A sort of breath of thanks was all there was time for, then the girl turned at the sound of a name – “Hebe” – through the fog, and was instantly lost to view. But her face, her joyous face, in its strange setting of dingy yellow-brown, streaked with the almost dingier struggling gas-light, was impressed upon Blanche’s memory, like a never-to-be-forgotten picture.
“Hebe,” she said to herself, as she explained to her mother, just then becoming visible, that the porter would take charge for them – “Hebe: how the name suits her!”
An hour later saw them in their temporary haven of refuge – a private hotel in Jermyn Street. In this hotel Mrs Derwent had once spent a happy week with her father when she was eighteen, and she was delighted when, in reply to her letter bespeaking accommodation for herself and her family, there came a reply in the same name as she remembered had formerly been that of the proprietor.
“It is nice that the landlord is still there: I wonder if they will perhaps recollect us,” she said. “Your grandfather always put up there. They were such civil people.”
“Civil” they still were, and had reason to be, for it is not every day that a family party takes up its quarters indefinitely in a first-class and expensive London hotel. And it had not occurred to Mrs Derwent to make any very special inquiry as to their charges.
So in the meantime ignorance was bliss, and the sitting-room, though small, with two bedrooms opening out of it on one side and one on the other, looked fairly comfortable, despite the insidious fog lurking in every corner. For there was a good fire blazing, and promise of tea on a side-table. But it was all so strange, so very strange! A curious thrill, almost of anguish, passed through Blanche, as she realised that for the time being they were – but for this – homeless, and as if to mock her, there came before her mental vision the dear old house – sunny, and spacious, and above all familiar, which they had left for ever! Had it been well to do so? The future alone could show.
But a glance at her mother’s face, pale and anxious, under a very obtrusive cheerfulness, far more touching than expressed misgiving, recalled the girl to the small but unmistakable duties of the present.
“I mustn’t begin to be sentimental about our old home,” she said to herself. “Mamma has acted from the very best possible motives, and I must support her by being hopeful and cheerful.”
And she turned brightly to Stasy, who had thrown herself on to a low chair in front of the hearth, and was holding out her cold hands to the blaze.
“What a nice fire!” said the elder girl. “How beautifully warm!”
“Yes,” Stasy agreed. “I am beginning already to understand the English devotion to one’s own fireside. Poor things! There cannot be much temptation – in London, at least – to stray far from it. Imagine walking, or even worse, driving through the streets! And I had looked forward to shopping a little, and to seeing some of the sights of London. How do people ever do anything here?”
Her extreme dolefulness roused the others to genuine laughter.
“My dearest child,” said her mother, “you don’t suppose London is always like this? Why, I don’t remember a single fog when I was a girl, and though I did not live in London, I often paid visits here, now and then in the winter.”
“Oh, but, mamma, you can’t remember anything in England but delightfulness,” said Stasy incredulously. “Why, I know one day you told us it seemed to have been summer even when you were skating. And I daresay fogs have got worse since then. Very likely we shall be told that they are beginning to spread all over the country. I know I read or heard somewhere that they were getting worse.”
“Only in London,” said Blanche, “and that is because it is growing and growing so. That does not affect the rest of England. The fogs are the revers de la médaille of these lovely, hot coal-fires, I suppose.”
She stooped and took up the tongs to lift a red-hot glowing morsel that had fallen into the grate, taking advantage of the position to whisper into her sister’s ears a word of remembrance.
“Do try to be a little brighter, Stasy, for mamma’s sake.”
The entrance of tea at that moment did more perhaps in the desired direction than Blanche’s hint. Stasy got up from her low chair and looked about her.
“How long has there been fog like this?” she asked the waiter, as he reappeared with a beautifully toasted tea-cake.
“Yesterday, miss. No, the day before, I think,” he replied, as if fog or no fog were not a matter of special importance.
“And how long do they last generally?” Stasy continued.
“As bad as this – not often over a day or two, miss,” he replied. “It may be quite bright to-morrow morning.”
“There now, Stasy,” said her mother. “I told you so. There is nothing to be low-spirited about. It is just – well, just a little unlucky. But we are all tired, and we will go to bed early, and forget about the fog.”
“Besides,” said Blanche, quietly, “we are not going to live in London. – Herty, you had better come close to the table; and if you mean to have any dinner, you had better not eat quite as much as you can, at present.”
“I don’t want any dinner,” said Herty. “English boys don’t have late dinner. They have no little breakfast, but a big one, early, and then a dinner instead of big breakfast, and just tea at night. Don’t they, mamma? And I am going to be quite English, so I shall begin now at once. Please may I have some more bread-and-butter, mamma?”
Mrs Derwent looked at him rather critically.
“Yes,” she said, “you may have some more if you really mean what you say. But it won’t do for you to come, in an hour or two, saying you are so hungry, you really must have some dinner, after all.”
“No,” said Herty, “I won’t do that.”
“And remember,” said Stasy severely, “that this is a hotel, not our own house. Whatever you eat here has to be paid for separately. It’s not like having a kitchen of our own, and Félicie going out and buying everything and cooking for us. Then it didn’t make much difference whether you ate a great deal or not.” Herty took the slice of bread-and-butter, in which he had just made a large semicircular hole, out of his mouth, and looked at Stasy very gravely. This was a new idea to him, and a rather appalling one.
“Yes,” his sister repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words, “you’ll have to think about it, Herty. Mamma isn’t as rich as she used to be; we haven’t got vineyards and great cellars all full of wine now. And when you go to school, that will cost a lot. English schools are very dear.”
Herty slowly turned his head round and gazed, first at his mother, then at Blanche. The round of bread-and-butter had disappeared by this time, so he was able to open his mouth wide, which he proceeded to do preparatory to a good howl.
“Mamma,” he was beginning, but Blanche stepped in to the rescue.
“Stasy,” she said, though she could scarcely help laughing, “how can you tease him so?”
For it was one of Stasy’s peculiarities that, in a certain depressed mood of her very April-like temperament, the only relief to her feelings was teasing Herty. The usual invigoration seemed to have followed the present performance; her colour had returned, and her eyes were sparkling.
“Blanchie, Blanchie,” said Herty, wavering for moment in his intention, “is it true? Will poor mamma have to pay a great lot of money if I eat much bread-and-butter?”
“No, no; of course not. Can’t you see when Stasy’s teasing you, you silly boy?” said Blanche caressingly. “Why, you are eight years old now! You should laugh at her. Mamma has plenty of money to pay for everything we need, though of course you mustn’t be greedy.”
“But hotels are dear,” persisted Stasy calmly.
“Well, we are not going to live at a hotel for ever,” said Blanche.
“Nor for very long, I hope,” added her mother. “I do look forward to being settled. Though, if the weather were pretty good, it would be nice to be in London for a little. We must get to know some of the shops, for living in the country makes one rather dependent upon writing to London for things.”
Blanche was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up suddenly.
“Have you no friends to go to see here, mamma? Is there nobody who can give us a little advice how to set about our house-hunting?”
“I scarcely thought it would be necessary to have any,” said Mrs Derwent. “My plan was simply to go down with one or both of you to Blissmore for a day, and look about for ourselves. You see, I shall feel quite at home once I am there, and it would be easy to ask at the inn or at the principal shop – old Ferris’s – if any houses are vacant. They always used to have notice of things of the kind.”
“But mamma, dear,” said Blanche softly, “all that is more than twenty years ago.”
Mrs Derwent was giving Herty a second cup of tea, and did not seem to catch the words.
Chapter Three
Then and Now
Negatively, the waiter’s prediction was fulfilled the next morning. That is to say, the fog was gone; but as to the “quite bright” – well, opinions vary, no doubt, as to “quite brightness.” Stasy stood at the window overlooking the street, when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and, glancing round, saw that it was her sister’s.
“Well, dear,” said Blanche, “it is an improvement on last night, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Stasy dubiously. “It’s certainly better than fog, but then, fog isn’t always there; and this sort of dull grey look is the regular thing in London, I suppose. I have often heard it was like that, but I don’t think I quite believed it before.”
“But we are not going to live in London,” said Blanche, “and the country in some parts of England is very bright and cheerful. Of course, this is the very dullest time of the year; we must remember that. Perhaps it is a good thing to begin at the worst; people say so, but I am not quite sure. There is a great deal in first impressions – bright ones leave an after-glow.”
Just then their mother came into the room.
“Isn’t it nice that the fog has gone?” she said. “And to me there is something quite exhilarating in the sight of a London street! Dear me, how it carries one back – ”
She stood just behind the two girls, and as Blanche glanced round at her, she thought how very pretty her mother still was. Her eyes were so bright, and the slight flush on her cheeks made her look so young.
“You have slept well, mamma, haven’t you?” she said affectionately. “You seem quite fresh and energetic.”
“Yes, I feel so; and hungry too. I always think London air makes me hungry, even though people abuse it so. Here comes breakfast. – You look well too, Blanchie. – But Stasy, have you not got over your fatigue yet?”
“I don’t know,” said Stasy. “Perhaps not; everything feels so strange. I don’t think I like London, mamma.”
Mrs Derwent laughed, but she seemed a little troubled too. Stasy, like herself, was very impressionable, but less buoyant. She had been full of enthusiastic delight at the thought of coming to England, and now she seemed in danger of going to the other extreme.
Blanche darted a somewhat reproachful look at her sister.
“Mamma,” she said, “are you going to make some sort of plans? It would be as well to do so at once, don’t you think? For if we are to be settled in a home of our own by Christmas, as we have always hoped, there is not much time to lose about finding a house. And if there was nothing at Blissmore – ”
“Oh, but there must be something at Blissmore,” said Mrs Derwent confidently. “And I quite agree with you, Blanchie, about not losing time. I wonder what is the best thing to do,” she went on, consideringly.
The waiter just then entered the room.
“Can you let me see a railway guide?” she asked.
“A Bradshaw, ma’am, or a ‘Hay, B, C’?” said the man.
“A what?” enquired Mrs Derwent, perplexed.
“A ‘Hay, B, C,’” he repeated. “They are simpler, ma’am, more suited to ladies, begging your pardon.”
“Please let me see one, then. – It must be some new kind of guide since my time, I suppose,” she added, turning to the others. “I must confess, Bradshaw would be a labyrinth to me. I want to see exactly how long it takes to Blissmore, and if we could get back the same evening.” And as the waiter reappeared with the yellow-paper-covered guide in one hand, and the Morning Post in the other, she exclaimed, as soon as she had glanced at the former, “Oh, what a nice guide! B – ‘Blackheath,’ ‘Blendon’ – yes, here it is, ‘Blissmore.’”
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Mrs Derwent spoke again:
“Yes, I think we can manage it in a day – the first time, at any rate. There is a train at – let me see. – Blanchie, do you hear?”
But Blanche was immersed in the newspaper. The outside column of houses to let had caught her eye.
“Mamma,” she said suddenly, “is there more than one Blissmore?” And her fair face looked a little flushed. “If not, it is really a curious coincidence. Look here,” and she held the paper for her mother to see, while she read aloud:
“Shire. Country residence to be let unfurnished, one mile from Blissmore Station. Contains” – and then followed the number of rooms, stabling for three horses, ending up with “quaint and well-stocked garden. Rent moderate. Apply to Messrs Otterson and Bewley, house-agents, Enneslie Street, Blissmore.”
“Otterson and Bewley,” Mrs Derwent repeated. “Who can they be? I don’t remember the name at all. Enneslie Street? Let me see; that was – ”
“Never mind about that, mamma dear,” said Stasy, who had brightened up wonderfully as she listened to her sister; “I do feel so excited about this house. It seems the very thing for us. Shall we go down to Blissmore at once to see it? I do hope it won’t be taken.”
“That is not likely,” said Blanche. “It is not everybody that has any peculiar attraction to Blissmore. And just look at the list of houses to let!” she added, holding up the paper as she spoke. “But I do think it would be well to write about it, don’t you, mamma?”
“Certainly I will. And I am glad to know the name of a house-agent, though it seems strange that there should be such a person at a tiny place like Blissmore. I can’t even remember Enneslie Street, though there seems – oh yes, that must be why the name seems familiar. There was a family called Enneslie at a pretty place a short way from Blissmore – Barleymead – yes, that was it. The Enneslies must have been building some houses, I suppose.”
And as soon as the obliging waiter had removed the breakfast things, Mrs Derwent got out her writing materials, and set to work at a letter to Messrs Otterson and Bewley.
It was just a little difficult to her to write anything of a formal or business-like nature in English. For as a young girl, nothing of the kind had been required of her, and since her marriage, though the Derwent family had been faithful to their own language among themselves, all outside matters were of course transacted in French. So Blanche and Stasy were both called upon for their advice and opinion.
“How do you begin in English, when it is to a firm?” said Blanche. “In French it is so easy – ‘Messieurs’ – but you can’t say ‘Sirs,’ can you?”
Mrs Derwent hesitated.
“I really don’t know,” she said frankly. “You sometimes wrote for your grandfather to bankers and such people, didn’t you, Blanche? Can’t you remember?”
Blanche considered.
“I don’t recollect ever writing anything but ‘Sir’ or ‘Dear sir,’” she said.
The three looked at each other in perplexity.
Suddenly a bright idea struck Mrs Derwent.
“I will write it in the third person,” she said. “Mrs Derwent will be obliged, etc.”
“That is a capital plan,” said Blanche, and in a few minutes the letter was satisfactorily completed.
It read rather quaintly, notwithstanding the trouble that had been taken with its composition. The clerk in Messrs Otterson and Bewley’s small back office, whose department it was to open the letters addressed to the firm, glanced through it a second time and then tossed it over to young Mr Otterson, who was supposed to be learning the business as a junior in his father’s employ.
“Foreigners, I should say,” observed the clerk.
“Better show it to the governor before you send an order to view,” replied the other.
Mr Otterson, senior, looked dubious.
“Send particulars and an order,” he said, “but mention that no negotiations can be entered upon without references. We must be careful: this school is bringing all sorts of impecunious people about the place.”
So the reply which found its way to the private hotel in Jermyn Street, though, strictly speaking, civil, was not exactly inviting in its tone.
Mrs Derwent read it, then passed it on to her elder daughter. She felt disappointed and rather chilled. They had been looking for the letter very eagerly, for time hung somewhat heavy on their hands. They had no one to go to see, and very little shopping to do, owing partly to their still deep mourning. And the noise and bustle of the London streets, even at this dead season, was confusing and tiring; worst of all, there was an incipient fog about still, as is not unusual in November.
“What do you think of it?” said Mrs Derwent, when Blanche had read the letter.
“It is dear, surely,” said Blanche. “Let me see – one hundred and twenty pounds; that is, three thousand francs. I thought small country-houses in England were less than that.”
“So did I,” her mother replied. “Still, we can afford that. Of course, if it had not been for my own money turning out so much less than was expected, we could have bought a little place, which would have been far nicer.”
“I don’t know that,” said Blanche. “At least, it would not have been wise to buy a place till we had tried it. And you have still a little money, mamma, besides what we get from France. We shall have quite enough.”
Mrs Derwent’s “own money,” inherited from her father, had been unwisely invested by him; when it came to be realised after his death, it proved a much less important addition to Henry Derwent’s income than had been anticipated.
“Oh yes, we shall have enough,” she replied, fingering the agents’ letter as she spoke. “I don’t understand,” she went on again, “I don’t understand what they mean by the ‘recent rise in house rents owing to the improvements in the town.’ What improvements can there be?”
“Gas, perhaps, or electric light,” said Blanche.
“Gas, my dear child!” repeated her mother. “Of course, there has always been gas there. It was not such a barbarous, out-of-the-way place as all that. Still, I scarcely think they can have risen to the heights of electric lighting yet. But we must go down and see for ourselves. These agents ask for references, too: I wonder if that is usual in England? No doubt, however, it will be all right when I tell them who I was.”
“But if they did want formal references,” said Blanche hesitatingly, “have we any one whose name we could give?”
“My bankers,” Mrs Derwent replied promptly. “Monsieur Bergeret opened a private account for me with the firm’s bankers here. I do wish I could identify the house,” she added. “I am sure I never heard the name before – ‘Pinnerton Lodge’ – and yet I have a vague remembrance of ‘Pinnerton.’”
“Just as you had of ‘Enneslie,’ mamma,” said Stasy. “Well, when are we to go to see it? To-morrow?”
“Yes; I see no use in delaying it,” said Mrs Derwent.
So the next morning saw the mother and daughters again at Victoria Station, Master Herty having been given over with many charges to the care of the faithful Aline.
They were in more than good time; their train was not due for some twenty minutes or so, and as they walked up and down the platform, the picture of their first arrival there returned to Blanche’s mind.
“Did you see that girl the other night, mamma?” she said. “The girl who hailed a porter for us. No, I don’t think you did. The fog was so thick. I never saw such a charming face: the very incarnation of youth and happiness she seemed to me;” and she related the little incident to her companions.
Stasy sighed.
“I daresay she has got a lovely home somewhere, and relations who make a great pet of her, and – and – oh, just everything in the world she wants,” she said.
Blanche looked at her sister doubtfully.
“Perhaps she has, but perhaps not,” she replied. “It isn’t always those lucky people who are the happiest. But, Stasy, I do wish you wouldn’t be so lugubrious: the air of London doesn’t seem to suit you.”
“I am not lugubri – what a dreadful word! – I am quite cheerful to-day. It is so interesting to be going to choose our new house. Mamma, shall we have to buy a lot of furniture, or will there be enough of what we had at home?”
“My dear Stasy – of course not. What a baby you are! Don’t you remember that we sold by far the greater part to the Baron de Var? Dear me, yes; we shall have to buy all sorts of things.”
Stasy’s eyes sparkled.
“That will be delightful,” she said. “I am so glad. So if we settle to take the house at once, we shall be ever so busy choosing things. That’s just what I like.”
Her good spirits lasted, and, indeed, increased, to the end of the journey. It was exhilarating to get out of the murky London air, even though in the country it was decidedly cold, and even slightly misty. As they approached her old home, Mrs Derwent grew pale with excitement.
“To think,” she said to her daughters, “of all that has happened since I left it, a thoughtless girl, that bright October morning, when my father drove me in to the station, and gave me in charge to the friend who was to take me to Paris, where young Madame de Caillemont, as we called her – the daughter-in-law of our old friend – met me, to escort me to Bordeaux. To think that I never came back again till now – with you two, my darlings, fatherless already in your turn, as I was so soon to be then.”
“But not motherless?” said Stasy, nestling in closer, “as you were, you poor, dear, little thing. And you hadn’t even a brother or sister! Except for marrying papa, you would have been very lonely. But I wish you’d look out of the window now, mamma, and see if you remember the places. We must be getting very near Blissmore.”
The train was an express one, which in itself had surprised Mrs Derwent a little: express trains used not to stop at Blissmore. They whizzed past some roadside stations, of which, with some difficulty the girls made out the names, in one or two instances familiar to their mother. Then signs of a more important stopping-place began to appear; rows of small, “run-up” cottages, such as one often sees on the outskirts of a town that is beginning to “grow;” here and there a tall chimney, suggestive of a brewery or steam-laundry, were to be seen, on which Mrs Derwent gazed with bewildered eyes.
“This surely cannot be Blissmore,” she exclaimed, as the train slackened. “I have not recognised the neighbourhood at all. It must be some larger town that I had forgotten, or else the railway comes along a different route now.”
But Blissmore it was. Another moment or two left no room for doubt; and, feeling indeed like a stranger in a strange land, Mrs Derwent stepped on to the platform of what was now a fairly important railway station.
“A fly, ma’am – want a fly?” said several voices, as the three made their way to the outside, where several vehicles were standing, and some amount of bustle going on.
Mrs Derwent looked irresolutely at her daughters. “I had thought of walking to the house-agents’,” she said; “but now I doubt if I should find the way. It all seems so utterly changed.”
“We should need a carriage in any case to get to the place we have come to see,” said Blanche. “It is a mile or more from the station, they said.”
“Pinnerton Lodge,” said Mrs Derwent to the foremost of the flymen; “do you know where that is?”
“Pinnerton Lodge,” repeated the man. Then, his memory refreshed by some of the standers-by, he exclaimed: “Oh, to be sure – out Pinnerton Green way. There’s two or three houses out there.”
“Then I shall want you to drive us there; but go first to Enneslie Street – Messrs Otterson and Bewley, the house-agents,” said Mrs Derwent, as she got into the fly, followed by her daughters.
“Pinnerton Green,” she repeated as they were driving off. “Oh yes; I remember now. That was what was in my mind. It was a sort of little hamlet near Blissmore, with an old-world well in the middle of the green. They must have built houses about there. How they have been building!” she continued, as the fly turned into the High Street of the little town. “I know where I am now; but really – it is almost incredible.”
Blanche and Stasy were looking about them with interest. But in comparison with London and Paris, and even Bordeaux, Blissmore did not strike them as anything but a small town. They had not their mother’s associations with grass-grown streets, and but one thoroughfare worthy the name, and two or three sleepy shops, whose modest windows scarcely allowed the goods for sale to be seen at all.
“It is a nice, bright, little place, I think,” said Blanche, as some rays of wintry sunshine lighted up the old church clock, which at that moment pealed out noon, sonorously enough, eliciting the exclamation, “Ah yes; there is a familiar sound,” from Mrs Derwent.
A moment later and they had turned into a side-street, to draw up, a few yards farther on, in front of a very modern, spick-and-span-looking house, half shop, half office, with the name they were in quest of, “Messrs Otterson and Bewley, House-agents, Auctioneers, etc,” in large black-and-gold letters, on the plate-glass.
“Enneslie Street,” said Mrs Derwent. “Why, this used to be Market Corner! There were only about half-a-dozen cottages, and, on market days, a few booths. Dear me! I feel like Rip Van Winkle.”