Blanche: A Story for Girls

“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?”

“Naturally,” said Stasy, and her clear, rather shrill voice almost made the others jump. “How could we help speaking it perfectly, when it was the language of the country we were born and brought up in?” She got no reply. The lady glanced at her for half an instant, as if to say, “What an impertinent child!” – then turned again to Blanche. “I should like you to come to luncheon with me some day. I will let you know a day that I shall be quite alone, so that we could talk French all the time. I want to rub up my French. Mr Dunstan and I go abroad every year, and I like to speak French perfectly.”

Then, quite satisfied that she had made herself most agreeable, the visitor rose, and saying as she shook hands, “I shall tell Mrs Lilford I saw you. And you must come over to see the pictures some day,” she slowly made her way to the door, which Blanche had scarcely presence of mind enough left to open for her. There was no need to ring for Deborah, who was waiting in the passage, in a state of flutter.

“Deborah,” said Blanche, as soon as the front door, disclosing a view of a ponderous-looking carriage in attendance, had finally closed, “Who is that lady? Is it a Mrs Wandle, or who?”

“Lor, Miss – Mrs Wandle! No indeed, Miss; its Lady Harriot Dunstan – the lady as lives at Alderwood Park.”

Blanche went back into the sitting-room, and shut the door.

“Mamma,” she said, “do you know who that was? It was Mrs Lilford’s friend – at least I suppose she is her friend, as well as her tenant – Lady Harriot Dunstan.”

“And we thought she was Mrs Wandle, the brewers wife!” said Stasy, going off into a fit of laughter. “Whoever she is, she is a vulgar, impertinent old cat. – Oh, mamma, are all English people so stupid and horrid? Why, she’s worse than Mrs Burgess.”

The mention of Mrs Burgess brought a look of annoyance to Blanche’s face.

“It has all come of your hinting to Mr Burgess that we should like his wife to call, Stasy,” she said. “Lady Harriot may not be the most charming or intelligent of human beings, but still, if we hadn’t had our heads full of Wandles and Burgesses, we should have met her differently, and perhaps got on better with her. She must have thought us very stiff and queer in our manners.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs Derwent, “I am sorry about it, certainly. This Lady Harriot seems the only direct link I have, as she is evidently an intimate friend of Mrs Lilford, Sir Adam’s niece. It must be in consequence of my letter to Mrs Lilford that she has called. But – she surely cannot have been told much about us, or she would not have been so – so – ”

“So horribly rude and patronising,” said Stasy. “Oh, mamma, whoever she is, and even if we were never to make any friends at all, don’t let us have anything to do with such people as that. And I – I used to think English people were all so nice and refined!”

The tears rose to her eyes – tears partly of disappointment and mortification, partly of vexation with herself. And instantly, as was always the case where Stasy was concerned, the hearts of her mother and sister softened to her again.

“My dear child, how you do rush at conclusions!” Mrs Derwent exclaimed. “Because we have come across two commonplace, perhaps I must say vulgar-minded women, you make up your mind that English society is composed of such people.”

“And,” Blanche added eagerly, “did you notice, mamma, how even Lady Harriot’s dull face lighted up when she spoke of Lady Hebe? Mamma, I am perfectly certain that girl is as good as she is charming. It refreshes me merely to think of her face – Stasy, I wish you had seen her better.”

“I did see her well enough. I thought she was lovely, and she looked as if she’d never had a trouble in her life. Oh, I daresay there are some nice people in England, but I don’t believe we shall know any of them,” said Stasy very lugubriously.

The next morning threw more light on the visit of the day before, for it brought a letter from Mrs Lilford. Mrs Derwent, guessing who was the writer, opened it with interest and some curiosity, but she had not read far before she startled her daughters with a sudden exclamation.

“What is it, mamma?” said Blanche.

“It is from Mrs Lilford, Sir Adam Nigel’s niece,” she said; “and, fancy, Blanchie – I am so delighted – he is not dead. Dear old Sir Adam, I mean. Listen. I may be hearing from him before very long.”

And she went on to read aloud from the letter.

“I am glad to say that you have been misinformed about my uncle. Though he left Alderwood several years ago, at which time he gave it up to me, he is still living. His health would not stand English winters, and he spends eight or nine months of the year in Algeria. When I write to him next, I will tell him of your return to England. In the meantime I have asked my friend and tenant, Lady Harriot Dunstan, to call upon you, and I have no doubt she will be glad to be of any little neighbourly service in her power.” Then followed Sir Adam Nigel’s address, and a few sufficiently cordial words. But the tone of the whole was barely “friendly,” though ladylike and courteous.

Mrs Derwent, however, was too pleased with the news of Sir Adam to think much of anything else.

“I am so delighted,” she repeated – “so glad to think I shall see him again.”

Blanche took up the letter, and toyed with it in her fingers. The distant Sir Adam seemed to her and Stasy of less importance than matters nearer at hand. Her silence caught her mother’s attention.

“It is a nice letter,” Mrs Derwent said.