Blanche: A Story for Girls

“It’s only to take in Rosy,” said Norman, with a brother’s brutality.

“Only Rosy!” repeated Lady Marth. “My dear Norman, if Rosy were any one but your sister, I don’t think you would be quite so much at a loss to account for Archie’s obstinacy.”

Archie laughed a hearty unconstrained laugh. “Archie’s taste is not peculiar; every one loves a tête-à-tête with Rosy, when they have a chance of it,” said Hebe, with apparently uncalled-for warmth.

“Of course they do,” said Sir Adam, speaking for the first time. – “And now, my dear Blanche, if you’ve had a cup of tea, I think we must be off – I have to get back to Alderwood in time for dinner, too, Master Archie. By-the-bye, we’ve got the large brougham – will you come with us viâ Blissmore, though it is rather a round?”

“Well no, I think I prefer Norman’s cart, which is here,” said Mr Dunstan lightly. “Though many thanks, all the same.”

“And how is Norman going to get home, then?” said Lady Marth. “You’re not going to force him away too?”

“The cart can come back,” said Archie.

“Thank you,” said Norman, somewhat grimly. “Pray, be on no ceremony.”

“There comes our brougham,” said Sir Adam, shaking hands with Lady Marth, Blanche following his example.

Then came a more affectionate farewell from Hebe, who accompanied them to the drawing-room door.

“I mustn’t go farther,” she said; but Norman Milward crossed the hall to see them off, Mr Dunstan having contented himself with a regulation hand-shake, when standing beside his hostess on the hearthrug.

The air outside felt chilly as they stepped into the carriage, but not so chilly as a strange, unreasonable breath of disappointment, which seemed to pass through Blanche, though, even to herself, she would have shrunk from calling it by such a name.

Chapter Twenty Four

Hebe’s Good News

May again! A later spring this year than last. As Blanche Derwent stood at the window of a house in a broad, airy street, at one end of which the trees of the Park were to be seen, she could scarcely believe it was same time of year, the same date, actually, as the day on which the news of their reversal of fortune had reached her mother at Pinnerton Lodge.

“That was such a lovely summery day,” she said to herself. “I remember it so well; Stasy and I walking home from Blissmore, laughing and talking – I even remember what we were talking about – how Stasy was flattering me;” and Blanche’s colour deepened a little. “And then to find poor mamma as she was when we got home! It was dreadful. And yet, how wonderfully all that side of things has come right! I should be grateful, and I think I am;” but still she gave a little sigh.

Sir Adam had carried out his scheme. He had taken a house in London for a part of the season, and had got his god-daughter and her children with him, excepting Herty, whom it had been thought wiser to leave under Miss Halliday’s care, not to interrupt his lessons.

Just then Stasy joined her sister.

“What are you doing, Blanche?” she said brightly.

“I thought it was against your principles to stand idle at the window. Even though these lovely London streets are delightful to look out on.”

Blanche smiled.

“How you have changed, Stasy! London used to be a synonym with you for everything dreary and miserable.”

“Yes, I daresay. London in November, with a fog, in a horrid hotel, and without a creature to speak to, isn’t exactly the same thing as London in May, in a bright open street like this, and with – really, I must say, everything one could reasonably wish to have.”

“London means a great many things – worlds and worlds of different lives,” said Blanche soberly. “I was just thinking how bare the trees are, Stasy, compared with this time last year;” and she reminded her sister of the date.

Stasy seemed impressed.

“It should make us awfully thankful,” she said, “and I’m sure it does. But I don’t quite understand you lately, Blanchie. You so often seem rather depressed, and just a little gloomy.”

She looked at her sister anxiously as she spoke.

“I wonder,” she went on – “I wonder if it is that you kept up too well when we were in such trouble. You were always so cheerful, and I used to be so cross. Do you remember my raging at Mrs Burgess’s caps?”

“No,” said Blanche decidedly. “You were always as good as could be. I don’t know how we should have got on without your fun and mischief, and I know I’ve grown horrid lately.”

“Are you not well, perhaps?” said Stasy. “I don’t think you have been quite yourself for a long time. I remember noticing it first, that Christmas week at Alderwood, when I did so enjoy myself. Even Lady Marth couldn’t freeze me up.”

“On the contrary, I think you’re rather a favourite of hers,” remarked Blanche.

“Oh, I don’t mind her,” said Stasy. “She’s not bad, after all; only she wants to manage every one’s affairs for them. I wonder if she’ll ever succeed in her match-making?”

“What do you mean?” said Blanche.

“Oh, you know, you must have forgotten about it. Rosy Milward and Archie Dunstan, of course.”

Blanche turned on her sharply.

“I do hope, Stasy, you’re not going to get into that odious habit of calling men you scarcely know, by their first names.”

Stasy opened her eyes very wide.

“I do know him, very well, I consider, and so do you, only you don’t like him. We saw a great deal of him at Christmas time, and I shall always consider him a true friend, whether you do or not. And so will mamma, I’m sure; the way he stuck to us, and was so kind to Herty at the time when no one else troubled their heads about us at all. Indeed, I’m by no means sure that Sir Adam would have found out about us as he did, not for a long time anyway, but for Mr Dunstan the younger. Does that suit you, Blanchie?”

Blanche took no notice of Stasy’s sarcasm.

“I know he was very good at that time,” she said. “I think he has most kind and generous impulses, but I don’t think his character can be very deep.”

“I think you are perfectly unfair and very censorious,” said Stasy indignantly. “Because you don’t personally like the man, and cannot give any good reason for your dislike, you imagine qualities, or no qualities, to justify your own prejudice.”

“Well, what does it matter what I think?” said Blanche, in a tone which she intended to be light and indifferent. “Rosy Milward’s opinion of him is, I suppose, the thing that signifies.”

Something in her voice struck Stasy. She eyed Blanche curiously.

“I don’t know that,” she said, speaking more slowly than was usual with her. “I’m not at all sure that Archie Dunstan does care in any special way what dear Rosy thinks about him.”

“Do you not think so?” said Blanche, with involuntary eagerness; but before Stasy had time to reply, they were interrupted by their mother’s entering the room.

“Quick, dears,” she said. “You must get ready. Sir Adam will be waiting for you.”

For the kind old man was devoting himself to “doing” London for his adopted grand-daughters’ benefit, two or three times a week, in the earlier part of the day.

At that very moment, at no great distance from the spot where Blanche and Stasy Derwent had been discussing Archie Dunstan’s character, the very person in question was sitting beside Lady Marth in her boudoir, listening to a very solemn oration discoursed, for his benefit, by that somewhat dictatorial lady herself.

She had summoned him by a note the evening before, and as he felt himself in duty bound to obey the behest of an old friend, he had made his appearance punctually. He was not without some suspicion as to the nature of the good advice she intended to bestow upon him, but saw no advantage in evading the interview.

“I must put an end to it, once for all,” he thought to himself. “Why will women meddle in such matters? But Josephine is honest and trustworthy when she feels herself trusted, so I’d rather have to do with her than with many would-be match-makers.”