Blanche: A Story for Girls. Molesworth Mrs.
it, then. Poor Sir Adam must be dead, for Mrs Lilford is a niece of his, a favourite niece, his brother’s only child. I am surprised at her letting a family place like that; and yet it must be the same. Only I can’t understand its being at this side of Blissmore.”
“It is three or four miles off, quite the other way,” said the young man, “but there is a view of it from this. It stands high, and I believe there is a short cut to it across the fields, skirting the town.”
“I see,” said Mrs Derwent consideringly. “Then you have never heard Sir Adam Nigel’s name? Perhaps you are not a native of the place, however.”
“No; I come from Yorkshire,” replied he. “I have only been down here a few months.”
“Ah; that explains it,” the lady said again.
They strolled round the church, and gazed over to where they were told Alderwood should be seen, if it were clearer. But a slight mist was already rising, and there was a mist over the older woman’s eyes too.
“Alderwood was close to my old home, you know,” she whispered to Blanche.
Then they walked round the green and down the short bit of lane separating it from the high-road, the clerk staying behind to tell the flyman to follow them.
“How does it all strike you, Blanchie dear?” said Mrs Derwent, with some anxiety in her tone.
“I like the house very much indeed,” the girl replied. “It might be made very nice. Would all that cost too much, mamma?”
“We must see,” Mrs Derwent replied. “But the place – the green, and all these other new houses. What do you think of the neighbourhood, in short?”
“They are pretty, bright little houses,” said Blanche, not fully understanding her mother’s drift. “But I think, on the whole, I like the old-fashionedness of – ”
“Of our house?” Stasy interrupted, clearly showing how the wind was setting in her direction.
Blanche smiled.
“Of our house, best,” she concluded.
“Yes, oh yes, most decidedly,” agreed Mrs Derwent. “But that was not exactly what I meant. I was wondering if the close neighbourhood of this sort of little colony may not be objectionable in any way.”
“I scarcely see how,” Blanche replied. “Of course, they are not the sort of people we should know; but still, these other houses make it less practically lonely. And once you look up all your friends, we shall be quite independent, you see, mamma.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Derwent, and she was going on to say more, when at that moment the sound of a horse or horses’ feet approaching them rapidly, made her stop short and look round.
They were just at the end of the lane. A few yards higher up the road, on the opposite side, large gates, and the vague outline of a small house standing at one side of them, were visible. This was the entrance to the great house – East Moddersham – of which the clerk had spoken with bated breath. The sounds were coming towards where the Derwents stood, from the direction of the town, so, though they naturally turned to look, they in no way associated them with the near neighbourhood of the East Moddersham lodge.
There were two riders – a lady, and not far behind her, a groom. They were not going very fast; the horses seemed a little tired, and were not without traces of cross-country riding through November mud. Still they seemed to go by quickly, and as the first comer – a girl evidently, and quite a young girl – passed, a slight exclamation made both Mrs Derwent and Stasy start slightly.
“Did you speak, Blanchie?” said her sister; and as she glanced at Blanche’s face, she saw, with surprise, that she was smiling.
In her turn, Blanche started.
“I – I really don’t know if I said anything, or if it was she who did,” she replied. “Did you see her, Stasy? Did you, mamma? It was the girl at the station – the girl with the happy face.”
But neither her mother nor Stasy had known the little episode at the time, though they remembered Blanche’s telling them of it afterwards.
“I wish I had looked at her more,” said Stasy regretfully. “I didn’t notice her face; I was so taken up in looking at her altogether, you know – the horse, and the whole get-up. It did look so nice! Shall we be able to ride when we come to live here, mamma? It is one of the things I have longed to be in England for.”
“I hope so,” said Mrs Derwent. “At least we can manage a pony and pony-carriage. I think you could enjoy driving yourselves almost as much as riding. I wonder who the girl is. Did she look as happy this time, Blanche?”
“Yes; it seems the character of her face. I couldn’t picture her anything else,” Blanche replied. “I wonder, too, who she is.”
“She rode in at those big gates a little farther on,” Stasy said.
Just as she spoke, the clerk came up to them again, followed by the fly. He overheard Stasy’s last words, and ventured, though quite respectfully, to volunteer some information.
“That lady who just rode past,” he said, “is Lady Hebe Shetland; she is a ward of Sir Conway’s. A very fine-looking young lady she is considered. She has been hunting, no doubt. She is a splendid horsewoman.”
“Of course, there is a great deal of hunting hereabouts,” said Mrs Derwent. “It was my own part of the country in my young days.”
And something in her tone, though she was too kindly to indulge in “snubs,” made the young man conscious that the ladies were of a different class to most of the applicants for houses at the office in Enneslie Street.
They soon found themselves there again; Mr Otterson receiving them with urbanity, which increased when he found Mrs Derwent a prospective tenant, likely to do more than “nibble.”
“I should have preferred a house on the other side,” she said, “nearer Alderwood and Fotherley. Fotherley was my own old home.”
“Indeed,” said the agent, with secret curiosity. “I fear there is nothing thereabouts – really nothing. The new building has all been in the town, or quite close to it, with the exception of Pinnerton Green.”
“Ah well, then there is no use in thinking of another neighbourhood,” said Mrs Derwent.
And she went on to discuss the house that there was use in thinking of, after a very sensible and practical fashion, which raised Mr Otterson’s opinion of her greatly.
There would be a good deal to do to it; of that there was no doubt. And repairs, and alterations, and embellishments are not done for nothing. Mr Otterson looked grave.
“The first thing to be done,” he said, “is to get at an approximate idea of the cost.”
“You cannot make even a guess at it?” said Mrs Derwent, glancing at the clock.
For it had been already explained to her that all but the most absolutely necessary work must be at her own expense.
The agent shook his head.
“Not till to-morrow morning,” he said. “I have a very clever builder close at hand, who could give a rough idea almost at once, but not this evening. You are not staying the night at Blissmore, I suppose, madam?”
“We had not thought of doing so,” Mrs Derwent replied doubtfully.
“It would save a good deal of time, and indeed the man would almost need to see you to receive your personal instructions,” said Mr Otterson. “If it is impossible, perhaps you can manage to come down again next week.”
Blanche looked at her mother, as if to ask leave to speak.
“Yes, my dear?” said Mrs Derwent inquiringly.
“I think, mamma, it would be a good plan to stay the night,” she said. “It would be less tiring for you, and we should feel more settled if we knew a little