And then Blanche, lifting her eyes, saw that a man, a very young man he seemed to her at first sight, was standing not many paces off, behind Lady Harriot, slightly hidden by some intervening furniture or upholstery.
He came forward as he spoke, thus entirely disengaging himself from a little group—two or three women sitting, and another older man, who had also, of course, risen from his chair—at one end of the room, and Blanche’s grave eyes scanned him with some interest.
It is sometimes—often—well that we are in ignorance of the unspoken thoughts of those about us, but it is sometimes to be regretted. A link of sympathy would have been quickly forged between the girl and the man in this case, had she known the words which almost forced themselves through his teeth.
“Those confounded pictures! Is Aunt Harriot an utter fool?” he said to himself. “To speak to women like these as if they were her maid’s cousins asking to see the house!”
Lady Harriot turned, and a smile—the first of its kind that the Derwents had seen—came over her face, mellowing its plain features with a pleasant glow, for her husbands nephew, Archie Dunstan, owned perhaps the softest spot in her heart.
“Certainly,” she said. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs— Oh, I know,” triumphantly, “Mrs Fleming?” Irritating as it was, Blanche could not repress a smile; and the smile, like an electric spark, darted across to Archie Dunstan, and was reflected in his face. Mrs Derwent flushed slightly; she too was more than half inclined to laugh.
“No, Lady Harriot,” she said, “I am sorry to contradict you, but in this instance you do not ‘know.’ My name is Derwent. It used to be Fenning, in the old days when this house was almost home to me.”
Mrs Derwent’s intonation, as has before been mentioned, was remarkably distinct. Her words penetrated to the group of ladies, and a slight rustle ensued. Then a very tall, thin, still wonderfully erect figure came forward, both hands outstretched in welcome.
“Then are you Stasy?” said a tremulous, aged voice—“little Anastasia Fenning? And can this be your daughter? Dear me—dear me! Do you remember me? Aunt Grace—Sir Adam’s cousin? I am pleased to see you again.” And the very old lady stooped to kiss her long-ago young friend on the cheek.
“Aunt Grace!” repeated Mrs Derwent; “oh, I am glad to see you;” and her eyes glistened with more than pleasure. It seemed the first real welcome to her old home that she had received.