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.”
So he sat in silence, patiently enough, to all appearance, while Lady Marth unbosomed herself of what she considered her mission, prefacing her advice with the usual excuses for interference, on the ground that, sooner or later, both of the principals concerned would thank her for having acted as a true friend in the matter.
Archie bent his head in acknowledgment of her kind intentions, but beyond this, neither by word nor look did he help her out with what she had to say.
This attitude of his made her task by no means easier. For some little time she floundered about in unusual embarrassment; but once fairly under weigh, her words flowed fluently. She dilated on Archie’s lonely position—the advisability of his making up his mind to marry, instead of remaining a target for the aims of designing mammas or rich husband-hunting daughters, and possibly some day finding himself pinned by their well-directed arrows. She hinted at the satisfaction and security of being cared for, “for himself,” and by one who had known him long and thoroughly, to all of which Archie listened unmoved, with the utmost deference and attention, till her ladyship at last pulled up short, partly through breathlessness, partly because, without the encouragement of a responsive word or gesture, she had really nothing more to say.
Then he looked up, but nothing in his face helped her to any conclusion as to the effect of her exordium.
“I must thank you,” he said, “for your great interest in my welfare. Believe me, I shall always remember it.” Which statement was certainly well founded, though the glimmer of a smile danced in his eyes as he made his little speech.
The smile, however, Lady Marth was too engrossed to perceive.
“But”—and at this word, for the first time, her heart misgave her as to what was to follow—“but it is best for me at once to make you understand my position. I am not likely to marry. It seems to me at present almost certain that I never shall.”
“Archie!” exclaimed Lady Marth, startled and surprised, “why not?”
“Simply for this reason. There is only one woman in the world whom I can imagine myself caring for in that way, and she”—here, even Archies calm somewhat deserted him—“she,” he went on, with a touch of bitterness quite new to him, “won’t have anything to say to me.”
“I can scarcely believe it,” exclaimed his hearer.
“There must be some mistake!”
“Thank you for the inferred compliment,” he replied. “But no—it is quite true; there is no mistake.”
Then a wild idea struck Lady Marth, suggested by her irrepressible belief in her own powers of discernment.
“You don’t mean to say,” she began. “Is it possible that we are both thinking of the same person! It can’t be that Rosy has refused you.”
Archie laughed, quite unconstrainedly.
“As things are,” he said, “I suppose I may be quite frank. Rosy!—oh dear, no; we are the best of friends, as you are aware, but thoroughly and completely like brother and sister. And it is by no means improbable that she suspects the real state of the case, as Hebe is in my confidence.”
“Then who in all the world can it be?” said Lady Marth, completely nonplussed, “for somehow you seem to infer that it’s some one I know.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Archie. “You do know her—it is Blanche Derwent.”
For a moment or two Lady Marth did not speak. Then she said, half timidly:
“It must have been very sudden. You have seen very little of her? Oh yes, there was that Christmas week at Alderwood.”
“It all happened long before then,” said Archie.
“It is true, I had not seen much of her, but it doesn’t seem to me now that time is required in such a case. It was soon after they left Pinnerton, and took up that millinery business.”
“Before Sir Adam came home?”
“Of course,” said Archie drily.
“And she refused you—then?”
“Naturally, as she didn’t care for me.”
Lady Marth again relapsed into silence. The confusion of ideas in her mind was too great to find expression in words. She had read of such things; in novels, perhaps, they seemed credible and rather fine. But in real life—no, she couldn’t take it in.
Archie showed no inclination to say more. He rose, and held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you for your interest in me.”
“Good-bye,” she replied, “and—no, perhaps I had better say nothing. Except, yes—honestly, Archie, I should like to see you happy.”
“Thank you,” he repeated.
When Archie found himself in the street again, he looked about him vaguely, and sauntered on, scarcely knowing why or whither, thinking over the interview which had just taken place, and recalling, not without a certain grim humour, Josephine Marth’s blank amazement.
Suddenly the sound of his own name not far from him made him start, and looking up, on the opposite pavement he caught sight of three familiar figures, Sir Adam and his two “grand-daughters.”
“Where are you off to?” said the old man. “You don’t look as if you were bound on anything very important. Come with us—we’re going to see some of the pictures.”
Mr Dunstan hesitated.
“Yes, do come,” said Stasy, with whom he was on the friendliest of terms. “Three is no company, you know, and I’m always getting left behind by myself.”
He glanced up, still irresolute, but at that moment he caught Blanche’s eyes, and something—an impalpable something in their blue depths—brought him to a sudden determination.
“If I won’t be in the way,” he said, “I should like nothing better.”
And the four walked on together.
“Norman,” said Lady Hebe that same evening, when they met for a few moments before dinner in her guardian’s house—it was within a week or two of the date fixed for their marriage—“Norman, I’ve something wonderful to tell you. Archie Dunstan rushed in late this afternoon to see me for a moment—”
“Well?” said Norman, as she paused. “Do you want me to guess?”
“No,” said Hebe, “I want to tell you straight off. Archie knew how I should enjoy doing so. Its all right, Norman—between him and Blanche, I mean. Just fancy! Aren’t you pleased?”
And never had Hebe’s face looked happier than as she said the words.
End of “Blanche.”