Blanche: A Story for Girls

Now, Mrs Burgess’s caps were even more marvellous works of art than Lady Harriot’s bonnets. They had indeed set Stasy’s teeth on edge to such an extent that Blanche had taken them altogether into her own hands, especially since some over-plain-speaking of Stasy’s on the subject had gone very near to deeply offending the doctor’s wife.

No visitor could have been more unwelcome. What imp had suggested to Blanche the desertion of her post that afternoon?

“I am sorry,” Miss Halliday replied, as she collected her scattered faculties, speaking with unusual dignity as she took in the sense of Mrs Burgess’s uncalled-for remark on her own appearance – “I am sorry, but Miss Derwent is not in at present. If you will kindly explain to me what you want, I will do my best, and I will tell Miss Derwent all particulars as soon as she comes back.”

“No,” interposed Stasy, coming forward, before Mrs Burgess had time to reply. “You are tired, Miss Halliday: I know you had a bad headache this afternoon. Let me take Mrs Burgess’s orders;” and she darted a wrathful glance at the visitor. “Miss Halliday apoplectic indeed!” she thought inwardly; “she looks far more so herself.”

The doctor’s wife looked at Stasy rather dubiously. She had not the same faith in the young girl as in her elder sister, and at the bottom of her heart she was a little afraid of Stasy, whom she was given to describing to her own friends as an impertinent, stuck-up little monkey. But her friends did not always agree with her – that is to say, not those among them who had benefited by the girls cleverness, or been fascinated by the charm of manner Stasy could exert when it suited her.

Furthermore, there was no choice. The caps must be had by a certain hour the next day, and as Mrs Burgess expected a guest to dine at her house that evening, she knew she would have no time to call again.

“I’m sure Miss Anastasia’s taste will please you,” said Miss Halliday, full of gratitude to Stasy, and recalling dire failures of her own in time past, anent Mrs Burgess’s head-dresses.

“Ah well,” said the lady, “you will do your best, I have no doubt, my dear, and I will explain exactly, so that you scarcely can go wrong. See here” – and she drew out a little parcel from the voluminous folds of her cloak – “I have brought one of my old caps as a pattern. This one was made by a French milliner in London, and was a great beauty in its day.”

“Indeed,” said Stasy, as she took up the crumpled and faded article gingerly by the tips of her long delicate fingers. “That was a good while ago, I suppose, though of course fashions change quickly. You do not wish this to be copied exactly?”

“You couldn’t do it if you tried,” said Mrs Burgess, already on the defensive, as she scented danger.

“No,” replied Stasy, with apparent submissiveness, “I don’t suppose I could. But if you will be so good as to take off your bonnet and put this cap on, it will be a guide as to the size of your head and the fit. Then I can show you some lace and flowers, or whatever you prefer.”

It took some little time for Mrs Burgess to divest herself of her bonnet and veil, as precautions had to be observed lest the remarkable addition to her somewhat scanty locks, which she called her “chignon,” should come off too. But at last the feat was safely accomplished, Stasy standing by and eyeing her the while with preternatural gravity.

Then the cap was hoisted to its place and adjusted with the help of a hairpin or two, Stasy marching round and round her victim, so as to get a view from all sides, with no more regard for Mrs Burgess, who was hot and flurried, and very doubtful as to the behaviour of her chignon, than if the poor woman had been a hairdresser’s block.

“Yes,” she said at last, composedly, “I quite see how it should be. Miss Halliday, please give Mrs Burgess her bonnet. – Now as to the lace you would like the caps to be made of, and the colours? I forget how many you said you wanted?”

Mrs Burgess had made up her mind to have three. But something quite indescribable in Stasy’s tone aroused her spirit of contradiction.

“I didn’t speak of more than one,” she said.

“I beg your pardon,” said Stasy, with extreme deference. “I must have been mistaken. I thought you alluded to some caps.”

“Well, and what if I did?” said Mrs Burgess, growing illogical as she waxed cross. “I came, hoping to see Miss Derwent, and there’s no saying how many I mightn’t have ordered if she had been in. But as it is, I don’t know but what I’d do better to wait till I get to London. I’m not at all sure that you’ll be able to manage it.”

“That must be as you prefer,” said Stasy, preparing to replace the lid on a box of tempting-looking laces which had just caught Mrs Burgess’s eye. The girl knew quite well that the doctor’s wife did intend to order the caps, and in her heart she was beginning to feel some interest – the purely disinterested interest of the artist – in fabricating something which should for once show off her customer’s plain features to the best advantage; but she was determined to reduce Mrs Burgess in the first place to a proper attitude of humility and deference. Her air of profound indifference was perfect.

“You may as well let me see those laces,” the doctor’s wife began again. “You needn’t be quite so short about it, Miss Stasy; it’s natural I should like to see what you can do. I won’t go back from having one cap, and, if it’s all right, I’ll let you know about another.”

Stasy looked at her calmly.

“I must have misunderstood you again,” she said.

“I thought you wanted them at once. I could promise two, or even three, to-morrow, if you decide upon them now, but not otherwise.”

“And perhaps you will allow me to mention,” said Miss Halliday, coming forward, “that even if Miss Derwent had taken the order, ten to one but Miss Stasy would have carried it out. There is no one like her for quick work. She knows in an instant what’s the right thing to do, and her fingers are like a fairy’s. – I will say it for you, my dear!”

Mrs Burgess’s respect for Stasy rapidly increased, though the girls air of calm superiority made her try her best to hide the fact.

“Ah well,” she said, in what she intended to be a tone of condescending good-nature, but which Stasy was far too quick not to interpret truly, “suppose we fix for two caps, one for morning and one for evening. Yes – those laces are very nice. You have some pretty flowers, I suppose?”

“For the evening head-dress, you mean,” said Stasy. “These thick laces are for evening caps, and, of course, without flowers. I should propose a few loops of black velvet with this lace.”

“Black velvet!” exclaimed Mrs Burgess. “That will be dull. I like a bit of colour in my cap. It sets off a dark dress, and Mr Burgess likes me best in dark things since I’ve got so stout.”

“If you particularly wish it, you can have crimson velvet,” said Stasy; “but, of course, black would be the right thing.”

“Well, I’ll leave it to you,” secretly convinced, but determined not to show it, was the reply, and, feeling herself triumphant, Stasy could afford to be generous. She drew out a box of beautiful French flowers of various shades, in which she allowed Mrs Burgess to revel with a view to the evening cap. And just as the doctor’s wife, having recovered her usual jollity, was impressing upon her that she must have the caps —must, whatever happened – to try on by eleven o’clock the next morning, the shop door softly opened.

“Mind you,” repeated Mrs Burgess in her loud, rather rough tones, intending to be jocular, “you’ll have them back on your hands, Miss Stasy, unless you keep to the time.”

The name “Stasy” fell on ears to which it had once been very familiar.

“Stasy,” their owner repeated to himself inaudibly, as he stood unnoticed by the door. “Can that be my little girl’s child, and in such a position? Good heavens! how careless I have been.”

Chapter Twenty Two

The Tall Old Gentleman

“Ahem!” followed by a slight cough, drew the attention of the three in the shop wards the door, whence the sound proceeded.

There stood a tall, rather bent, grey-haired old gentleman. Miss Halliday stared at him dubiously, but Mrs Burgess started forward.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Sir Adam! Who’d have thought it? I had no idea, sir, you were in the neighbourhood.”

The new-comer glanced at her coldly.

“Oh,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “Mrs Burgess, is it not? I hope your good husband is well – But” – and he stepped forward – “may I ask,” addressing Miss Halliday, “if it is the case that – that Mrs Derwent and her daughters are living here for the present?”

“It is so,” said the milliner, with gentle and half-deprecating courtesy. “I am sorry.” – Then remembering Stasy’s presence, she turned to her. “This is Miss Anastasia. She can explain better. Perhaps, Miss Stasy, you will take the gentleman into the drawing-room till your mamma returns. I daresay she will not be long now.”

Stasy put down on the counter a trail of roses which she was still holding, and laid her pretty little hand, with almost childlike confidence, in Sir Adam’s, already extended to meet it. The old man looked at her with a curiously mingled expression. Something about her, as well as her name, recalled her mother; still more, perhaps, her grandfather. For, though Stasy was at what is commonly called the “awkward age,” in her very unformed, half-wild gracefulness there was the suggestion of the underlying refinement and courtliness of bearing, for which Sir Adam’s old friend had been remarkable.

“My dear child; my poor, dear child!” he exclaimed.

Then the two disappeared – the young girl’s hand still held firmly in the old man’s grasp – through the door at the end of the shop, which led into the Derwents’ own quarters, to Miss Halliday’s intense satisfaction, and Mrs Burgess’s no less profound discomfiture and amazement.

“Dear, dear!” she ejaculated. “What’s going to happen now?” and she turned to Miss Halliday.

“I don’t understand you, ma’am,” she said quietly.

“Why, it’s plain to see what I mean,” returned the other. “Old Sir Adam Nigel treating Stasy Derwent as if she were his grand-daughter! How does he know anything about them?”

“She is not that, certainly,” said Miss Halliday, referring to the first part of Mrs Burgess’s speech, “but she is the grand-daughter of his very oldest and dearest friend, Mr Fenning – the Honourable and Reverend – and of his wife, Lady Anastasia Bourne, to give her maiden name,” rolling out the words with exquisite enjoyment. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Burgess,” she continued, “I think, from the first, you’ve just a little mistaken the position of my dear ladies, if I may make bold to call them so.”

For a worm will turn, and all Miss Halliday’s timidity vanished in indignation, hitherto repressed, at the behaviour of the doctor’s wife.

“Bless me!” exclaimed Mrs Burgess, “how was I to know? But what about my caps?”