So “Madame” of course gave in—the offer was accepted; a somewhat hurried selection of the things to be taken to England made, the rest sold. And the next two months were spent at Les Rosiers, a place of no special interest or association, though there were country neighbours to be said good-bye to with regret on both sides.
The “letter from England” which little Hertford Derwent had told of the evening he ran out to his sisters in the garden, had been a disappointment to their mother, for it contained, returned from the dead-letter office, one of her own, addressed by her some weeks previously to her old friend, Sir Adam Nigel, at the house near Blissmore, which she had believed was still his home.
“Not known at Alderwood,” was the curt comment scored across the envelope.
“I cannot understand it,” she said to her daughters. “Alderwood was his own place. Even if he were dead—and I feel sure I should have heard of his death—some of his family must have succeeded him there.”
“I thought he was an old bachelor,” said Blanche.
“Yes, but the place—a family place—would have gone to some one belonging to him, a nephew or a cousin. He was not a nobody, to be forgotten.”
“The place may have been sold,” Blanche said again. “I suppose even old family places are sometimes sold in England.”
But still Mrs Derwent repeated that she could scarcely think so; at least she felt an instinctive conviction that she would have heard of it.
“It may possibly be let to strangers, and some careless servant may have sent back the letter without troubling to inquire,” she said. “Of course I can easily find out about it once we are there, but I feel disappointed. I had counted on Sir Adam’s helping me to find a suitable house.”
“How long is it since you last heard from him?” said Stasy.