Blanche: A Story for Girls. Molesworth Mrs.
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.”
Chapter Four
Pinnerton Lodge
Mr Otterson received the strangers with formal and somewhat pompous civility, and a somewhat exaggerated caution, not to say suspiciousness of manner, which struck disagreeably on Mrs Derwent and Blanche, accustomed to have to do with people who knew as much about them as they did themselves.
The house could be seen at once, certainly; as to that there was no difficulty. But before entering further into the matter, Mr Otterson begged to be excused, but might he remind the ladies that his client empowered him to deal with no applicants whose references were not perfectly sufficient and satisfactory. Clear understanding in such cases was, according to his experience, the best in the end, even if it should cause a little delay at the outset.
“No delay need be caused in my case,” said Mrs Derwent, with a touch of haughtiness which her daughters enjoyed. “My references will be found perfectly satisfactory. Is this – this ultra caution, usual in such transactions,” she continued, flushing a little, “may I ask?”
And as she spoke, she drew out of her bag and deposited on the table two letters she had had the foresight to bring with her – one from the firm at Bordeaux, enclosing an acknowledgment to them of the money placed to the credit of “Mrs Anastasia Derwent” with their London bankers.
Mr Otterson’s keen eyes took in the nature of their contents even while scarcely seeming to glance at them. His manner grew a trifle less stilted.
“Cautious we have to be, madam,” he replied, “though you will not find us exaggeratedly