exactly. But, sit down, Archie, dear; I’ve a good deal to tell you.”

The young man drew a chair near her – she sat with her head to the light – with a feeling of increasing uneasiness.

“You make me feel quite frightened, Hebe,” he said. “What is this mysterious trouble?”

To his distress Hebe – happy Hebe – gave a little gasp that was almost like a sob.

“Archie,” she said, “it is a very great trouble that has come upon me, or rather upon us, for I am sure it is quite as bad or worse for Norman. Do you know there have been, there still are, grave fears that I am going blind? That is what I have been at Coblenz for. You know there is a very great oculist there.”

Archie’s bright, sunburnt face had paled visibly.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “My poor child – my dear little Hebe. It can’t be true; those specialists are always alarmists as well.”

“No,” she said. “I will tell you all about it, for I quite understand. They’ve not hidden anything from me. My guardian has been very kind, and Josephine – I did not think there was so much tenderness in her. It is not hopeless. It has come on gradually. But till this summer I did not realise it at all; I have always been so strong and well, you know, in every way. Then the glare and the heat of London seemed to make it worse suddenly. I began to think it must be something more serious than short-sightedness.”

“You never were short-sighted,” Archie interrupted. “You had splendid sight.”

And indeed, as he looked at her eyes now, deep and lustrous, but with a sadness in their brown depths which he had never seen there before, it was difficult to believe that there could be anything wrong.

“Yes,” she agreed; “but for some time I have not seen so well, and I got in the way of thinking I must be short-sighted. But this summer pain began, very bad sometimes, and then we consulted our doctor, and he sent me to Coblenz.”

“And the opinion you got there was? – ”

“I will tell you exactly,” said Hebe, “for I know you care.”

And she gave him a rapid resumé of the whole. It had ended in an operation being decided upon, in the anticipation of which she was already under a course of treatment.

“We are going back to Germany in a fortnight,” she said. “It is to be in about a month or six weeks from now. The Marths can’t stay with me all the time, but when Josephine leaves, Aunt Grace will come; and if all goes well – or, indeed, in any case – I hope to be back at East Moddersham some time in October. But what I wanted to see you about. Archie, was to ask you to look after Norman. He is so miserable, and it is much better for us not to be together. It breaks my heart to see him, and he says it breaks his heart to see me.”

“What can I do?” said Archie.

“I thought,” said Hebe, with some hesitation – “I thought perhaps, if it didn’t interfere too much with your own plans, you might propose taking him off to Norway, or something like that.”

Archie did not at once reply.

“You are such very old friends, you know,” said Hebe. “I wouldn’t ask such a thing only for my own sake.”

There was just a touch of hurt feeling in her tone. She had been so sure of the heartiest response from him. She was changed – her happy, almost childlike confidence seemed to have deserted her, and as Archie glanced up at her pale face, he felt disgusted with himself for his even momentary hesitation.

“My dear Hebe,” he exclaimed, “as if I wouldn’t do far more than that, for you as well as for Norman! I was just considering if I could explain everything to you! But I can’t just yet. Of course you may count upon me for Norway. I will set about it at once, and plan it so that Norman shall not in the least suspect that you had suggested it.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Hebe, in a tone of great relief.

“Let’s see,” Archie went on. “We might start in ten days or so, and you’d like me to keep him away till after – ”

“Yes,” said Hebe calmly, “till after the operation. That is to say, till its result can be known. I am not afraid of the operation itself – nowadays those things are managed painlessly – but it is the afterwards. Oh Archie, I mustn’t cry, they say it is so bad for my eyes; but if I am going to be blind, I can’t marry Norman. He’s so young and full of life, it would be terrible for him to be tied to – ”

She drove the tears back bravely, but it was all Archie himself could do to reply cheerfully.

“He would never give you up, I feel convinced,” he said. “But I am quite certain that what we have all got to do just now is to be hopeful. I will see you again soon, Hebe, when I’ve got things into shape a little. Trust it all to me. I must go back to – the country again to-night, for a day or two.”

He rose as if preparing to go.

“Where are you staying?” said Hebe – “at Saint Bartram’s?”

“N-no, I’m at Alderwood,” he replied. “I had some things to see to about there.”

Hebe’s brown eyes looked at him curiously.

“At Alderwood,” she repeated. “Oh, by-the-bye,” and she sighed, “I am so sorry never to have replied to a letter I had from Blanche Derwent. It was a private letter, and I have not been allowed to write at all.”

“Yes,” said Archie coolly, “I know about it. She told me.”

“You know all about their troubles, then – their loss of money?” asked Hebe, with some surprise.

“Yes, I heard it when I went down there. And then I saw them. They have left Pinnerton; they are living at Blissmore. They – no, I hate talking about it – they’ve actually joined that funny old milliner there; they are working for their daily bread.”