Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Seventeen.A Visitor.Two months later. A sunny day towards the end of July, the sort of day on which one longs to have nothing to do but to saunter about a garden, or lounge under trees with the lightest of light literature in his hands. It was rather hot in the milliner’s shop in the Blissmore High Street, though the sun-blinds had been down since the early morning to protect the few, though pretty, bonnets and hats tastefully displayed in the window. These sun-blinds were a new addition to Miss Halliday’s frontage, and she was very proud of them.“Such a convenience,” she said, “making such a nice shade, and yet not stopping passers-by seeing what was to be seen. Not that that would matter,” she went on, complacently. “If we had nothing but a plain front door, customers would come in plenty, I feel sure, now that we’re getting such a name.”It was quite true. Even during the few weeks that had passed since the Derwents had joined her, Miss Halliday’s connection had steadily increased, though just at this season it consisted mainly of the residents at Blissmore itself.Some came out of curiosity, no doubt, for no secret had been made of the change in the Derwents’ position and the courageous step they had taken. It was a new sensation, in a provincial town, at least, to be waited upon by “ladies,” and very charming ladies too; though, to tell the truth, the adjective was chiefly drawn forth by Blanche, whose sweet grave face and perfect patience and courtesy of manner rarely failed to win her customers’ hearts. But if curiosity brought several of these in the first place, real satisfaction at the way in which their orders were executed was pretty sure to lead to repeated visits. And added to the increasing conviction that not many milliners out of Paris had prettier wares, and “so moderate too,” was a sensation, agreeable to the Blissmore ladies, that somehow or other they were acting in a praiseworthy fashion by lending a helping hand to the “poor things.”Yes, as far as the town was concerned, there was no doubt that the new departure was a decided success, though the very success brought certain difficulties in its train, the management of which called for considerable tact.“You mustn’t let yourselves be patronised, dear young ladies,” said Miss Halliday, when an invitation to a small evening party was left one day for “Miss Derwent” by Mrs Burgess’s parlour-maid. “She wouldn’t have dared do it, if you had been at Pinnerton Lodge; and, to my mind, it’s a greater freedom now than it would have been then.”“She counts herself an old acquaintance, I suppose, as she called upon us at first,” said Blanche; “and Dr Burgess was very good to Stasy when she was ill, you know, Miss Halliday. Still, of course, I would never dream of accepting this. Only we must not risk offending any one, and I believe, in her way, Mrs Burgess has done her best to help us by recommending us.”Miss Halliday gave a little snort, Mrs Burgess being no very great favourite of hers.“I will answer her note quite civilly,” said Blanche, “and just say we do not intend to go out at all. To begin with, mamma would certainly not let me go alone.”“And they’d scarcely venture to askher,” said Miss Halliday with satisfaction. “But I wish you wouldn’t say you don’t mean ever to go anywhere, for when the county ladies are home again, there’s no saying but that you may have invitations of quite a different kind.”Blanche smiled.“The county ladies didn’t trouble themselves about us much before,” she said. “I can scarcely think it likely they will now, though I certainly hope they will come to us for their bonnets.”“I’ve not much fear but what they’ll do that,” said Miss Halliday, whose impressionable nature now saw everything on its bright side. “And even more than that, my dear Miss Blanchie, people are ‘funny’—you can’t count upon them. Anything that makes a sensation is the thing nowadays;” for the milliner was, in her way, a shrewd observer of human nature. “And there’s many nice ladies among them too—real ladies—who’d feel with you more truly than such as Mrs Burgess. There’s that sweet Lady Hebe, now!”A deep sigh from the farther corner of the shop seemed to come in appropriate response to her last words.“Stasy!” exclaimed Blanche. “What are you sighing so about? I thought you were working up-stairs beside mamma. What is the matter?”“Oh, a lot of things,” replied Stasy dolefully. “I’m so hot, and I can’t get thesebeastlyflowers to go the way I want them. My fingers seem all thumbs this afternoon.”“Stasy!” said Blanche again, this time in a tone of reproof. “Is that the way Blissmore young women talk?”“I’m a Blissmore young woman myself, now,” said Stasy. “So what can you expect?”“You’re overworking yourself,” said Blanche. “Instead of doing less, now that your classes are over for the holidays, you’re fagging yourself out; and it is really not necessary just now. We got on very well when you only helped us part of the day, didn’t we, Miss Halliday?”“Of course we did,” said Miss Halliday, “though we couldn’t do without Miss Stasy’s taste in anything. But do go out into the garden for a little, my dear; you’ll only make your head ache, and not be pleased with what you do in the end, when you’re feeling so.”Stasy looked regretfully at the hat on her knee.“I meant to make it so pretty,” she said. “And so you will, if you put it away in the meantime. There’s no hurry for it—there isn’t, really. Miss Bracy’s not leaving home till the end of the week,” said Miss Halliday.Blanche had crossed the room to her sister, and took up the hat to look at it.“It is pretty already,” she said, “and it is going to be quite charming, I can see. So uncommon!”Stasy looked up with tired eyes.“Do you really think so?” she said more cheerfully. “I am so glad, for I do want to make it very nice.”It was an uncommon hat, even in these modern days of eccentricity without end—uncommon, but still more, perfect in taste—and in imagination Blanche already saw Adela’s piquant face and beautiful dark eyes looking their best under its shade.“I want the roses to droop over a little on to her hair, do you see?” said Stasy. “And they will look rather sprawly.”“They will come all right in the end, I am quite sure,” said Blanche encouragingly, as Stasy rose half reluctantly from her place.“I just wish you’d go out with her too, Miss Blanchie,” said the milliner. “It is hot in here, and you’re looking pale yourself. I can call you in a moment when you’re wanted. I’ll tell you what,” she went on, with a sudden inspiration, “shall I tell Aline to take your tea out into the garden? Your dear mamma might like it, for she’s been writing all the afternoon, and Master Herty will help Aline to lay it.”Aline was the only servant who had been added to the High Street establishment, and with her happy French faculty of adapting herself to varying circumstances, she had proved so far a real boon to the little family.So Miss Halliday opened the door leading to the kitchen and gave her directions, while Blanche and Stasy made their way out to the long, pleasant strip of walled-in garden at the back of the old-fashioned house.“Blanche,” said Stasy, as they slowly walked up and down the gravel path, “it wasn’t only about the hat I gave that sigh. I do feel so hurt at Lady Hebe, and I do so wish Miss Halliday hadn’t put her into my head again.”“She doesn’t know anything about Hebe a not answering my letter,” said Blanche. “There was no use speaking of it.”“No, of course not,” Stasy agreed.“And I feel certain there must be some reason for it,” Blanche resumed. “She is the very last girl in the world to change to us because of all this. Besides, I think it was quite as difficult for her before to be nice to us, as it would be now.”“Perhaps so,” said Stasy, rather absently. “Blanche, I do feel so dull and cross now, somehow. It isn’t, after all, as much fun as I expected. I do so dislike some of the people that come with their orders.”“Yet, I think, on the whole, they have been wonderfully kind,” said Blanche. “Kind, and even delicate.”“Oh, I daresay they have,” said Stasy. “But they have such ridiculous ideas! That woman yesterday, who wanted a bonnet that would ‘go’ with everything. And yet it wasn’t to be black or any neutral colour.”“Yes, but Stasy,” said Blanche, “I was trembling for fear she should find out that you were making fun of her, when you proposed a— What is it, Aline?” she said, as the maid came out with the tea-tray, which she hastily deposited on a garden seat.“Some one is at the front door,” replied Aline. “The bell rang as I left the kitchen. Will mademoiselle excuse my leaving the tray there? I must answer the door, for that stupid little girl has not yet dressed herself,” and she hastened off.Just at that moment Herty put his face out at the glass door, which was slightly ajar.“Where is Aline?” he said. “She promised I was to help her to carry out the tea things.”“She has gone to open the door,” said Blanche. “She will be back in a moment. Come out here and help us to lay the table.—We may as well, Stasy,” she said to her sister; “the tray is not very secure on that chair.”She began unfolding the little table-cloth which Aline had brought out.“Herty must have run to the door,” said Stasy with some annoyance. “I am afraid he is getting rather common in his ways, Blanche, now that we live so plainly. I think we must be more particular with him. It does seem so vulgar for a child to be peeping out to see who is at the door.”“I doubt if Herty will content himself with peeping,” said Blanche. “I wonder if all little boys are as inquisitive as he is.”At that moment Herty’s shrill voice was heard in eager excitement.“Blanchie, Blanchie,” he cried; “Stasy—somebody’s come to see you.—Come along, do,” he added to some one, as yet invisible in the drawing-room. “We’re going to have tea in the garden; won’t it be jolly? You’re just in time.”Some inaudible words of remonstrance must have been addressed to him by the unfortunate individual he had under his convoy. But Herty was not to be so easily balked of his prey.“Youmustcome out,” they heard him say. “They’ll be as pleased as anything to see you.”And apparently the invisible new-comer judged it wiser to resist no more, though it was with somewhat heightened colour, and less appearance of being equal to the occasion than was usual to him, that Mr Archibald Dunstan followed, or, more correctly speaking, allowed himself to be dragged out into the garden by the irrepressible Herty.“I do beg your pardon, Miss Derwent,” he said as he shook hands, “but I couldn’t help myself, Herty is such a determined young person.”Blanche looked up at him, serenely enough to all appearance, though in her heart she was not sure how this unexpected visit should be regarded.“I had no idea you were in the country,” she said.—“Herty, go and tell mamma that Mr Dunstan is here. We are just going to have tea, as you see; we hoped it would be a little cooler in the garden than in the house.”“It has been very hot lately,” Archie replied, slightly disconcerted, he scarcely knew why, and disgusted with himself for finding nothing more original to say; though Blanche was to the full as self-possessed as if she were receiving him in the pretty little home in which she had last seen him, as if no crash had completely broken the tenor of their life.Archie almost felt as if he were dreaming, and yet—there could be no doubt that all he had heard was true. The facts spoke for themselves. Here the Derwents were, installed in the back rooms of the Blissmore milliner’s house.And yet how nice it was! The sunny afternoon and the old garden; nothing to jar even upon the ultra refinement with which he was often taxed. Was it that Blanche Derwent, by the perfect sweetness and dignity of her presence, shed harmony and beauty about her wherever she might happen to be? He almost thought that herein was to be found the secret of it all.“Why are we all standing?” said Stasy, with her rather incisive, girlish abruptness. Her voice recalled the young man to matters of fact. He hastily turned to draw forward some of the seats that were standing about.“I daresay mamma won’t come down for a minute or two,” Stasy continued. “She told me just now that she had two or three letters that she must finish for the post.”Mr Dunstan looked rather guilty.“I do hope she will not hurry on my account,” he said. “I am in no hurry, but I do want to see Mrs Derwent. I have a”—and he hesitated—“a message for her from an old friend. At least I promised to give her news of him the first time I saw her.”“Indeed,” said Blanche, who, if she felt curious as to who the old friend might be, for her own reasons repressed her curiosity.But Stasy was less self-contained.“An old friend,” she repeated eagerly. “How interesting! I wonder who it was. Do tell us, Mr Dunstan.”Archie was by no means reluctant to do so. Anything to get out of the stilted commonplace-isms which had begun the conversation.“It is no one you know personally,” he said, turning rather pointedly to Stasy; “though you have probably heard of him, as he was your grandfathers greatest friend—I mean old Sir Adam Nigel.”Stasy almost clapped her hands.“Oh, how glad I am,” she exclaimed, “and how delighted mamma will be! She has been longing to hear of him again. Is he in England? He was to have come in the spring.”“No,” Mr Dunstan replied, “I came across him at Cannes. I ran down there for a week last month to see an old relation of mine. Sir Adam has not been in England for two years, but he hopes to come over before very long, and he is sure to stay at Alderwood with my aunt, if he does so, as Mrs Lilford has suggested it. He asked me if I had met Mrs Derwent when I was staying there, and he was so pleased to hear about you all. I am staying at Alderwood again just now, you know, for a day or two by myself.”Blanche suddenly raised her eyes and looked at him.“Does,” she said—“did Sir Adam know, when you saw him, of—of what had happened to us? That we had lost all our money?”“No,” said Archie. He could not hesitate or feel awkward, when the girl was so straightforward. “No, he certainly had heard nothing about it. I doubt if he has heard it even now.”“I am glad of that,” said Blanche, “for he has not written.”“I did not know myself—I had not the slightest idea of it—till two days ago, when I came down here,” said the young man; “and I cannot tell you how dreadfully sorry I was, for I suppose it is all quite true?”“Quite true,” replied Blanche. “Thank you for being sorry about it. I am rather surprised at your not having heard of it before. Not, of course, that our affairs are of general interest. But have you not seen Lady Hebe lately? I wrote to tell her about it, because it affected the work I had undertaken to do for her.”“And has she not written to you direct?” inquired Mr Dunstan quickly.Blanche shook her head slightly.Archies face darkened.“I don’t understand her,” he said, as if speaking to himself.—“No,” he went on aloud, “I have not seen her for some time; she has been away for several weeks at Coblenz, of all places in the world at this time of year. She is back in London now, but I didn’t call before coming down,” he finished, rather abruptly.“I thought you were such very great friends,” said Stasy, looking him full in the face. “Have you had a quarrel?”“Stasy!” said Blanche, her colour rising as she spoke.But before she had time to say more, the rustle of a skirt across the grass made her start up. Their mother had just come out to join them.

Two months later. A sunny day towards the end of July, the sort of day on which one longs to have nothing to do but to saunter about a garden, or lounge under trees with the lightest of light literature in his hands. It was rather hot in the milliner’s shop in the Blissmore High Street, though the sun-blinds had been down since the early morning to protect the few, though pretty, bonnets and hats tastefully displayed in the window. These sun-blinds were a new addition to Miss Halliday’s frontage, and she was very proud of them.

“Such a convenience,” she said, “making such a nice shade, and yet not stopping passers-by seeing what was to be seen. Not that that would matter,” she went on, complacently. “If we had nothing but a plain front door, customers would come in plenty, I feel sure, now that we’re getting such a name.”

It was quite true. Even during the few weeks that had passed since the Derwents had joined her, Miss Halliday’s connection had steadily increased, though just at this season it consisted mainly of the residents at Blissmore itself.

Some came out of curiosity, no doubt, for no secret had been made of the change in the Derwents’ position and the courageous step they had taken. It was a new sensation, in a provincial town, at least, to be waited upon by “ladies,” and very charming ladies too; though, to tell the truth, the adjective was chiefly drawn forth by Blanche, whose sweet grave face and perfect patience and courtesy of manner rarely failed to win her customers’ hearts. But if curiosity brought several of these in the first place, real satisfaction at the way in which their orders were executed was pretty sure to lead to repeated visits. And added to the increasing conviction that not many milliners out of Paris had prettier wares, and “so moderate too,” was a sensation, agreeable to the Blissmore ladies, that somehow or other they were acting in a praiseworthy fashion by lending a helping hand to the “poor things.”

Yes, as far as the town was concerned, there was no doubt that the new departure was a decided success, though the very success brought certain difficulties in its train, the management of which called for considerable tact.

“You mustn’t let yourselves be patronised, dear young ladies,” said Miss Halliday, when an invitation to a small evening party was left one day for “Miss Derwent” by Mrs Burgess’s parlour-maid. “She wouldn’t have dared do it, if you had been at Pinnerton Lodge; and, to my mind, it’s a greater freedom now than it would have been then.”

“She counts herself an old acquaintance, I suppose, as she called upon us at first,” said Blanche; “and Dr Burgess was very good to Stasy when she was ill, you know, Miss Halliday. Still, of course, I would never dream of accepting this. Only we must not risk offending any one, and I believe, in her way, Mrs Burgess has done her best to help us by recommending us.”

Miss Halliday gave a little snort, Mrs Burgess being no very great favourite of hers.

“I will answer her note quite civilly,” said Blanche, “and just say we do not intend to go out at all. To begin with, mamma would certainly not let me go alone.”

“And they’d scarcely venture to askher,” said Miss Halliday with satisfaction. “But I wish you wouldn’t say you don’t mean ever to go anywhere, for when the county ladies are home again, there’s no saying but that you may have invitations of quite a different kind.”

Blanche smiled.

“The county ladies didn’t trouble themselves about us much before,” she said. “I can scarcely think it likely they will now, though I certainly hope they will come to us for their bonnets.”

“I’ve not much fear but what they’ll do that,” said Miss Halliday, whose impressionable nature now saw everything on its bright side. “And even more than that, my dear Miss Blanchie, people are ‘funny’—you can’t count upon them. Anything that makes a sensation is the thing nowadays;” for the milliner was, in her way, a shrewd observer of human nature. “And there’s many nice ladies among them too—real ladies—who’d feel with you more truly than such as Mrs Burgess. There’s that sweet Lady Hebe, now!”

A deep sigh from the farther corner of the shop seemed to come in appropriate response to her last words.

“Stasy!” exclaimed Blanche. “What are you sighing so about? I thought you were working up-stairs beside mamma. What is the matter?”

“Oh, a lot of things,” replied Stasy dolefully. “I’m so hot, and I can’t get thesebeastlyflowers to go the way I want them. My fingers seem all thumbs this afternoon.”

“Stasy!” said Blanche again, this time in a tone of reproof. “Is that the way Blissmore young women talk?”

“I’m a Blissmore young woman myself, now,” said Stasy. “So what can you expect?”

“You’re overworking yourself,” said Blanche. “Instead of doing less, now that your classes are over for the holidays, you’re fagging yourself out; and it is really not necessary just now. We got on very well when you only helped us part of the day, didn’t we, Miss Halliday?”

“Of course we did,” said Miss Halliday, “though we couldn’t do without Miss Stasy’s taste in anything. But do go out into the garden for a little, my dear; you’ll only make your head ache, and not be pleased with what you do in the end, when you’re feeling so.”

Stasy looked regretfully at the hat on her knee.

“I meant to make it so pretty,” she said. “And so you will, if you put it away in the meantime. There’s no hurry for it—there isn’t, really. Miss Bracy’s not leaving home till the end of the week,” said Miss Halliday.

Blanche had crossed the room to her sister, and took up the hat to look at it.

“It is pretty already,” she said, “and it is going to be quite charming, I can see. So uncommon!”

Stasy looked up with tired eyes.

“Do you really think so?” she said more cheerfully. “I am so glad, for I do want to make it very nice.”

It was an uncommon hat, even in these modern days of eccentricity without end—uncommon, but still more, perfect in taste—and in imagination Blanche already saw Adela’s piquant face and beautiful dark eyes looking their best under its shade.

“I want the roses to droop over a little on to her hair, do you see?” said Stasy. “And they will look rather sprawly.”

“They will come all right in the end, I am quite sure,” said Blanche encouragingly, as Stasy rose half reluctantly from her place.

“I just wish you’d go out with her too, Miss Blanchie,” said the milliner. “It is hot in here, and you’re looking pale yourself. I can call you in a moment when you’re wanted. I’ll tell you what,” she went on, with a sudden inspiration, “shall I tell Aline to take your tea out into the garden? Your dear mamma might like it, for she’s been writing all the afternoon, and Master Herty will help Aline to lay it.”

Aline was the only servant who had been added to the High Street establishment, and with her happy French faculty of adapting herself to varying circumstances, she had proved so far a real boon to the little family.

So Miss Halliday opened the door leading to the kitchen and gave her directions, while Blanche and Stasy made their way out to the long, pleasant strip of walled-in garden at the back of the old-fashioned house.

“Blanche,” said Stasy, as they slowly walked up and down the gravel path, “it wasn’t only about the hat I gave that sigh. I do feel so hurt at Lady Hebe, and I do so wish Miss Halliday hadn’t put her into my head again.”

“She doesn’t know anything about Hebe a not answering my letter,” said Blanche. “There was no use speaking of it.”

“No, of course not,” Stasy agreed.

“And I feel certain there must be some reason for it,” Blanche resumed. “She is the very last girl in the world to change to us because of all this. Besides, I think it was quite as difficult for her before to be nice to us, as it would be now.”

“Perhaps so,” said Stasy, rather absently. “Blanche, I do feel so dull and cross now, somehow. It isn’t, after all, as much fun as I expected. I do so dislike some of the people that come with their orders.”

“Yet, I think, on the whole, they have been wonderfully kind,” said Blanche. “Kind, and even delicate.”

“Oh, I daresay they have,” said Stasy. “But they have such ridiculous ideas! That woman yesterday, who wanted a bonnet that would ‘go’ with everything. And yet it wasn’t to be black or any neutral colour.”

“Yes, but Stasy,” said Blanche, “I was trembling for fear she should find out that you were making fun of her, when you proposed a— What is it, Aline?” she said, as the maid came out with the tea-tray, which she hastily deposited on a garden seat.

“Some one is at the front door,” replied Aline. “The bell rang as I left the kitchen. Will mademoiselle excuse my leaving the tray there? I must answer the door, for that stupid little girl has not yet dressed herself,” and she hastened off.

Just at that moment Herty put his face out at the glass door, which was slightly ajar.

“Where is Aline?” he said. “She promised I was to help her to carry out the tea things.”

“She has gone to open the door,” said Blanche. “She will be back in a moment. Come out here and help us to lay the table.—We may as well, Stasy,” she said to her sister; “the tray is not very secure on that chair.”

She began unfolding the little table-cloth which Aline had brought out.

“Herty must have run to the door,” said Stasy with some annoyance. “I am afraid he is getting rather common in his ways, Blanche, now that we live so plainly. I think we must be more particular with him. It does seem so vulgar for a child to be peeping out to see who is at the door.”

“I doubt if Herty will content himself with peeping,” said Blanche. “I wonder if all little boys are as inquisitive as he is.”

At that moment Herty’s shrill voice was heard in eager excitement.

“Blanchie, Blanchie,” he cried; “Stasy—somebody’s come to see you.—Come along, do,” he added to some one, as yet invisible in the drawing-room. “We’re going to have tea in the garden; won’t it be jolly? You’re just in time.”

Some inaudible words of remonstrance must have been addressed to him by the unfortunate individual he had under his convoy. But Herty was not to be so easily balked of his prey.

“Youmustcome out,” they heard him say. “They’ll be as pleased as anything to see you.”

And apparently the invisible new-comer judged it wiser to resist no more, though it was with somewhat heightened colour, and less appearance of being equal to the occasion than was usual to him, that Mr Archibald Dunstan followed, or, more correctly speaking, allowed himself to be dragged out into the garden by the irrepressible Herty.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Derwent,” he said as he shook hands, “but I couldn’t help myself, Herty is such a determined young person.”

Blanche looked up at him, serenely enough to all appearance, though in her heart she was not sure how this unexpected visit should be regarded.

“I had no idea you were in the country,” she said.—“Herty, go and tell mamma that Mr Dunstan is here. We are just going to have tea, as you see; we hoped it would be a little cooler in the garden than in the house.”

“It has been very hot lately,” Archie replied, slightly disconcerted, he scarcely knew why, and disgusted with himself for finding nothing more original to say; though Blanche was to the full as self-possessed as if she were receiving him in the pretty little home in which she had last seen him, as if no crash had completely broken the tenor of their life.

Archie almost felt as if he were dreaming, and yet—there could be no doubt that all he had heard was true. The facts spoke for themselves. Here the Derwents were, installed in the back rooms of the Blissmore milliner’s house.

And yet how nice it was! The sunny afternoon and the old garden; nothing to jar even upon the ultra refinement with which he was often taxed. Was it that Blanche Derwent, by the perfect sweetness and dignity of her presence, shed harmony and beauty about her wherever she might happen to be? He almost thought that herein was to be found the secret of it all.

“Why are we all standing?” said Stasy, with her rather incisive, girlish abruptness. Her voice recalled the young man to matters of fact. He hastily turned to draw forward some of the seats that were standing about.

“I daresay mamma won’t come down for a minute or two,” Stasy continued. “She told me just now that she had two or three letters that she must finish for the post.”

Mr Dunstan looked rather guilty.

“I do hope she will not hurry on my account,” he said. “I am in no hurry, but I do want to see Mrs Derwent. I have a”—and he hesitated—“a message for her from an old friend. At least I promised to give her news of him the first time I saw her.”

“Indeed,” said Blanche, who, if she felt curious as to who the old friend might be, for her own reasons repressed her curiosity.

But Stasy was less self-contained.

“An old friend,” she repeated eagerly. “How interesting! I wonder who it was. Do tell us, Mr Dunstan.”

Archie was by no means reluctant to do so. Anything to get out of the stilted commonplace-isms which had begun the conversation.

“It is no one you know personally,” he said, turning rather pointedly to Stasy; “though you have probably heard of him, as he was your grandfathers greatest friend—I mean old Sir Adam Nigel.”

Stasy almost clapped her hands.

“Oh, how glad I am,” she exclaimed, “and how delighted mamma will be! She has been longing to hear of him again. Is he in England? He was to have come in the spring.”

“No,” Mr Dunstan replied, “I came across him at Cannes. I ran down there for a week last month to see an old relation of mine. Sir Adam has not been in England for two years, but he hopes to come over before very long, and he is sure to stay at Alderwood with my aunt, if he does so, as Mrs Lilford has suggested it. He asked me if I had met Mrs Derwent when I was staying there, and he was so pleased to hear about you all. I am staying at Alderwood again just now, you know, for a day or two by myself.”

Blanche suddenly raised her eyes and looked at him.

“Does,” she said—“did Sir Adam know, when you saw him, of—of what had happened to us? That we had lost all our money?”

“No,” said Archie. He could not hesitate or feel awkward, when the girl was so straightforward. “No, he certainly had heard nothing about it. I doubt if he has heard it even now.”

“I am glad of that,” said Blanche, “for he has not written.”

“I did not know myself—I had not the slightest idea of it—till two days ago, when I came down here,” said the young man; “and I cannot tell you how dreadfully sorry I was, for I suppose it is all quite true?”

“Quite true,” replied Blanche. “Thank you for being sorry about it. I am rather surprised at your not having heard of it before. Not, of course, that our affairs are of general interest. But have you not seen Lady Hebe lately? I wrote to tell her about it, because it affected the work I had undertaken to do for her.”

“And has she not written to you direct?” inquired Mr Dunstan quickly.

Blanche shook her head slightly.

Archies face darkened.

“I don’t understand her,” he said, as if speaking to himself.—“No,” he went on aloud, “I have not seen her for some time; she has been away for several weeks at Coblenz, of all places in the world at this time of year. She is back in London now, but I didn’t call before coming down,” he finished, rather abruptly.

“I thought you were such very great friends,” said Stasy, looking him full in the face. “Have you had a quarrel?”

“Stasy!” said Blanche, her colour rising as she spoke.

But before she had time to say more, the rustle of a skirt across the grass made her start up. Their mother had just come out to join them.

Chapter Eighteen.Herty’s Confidences.Derwent greeted Mr Dunstan with quiet courtesy, scarcely, however, amounting to friendliness. He was instantly conscious of the slight change in her manner, and at exerted himself to regain the ground he found he had somehow lost. This, under usual conditions, would have required little effort on the young man’s part, for he was gifted with that charm of manner which springs from a really unaffected and unselfish character. “Spoilt” he might well have been, and to some extent, in fact, he was so. But the spoiling did not go far below the surface. Yet it was second nature to him to feel himself more than welcome wherever he chose to go. Awkwardness of any kind was a perfectly novel sensation.What was the matter this afternoon? He felt embarrassed and self-conscious, as if treading on ground where he had no right to be.Mrs Derwent’s attitude was that of tacit expectation, as if waiting to hear the reason of his visit, so Archie’s preliminary remarks about the heat in London, and the refreshment of getting a day or two in the country, fell rather flat.So at last he plunged abruptly into the only tangible explanation of his visit he could lay hold on.“I have just been telling Miss Derwent,” he began, “that I met a very old friend of yours the other day at Cannes. He is an old friend of some of my people’s too—Sir Adam Nigel—who used long ago to live at Alderwood, you know.”Mrs Derwent’s manner grew more cordial, and her face lighted up.“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad to hear about him. He spoke of us—of me—then, to you?”“Oh dear, yes,” said Archie, delighted at his success. “He asked me no end of questions about you, when he heard I had had the pleasure of meeting you. And he begged me to give you all kinds of messages, as I told him I was sure to see you again before long. I’m always turning up in this neighbourhood,” he went on, “though my own home is in another county, for my uncle Dunstan was my guardian, and they’ve been at Alderwood for fifteen years or so now. Mrs Lilford has never really settled there.”“Dear me,” said Mrs Derwent, “that makes it seem still longer since it was almost like home to me,” and her face saddened again a little. “Did Sir Adam say nothing about coming over this year?” she added. “I had hoped to see him before this.”“Mamma,” said Blanche gently, “Mr Dunstan tells us that Sir Adam had no idea of what has happened, or that we had left Pinnerton Lodge.”“No indeed,” said Archie eagerly.Mrs Derwent’s face cleared again.“I am not surprised,” she said. “Indeed, I felt sure of it, from his not having written again.”“He is pretty certain to be in this neighbourhood before the winter,” added Archie, “and then, of course.” But he hesitated. It was not his place to assure Mrs Derwent that her old friend would look her up.“Yes; then, of course, I shall see him,” she said, finishing the sentence for him. “But I think perhaps I will write, as, no doubt, Mr Dunstan, you can give me his present address.”“Certainly I can,” the young man replied. “That’s to say, I can give you the Cannes address, and from there his letters are sure to be forwarded.”Just then Herty reappeared, carefully carrying a plateful of buttered toast.“There were no tea-cakes,” he said apologetically; “so Aline and me have been making this.”“Buttered toast in July!” exclaimed Stasy contemptuously. “And you look as if you’d been toasting your face too, Herty; you’re as red as a turkey-cock.”Herty’s beaming face clouded over.“I thought you’d like it so much,” he said. “You generally do, Stasy.”“Of course we like it,” said Blanche, as she began to pour out the tea.“I think there’s nothing better than buttered toast at any time of the year,” said Archie heartily, at once following Blanche’s lead.He was beginning to feel quite himself again. More than that, indeed, when Blanche glanced at him with an approving smile such as she had not yet favoured him with. How lovely she looked! He had always thought her lovely, but never, it seemed to him, had he seen her to such advantage as now; the afternoon sunshine adding a glow to her fair hair, and a touch of warmth to the delicate tints of her face, which had struck him as rather pale when he first saw her. Yet nothing could be simpler than the holland dress she was wearing. What made it so graceful in its folds? He had often condemned holland as too stiff and ungracious a material to be becoming, for Archie was a great connoisseur in such matters. Its creamy shade even seemed to deepen her blue eyes, lighted up by the transient smile. He had been a little doubtful about the colour of her eyes before, but now he was quite satisfied. They were thoroughly blue, but never had he seen so rich a shade in conjunction with that complexion and hair. He forgot he was looking at her, till a slight flush, for which the sunshine was not responsible, creeping over the girl’s cheeks, made him realise his unconscious breach of good manners.The little bustle of handing cups and plates covered his momentary annoyance with himself.“Really,” he thought, “what’s coming over me? I must be losing my head.”The next quarter of an hour or so, however, passed very pleasantly. Mr Dunstan began to hope that he might feel himself re-established in the little family’s good graces.“Are you going to be at Alderwood for some time?” asked Mrs Derwent in the course of conversation. “Isn’t it rather dull for you?”“I don’t mind it,” replied Archie. “I’m rather used to being alone—in the country, that’s to say. I’ve no one but myself at my own home. I’ve been an orphan, you know, since I was a little fellow, and my only sister has been married for several years. Her husband is Norman Milward’s half-brother, Charles Conniston. They live in Ireland. By the way, you must have seen them that—that first afternoon I met you at Alderwood. They were staying at Crossburn then.”“No,” said Blanche, whom he seemed to be addressing. “I don’t think I remember any one except old Mrs Selwyn that day, though I have seen young Mr Milward—Lady Hebe’sfiancé—once or twice, and his sister several times.”“Oh, Rosy!” said Mr Dunstan. “Isn’t she nice? But isn’t she plain—almost odd-looking?”Blanche did not reply.“Blanche never thinks people that she likes, plain,” said Stasy.“I beg your pardon,” said Blanche, “I’m not so silly. But the word doesn’t seem to me to suit Miss Milward, she has such wonderful eyes.”“Yes indeed,” agreed Archie, almost too evidently eager to endorse whatever Blanche said. “I quite agree with you. They are really beautiful eyes, because there’s no sham about them. She is as good as they would lead you to believe.”Again the same bright smile of approval came over Blanche’s face, and Mr Dunstan felt himself rewarded. Just then Aline appeared at the door.“Mademoiselle,” she said; then coming closer, she spoke to Blanche in a lower voice, though unluckily Mr Dunstan was so near that he could not but overhear what she said.“Some ladies are in the shop. Miss Halliday is very sorry, but she fears you must come.”“Of course,” said Blanche, springing to her feet—for the moment, she had begun to forget the present facts of her daily life, and she gave herself a sort of mental shake—“of course,” she repeated, “I’ll come at once.—Mr Dunstan, will you excuse me?” and she held out her hand, as if in farewell.The young man’s face had grown visibly redder.“Good-bye,” he said, repressing the effect that Alines words had had upon him.Then turning to Mrs Derwent:“Will you allow me to call again?” he said very clearly. “I intend to stay at Alderwood for two or three days longer.”“Oh, certainly, if you happen to be anyway near,” she replied simply.Then a bright idea struck Archie, as his glance fell on Herty.“I wish you’d allow this young man to spend a day with me,” he said. “I’d take good care of him, and it is holidays just now, I know. I shall be driving in to-morrow morning in my dog-cart, and I will call for him, if he may come.”“Oh mamma, mamma,” said Herty, ecstatically, “do say I may!”It would have required a heart of stone to refuse the poor little fellow, and Mrs Derwent’s heart was by no means of that material.“It is very good indeed of you, Mr Dunstan,” she replied; “and I am sure Herty would enjoy it immensely. Of course he has not nearly so much to amuse him here as at Pinnerton.”“Then I will call for him at—let me see—shall we say eleven o’clock? and I’ll bring him safe back in the afternoon. Between four and five, if that will do?”“Perfectly,” said Mrs Derwent, and then Mr Dunstan left taking care not to glance into the shop as he passed its open door on his way out.Herty was ready the next morning betimes. Long before eleven had struck he was fidgeting about, asking every one half-a-dozen times in a minute what o’clock it was, so that it was a relief to everybody when the dog-cart drew up to the door and Herty was safely hoisted up to his seat beside his friend.“I was so afraid it would rain or something, and that perhaps you wouldn’t come,” said the little boy.“I would have come all the same if it had rained,” said Archie. “I could have wrapped you up in a mackintosh, and I daresay we’d have found something to amuse you at Alderwood.”“These holidays are very dull,” said Herty with a sigh. “I have got no rabbits, nor nothing like I had at Pinnerton. I’d almost rather go back to France.”“There’s no chance of that?” said Mr Dunstan quickly.“Oh no,” said Herty. “Blanchie says we must stay here for—always, I suppose. Anyway, till I’m a man; and then I mean to make money for them. You know we’ve got no money now, at least scarcely any except what they make with having a shop. It’s rather horrid, don’t you think?”“Yes,” agreed Archie, somewhat incautiously; “I think it’s exceedingly horrid. And I can quite understand that you feel in a great hurry to be a man, so as to be able to help them.”“It’ll take a good while, though,” said Herty prudently, and then he began talking about the horse, extracting a promise from Archie that he would let him hold the reins when they got to a perfectly quiet part of the road.But with some skill Mr Dunstan managed to bring him back to the subject they had been discussing.“Do you think your sister minds much?” he asked, when Herty had been retailing some of his own grievances.Herty considered.“Well,” he said, “she hadn’t any rabbits, you see, and I think she likes making bonnets. They made them for the girls at Pinnerton, you know. But I think she does rather mind not having such a nice garden; she minds it for mamma, you see. And Stasy gets awfully cross sometimes! I heard Blanche speaking to her one day about being cross to the people in the shop.”“And is Blanche never cross?” inquired Mr Dunstan, with great interest.“Not like Stasy,” said Herty. “But she was very angry with me once when I was little. It was when I cut some hairs off Flopper’s tail. Flopper was grandpapa’s dog, an English dog, and those hairs are very particular, and then—and then,” said Herty, very slowly, “I said I hadn’t done it. It was that made Blanchie so cross. Telling a story, you know.”“Yes,” said Archie, with preternatural gravity. “But that was a long time ago; of course you know better now,” he went on, cheerfully. “You never vex your sister now.”“No, not as badly as that,” said Herty. “But one day, not long ago, I did see her crying. It wasn’t my fault, but I was very sorry; I think she had a headache, perhaps.”The horse gave a spring forward at that moment, nearly dislodging Master Herty from his seat.“I say, Mr Archie,” he exclaimed reproachfully, “what are you whipping him for? He’s going along quite nicely! I nearly tumbled out, I really did.”“I beg your pardon, Herty,” said Mr Dunstan. “I’ll be more careful in future. I suppose I wasn’t thinking.”Herty’s visit was a great success, the day passing to his complete satisfaction; and between four and five that afternoon the pair of friends found themselves at Miss Halliday’s door. Not this time in the dog-cart, for Mr Dunstan had left it at the “George,” a little way down the High Street.“I won’t come in, I think, Herty,” he said, as Aline appeared in answer to the bell.But Herty clung on to him.“Oh, you must, just for a minute,” said the child. “I’m sure mamma would like to see you.”“Madame is in the drawing-room,” put in Aline discreetly.So, between the two, Archie allowed himself to be over-persuaded.As Mr Dunstan, an hour later, passed the post-office on his way to the “George,” it suddenly struck him that he might call for the afternoon letters. There were two for himself, forwarded from his club—one of no special interest; the other a few hurried words from Norman Milward, whom he had not seen for a considerable time. “Hebe wants to see you,” he wrote. “She is back in London, but we have been in great anxiety lately. She wants to tell you about it herself. Do come as soon as you can.”

Derwent greeted Mr Dunstan with quiet courtesy, scarcely, however, amounting to friendliness. He was instantly conscious of the slight change in her manner, and at exerted himself to regain the ground he found he had somehow lost. This, under usual conditions, would have required little effort on the young man’s part, for he was gifted with that charm of manner which springs from a really unaffected and unselfish character. “Spoilt” he might well have been, and to some extent, in fact, he was so. But the spoiling did not go far below the surface. Yet it was second nature to him to feel himself more than welcome wherever he chose to go. Awkwardness of any kind was a perfectly novel sensation.

What was the matter this afternoon? He felt embarrassed and self-conscious, as if treading on ground where he had no right to be.

Mrs Derwent’s attitude was that of tacit expectation, as if waiting to hear the reason of his visit, so Archie’s preliminary remarks about the heat in London, and the refreshment of getting a day or two in the country, fell rather flat.

So at last he plunged abruptly into the only tangible explanation of his visit he could lay hold on.

“I have just been telling Miss Derwent,” he began, “that I met a very old friend of yours the other day at Cannes. He is an old friend of some of my people’s too—Sir Adam Nigel—who used long ago to live at Alderwood, you know.”

Mrs Derwent’s manner grew more cordial, and her face lighted up.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad to hear about him. He spoke of us—of me—then, to you?”

“Oh dear, yes,” said Archie, delighted at his success. “He asked me no end of questions about you, when he heard I had had the pleasure of meeting you. And he begged me to give you all kinds of messages, as I told him I was sure to see you again before long. I’m always turning up in this neighbourhood,” he went on, “though my own home is in another county, for my uncle Dunstan was my guardian, and they’ve been at Alderwood for fifteen years or so now. Mrs Lilford has never really settled there.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Derwent, “that makes it seem still longer since it was almost like home to me,” and her face saddened again a little. “Did Sir Adam say nothing about coming over this year?” she added. “I had hoped to see him before this.”

“Mamma,” said Blanche gently, “Mr Dunstan tells us that Sir Adam had no idea of what has happened, or that we had left Pinnerton Lodge.”

“No indeed,” said Archie eagerly.

Mrs Derwent’s face cleared again.

“I am not surprised,” she said. “Indeed, I felt sure of it, from his not having written again.”

“He is pretty certain to be in this neighbourhood before the winter,” added Archie, “and then, of course.” But he hesitated. It was not his place to assure Mrs Derwent that her old friend would look her up.

“Yes; then, of course, I shall see him,” she said, finishing the sentence for him. “But I think perhaps I will write, as, no doubt, Mr Dunstan, you can give me his present address.”

“Certainly I can,” the young man replied. “That’s to say, I can give you the Cannes address, and from there his letters are sure to be forwarded.”

Just then Herty reappeared, carefully carrying a plateful of buttered toast.

“There were no tea-cakes,” he said apologetically; “so Aline and me have been making this.”

“Buttered toast in July!” exclaimed Stasy contemptuously. “And you look as if you’d been toasting your face too, Herty; you’re as red as a turkey-cock.”

Herty’s beaming face clouded over.

“I thought you’d like it so much,” he said. “You generally do, Stasy.”

“Of course we like it,” said Blanche, as she began to pour out the tea.

“I think there’s nothing better than buttered toast at any time of the year,” said Archie heartily, at once following Blanche’s lead.

He was beginning to feel quite himself again. More than that, indeed, when Blanche glanced at him with an approving smile such as she had not yet favoured him with. How lovely she looked! He had always thought her lovely, but never, it seemed to him, had he seen her to such advantage as now; the afternoon sunshine adding a glow to her fair hair, and a touch of warmth to the delicate tints of her face, which had struck him as rather pale when he first saw her. Yet nothing could be simpler than the holland dress she was wearing. What made it so graceful in its folds? He had often condemned holland as too stiff and ungracious a material to be becoming, for Archie was a great connoisseur in such matters. Its creamy shade even seemed to deepen her blue eyes, lighted up by the transient smile. He had been a little doubtful about the colour of her eyes before, but now he was quite satisfied. They were thoroughly blue, but never had he seen so rich a shade in conjunction with that complexion and hair. He forgot he was looking at her, till a slight flush, for which the sunshine was not responsible, creeping over the girl’s cheeks, made him realise his unconscious breach of good manners.

The little bustle of handing cups and plates covered his momentary annoyance with himself.

“Really,” he thought, “what’s coming over me? I must be losing my head.”

The next quarter of an hour or so, however, passed very pleasantly. Mr Dunstan began to hope that he might feel himself re-established in the little family’s good graces.

“Are you going to be at Alderwood for some time?” asked Mrs Derwent in the course of conversation. “Isn’t it rather dull for you?”

“I don’t mind it,” replied Archie. “I’m rather used to being alone—in the country, that’s to say. I’ve no one but myself at my own home. I’ve been an orphan, you know, since I was a little fellow, and my only sister has been married for several years. Her husband is Norman Milward’s half-brother, Charles Conniston. They live in Ireland. By the way, you must have seen them that—that first afternoon I met you at Alderwood. They were staying at Crossburn then.”

“No,” said Blanche, whom he seemed to be addressing. “I don’t think I remember any one except old Mrs Selwyn that day, though I have seen young Mr Milward—Lady Hebe’sfiancé—once or twice, and his sister several times.”

“Oh, Rosy!” said Mr Dunstan. “Isn’t she nice? But isn’t she plain—almost odd-looking?”

Blanche did not reply.

“Blanche never thinks people that she likes, plain,” said Stasy.

“I beg your pardon,” said Blanche, “I’m not so silly. But the word doesn’t seem to me to suit Miss Milward, she has such wonderful eyes.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Archie, almost too evidently eager to endorse whatever Blanche said. “I quite agree with you. They are really beautiful eyes, because there’s no sham about them. She is as good as they would lead you to believe.”

Again the same bright smile of approval came over Blanche’s face, and Mr Dunstan felt himself rewarded. Just then Aline appeared at the door.

“Mademoiselle,” she said; then coming closer, she spoke to Blanche in a lower voice, though unluckily Mr Dunstan was so near that he could not but overhear what she said.

“Some ladies are in the shop. Miss Halliday is very sorry, but she fears you must come.”

“Of course,” said Blanche, springing to her feet—for the moment, she had begun to forget the present facts of her daily life, and she gave herself a sort of mental shake—“of course,” she repeated, “I’ll come at once.—Mr Dunstan, will you excuse me?” and she held out her hand, as if in farewell.

The young man’s face had grown visibly redder.

“Good-bye,” he said, repressing the effect that Alines words had had upon him.

Then turning to Mrs Derwent:

“Will you allow me to call again?” he said very clearly. “I intend to stay at Alderwood for two or three days longer.”

“Oh, certainly, if you happen to be anyway near,” she replied simply.

Then a bright idea struck Archie, as his glance fell on Herty.

“I wish you’d allow this young man to spend a day with me,” he said. “I’d take good care of him, and it is holidays just now, I know. I shall be driving in to-morrow morning in my dog-cart, and I will call for him, if he may come.”

“Oh mamma, mamma,” said Herty, ecstatically, “do say I may!”

It would have required a heart of stone to refuse the poor little fellow, and Mrs Derwent’s heart was by no means of that material.

“It is very good indeed of you, Mr Dunstan,” she replied; “and I am sure Herty would enjoy it immensely. Of course he has not nearly so much to amuse him here as at Pinnerton.”

“Then I will call for him at—let me see—shall we say eleven o’clock? and I’ll bring him safe back in the afternoon. Between four and five, if that will do?”

“Perfectly,” said Mrs Derwent, and then Mr Dunstan left taking care not to glance into the shop as he passed its open door on his way out.

Herty was ready the next morning betimes. Long before eleven had struck he was fidgeting about, asking every one half-a-dozen times in a minute what o’clock it was, so that it was a relief to everybody when the dog-cart drew up to the door and Herty was safely hoisted up to his seat beside his friend.

“I was so afraid it would rain or something, and that perhaps you wouldn’t come,” said the little boy.

“I would have come all the same if it had rained,” said Archie. “I could have wrapped you up in a mackintosh, and I daresay we’d have found something to amuse you at Alderwood.”

“These holidays are very dull,” said Herty with a sigh. “I have got no rabbits, nor nothing like I had at Pinnerton. I’d almost rather go back to France.”

“There’s no chance of that?” said Mr Dunstan quickly.

“Oh no,” said Herty. “Blanchie says we must stay here for—always, I suppose. Anyway, till I’m a man; and then I mean to make money for them. You know we’ve got no money now, at least scarcely any except what they make with having a shop. It’s rather horrid, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” agreed Archie, somewhat incautiously; “I think it’s exceedingly horrid. And I can quite understand that you feel in a great hurry to be a man, so as to be able to help them.”

“It’ll take a good while, though,” said Herty prudently, and then he began talking about the horse, extracting a promise from Archie that he would let him hold the reins when they got to a perfectly quiet part of the road.

But with some skill Mr Dunstan managed to bring him back to the subject they had been discussing.

“Do you think your sister minds much?” he asked, when Herty had been retailing some of his own grievances.

Herty considered.

“Well,” he said, “she hadn’t any rabbits, you see, and I think she likes making bonnets. They made them for the girls at Pinnerton, you know. But I think she does rather mind not having such a nice garden; she minds it for mamma, you see. And Stasy gets awfully cross sometimes! I heard Blanche speaking to her one day about being cross to the people in the shop.”

“And is Blanche never cross?” inquired Mr Dunstan, with great interest.

“Not like Stasy,” said Herty. “But she was very angry with me once when I was little. It was when I cut some hairs off Flopper’s tail. Flopper was grandpapa’s dog, an English dog, and those hairs are very particular, and then—and then,” said Herty, very slowly, “I said I hadn’t done it. It was that made Blanchie so cross. Telling a story, you know.”

“Yes,” said Archie, with preternatural gravity. “But that was a long time ago; of course you know better now,” he went on, cheerfully. “You never vex your sister now.”

“No, not as badly as that,” said Herty. “But one day, not long ago, I did see her crying. It wasn’t my fault, but I was very sorry; I think she had a headache, perhaps.”

The horse gave a spring forward at that moment, nearly dislodging Master Herty from his seat.

“I say, Mr Archie,” he exclaimed reproachfully, “what are you whipping him for? He’s going along quite nicely! I nearly tumbled out, I really did.”

“I beg your pardon, Herty,” said Mr Dunstan. “I’ll be more careful in future. I suppose I wasn’t thinking.”

Herty’s visit was a great success, the day passing to his complete satisfaction; and between four and five that afternoon the pair of friends found themselves at Miss Halliday’s door. Not this time in the dog-cart, for Mr Dunstan had left it at the “George,” a little way down the High Street.

“I won’t come in, I think, Herty,” he said, as Aline appeared in answer to the bell.

But Herty clung on to him.

“Oh, you must, just for a minute,” said the child. “I’m sure mamma would like to see you.”

“Madame is in the drawing-room,” put in Aline discreetly.

So, between the two, Archie allowed himself to be over-persuaded.

As Mr Dunstan, an hour later, passed the post-office on his way to the “George,” it suddenly struck him that he might call for the afternoon letters. There were two for himself, forwarded from his club—one of no special interest; the other a few hurried words from Norman Milward, whom he had not seen for a considerable time. “Hebe wants to see you,” he wrote. “She is back in London, but we have been in great anxiety lately. She wants to tell you about it herself. Do come as soon as you can.”

Chapter Nineteen.Something Important.The very next afternoon found Mr Dunstan standing at the door of the Marths’ house in London.“Is Lady Hebe at home?” he inquired at once when it was opened, glancing up with some anxiety as he asked the question.But nothing was to be learned from the man-servant’s impassive face, though—yes, it was surely unusually grave, for Archie was no stranger to him.Her ladyship was at home, he replied, and expecting Mr Dunstan. For Archie had telegraphed that he would call at a certain hour.Then he was ushered up-stairs to Hebe’s own little sitting-room, where many a happy half-hour had been spent by the circle of young “old friends.”“Well, Hebe,” he said, as the door closed behind him, “here I am. I only got Norman’s letter yesterday afternoon, for I have been out of town for a few days. What an age it is since I have seen you!”He had hardly as yet noticed her face, for the room was very dark; but as she came forward, holding out her hand, he almost started. She was unusually pale.“You’ve not been ill, have you?” he said. “Its surely not that that has been the matter?”“Then Norman did tell you something was the matter?” were her first words. “No, I have not been ill, at least not exactly. But, sit down, Archie, dear; I’ve a good deal to tell you.”The young man drew a chair near her—she sat with her head to the light—with a feeling of increasing uneasiness.“You make me feel quite frightened, Hebe,” he said. “What is this mysterious trouble?”To his distress Hebe—happy Hebe—gave a little gasp that was almost like a sob.“Archie,” she said, “it is a very great trouble that has come upon me, or rather upon us, for I am sure it is quite as bad or worse for Norman. Do you know there have been, there still are, grave fears that I am going blind? That is what I have been at Coblenz for. You know there is a very great oculist there.”Archie’s bright, sunburnt face had paled visibly.“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “My poor child—my dear little Hebe. Itcan’tbe true; those specialists are always alarmists as well.”“No,” she said. “I will tell you all about it, for I quite understand. They’ve not hidden anything from me. My guardian has beenverykind, and Josephine—I did not think there was so much tenderness in her. It is not hopeless. It has come on gradually. But till this summer I did not realise it at all; I have always been so strong and well, you know, in every way. Then the glare and the heat of London seemed to make it worse suddenly. I began to think it must be something more serious than short-sightedness.”“Youneverwere short-sighted,” Archie interrupted. “You had splendid sight.”And indeed, as he looked at her eyes now, deep and lustrous, but with a sadness in their brown depths which he had never seen there before, it was difficult to believe that there could be anything wrong.“Yes,” she agreed; “but for some time I have not seen so well, and I got in the way of thinking I must be short-sighted. But this summer pain began, very bad sometimes, and then we consulted our doctor, and he sent me to Coblenz.”“And the opinion you got there was?—”“I will tell you exactly,” said Hebe, “for I know you care.”And she gave him a rapidresuméof the whole. It had ended in an operation being decided upon, in the anticipation of which she was already under a course of treatment.“We are going back to Germany in a fortnight,” she said. “It is to be in about a month or six weeks from now. The Marths can’t stay with me all the time, but when Josephine leaves, Aunt Grace will come; and if all goes well—or, indeed, in any case—I hope to be back at East Moddersham some time in October. But what I wanted to seeyouabout. Archie, was to ask you to look after Norman. He is so miserable, and it is much better for us not to be together. It breaks my heart to see him, and he says it breaks his heart to see me.”“What can I do?” said Archie.“I thought,” said Hebe, with some hesitation—“I thought perhaps, if it didn’t interfere too much with your own plans, you might propose taking him off to Norway, or something like that.”Archie did not at once reply.“You are such very old friends, you know,” said Hebe. “I wouldn’t ask such a thing only for my own sake.”There was just a touch of hurt feeling in her tone. She had been so sure of the heartiest response from him. She was changed—her happy, almost childlike confidence seemed to have deserted her, and as Archie glanced up at her pale face, he felt disgusted with himself for his even momentary hesitation.“My dear Hebe,” he exclaimed, “as if I wouldn’t do far more than that, for you as well as for Norman! I was just considering if I could explain everything to you! But I can’t just yet. Of course you may count upon me for Norway. I will set about it at once, and plan it so that Norman shall not in the least suspect that you had suggested it.”“Oh, thank you,” said Hebe, in a tone of great relief.“Let’s see,” Archie went on. “We might start in ten days or so, and you’d like me to keep him away till after—”“Yes,” said Hebe calmly, “till after the operation. That is to say, till its result can be known. I am not afraid of the operation itself—nowadays those things are managed painlessly—but it is the afterwards. Oh Archie, I mustn’t cry, they say it is so bad for my eyes; but if I am going to be blind, Ican’tmarry Norman. He’s so young and full of life, it would be terrible for him to be tied to—”She drove the tears back bravely, but it was all Archie himself could do to reply cheerfully.“He would never give you up, I feel convinced,” he said. “But I am quite certain that what we have all got to do just now is to be hopeful. I will see you again soon, Hebe, when I’ve got things into shape a little. Trust it all to me. I must go back to—the country again to-night, for a day or two.”He rose as if preparing to go.“Where are you staying?” said Hebe—“at Saint Bartram’s?”“N-no, I’m at Alderwood,” he replied. “I had some things to see to about there.”Hebe’s brown eyes looked at him curiously.“At Alderwood,” she repeated. “Oh, by-the-bye,” and she sighed, “I am so sorry never to have replied to a letter I had from Blanche Derwent. It was a private letter, and I have not been allowed to write at all.”“Yes,” said Archie coolly, “I know about it. She told me.”“You know all about their troubles, then—their loss of money?” asked Hebe, with some surprise.“Yes, I heard it when I went down there. And then I saw them. They have left Pinnerton; they are living at Blissmore. They—no, I hate talking about it—they’ve actually joined that funny old milliner there; they are working for their daily bread.”Hebe gasped.“Is it so bad as that?” she said. “But how splendid of them, how brave, and oh how horrid I must have seemed! Oh Archie, could you explain about me if you see them again? I can’t write myself, and there is really no one I can ask to do so, especially now, after what you’ve told me.”“Certainly I can do so,” replied Archie briskly. “Nothing can be easier. I will make a point of seeing Miss Derwent as soon as possible.”“Thank you very much,” said Hebe, but some amount of reservation crept into her tone; something in Archie’s voice and manner struck her, and revived her former misgivings.“It was thoughtless of me to propose it,” she said to herself. “Archie,” she began again, “I—”“No,” interrupted Mr Dunstan, with some impatience. “Don’t ask me anything, Hebe, for if you do, I can’t answer. You blamed me before undeservedly, and I deserve it still less now.”His words startled Hebe still more. She looked very grave.“I didn’t blame you, Archie,” she said. “I only wanted you to be careful. You have always treated some things so lightly, it makes it difficult to believe you could be in earnest. And in this case—under the circumstances”—She did not like to say what was in her mind—that serious attentions on the part of the rich and much-made-of Archie Dunstan to Blanche Derwent, however charming personally, would appear in the eyes of the world highly improbable. Doubly so considering the change in the latter’s position. “I mean,” she went on hesitatingly, “you must be very careful.”Archie smiled at this somewhat lame conclusion to her warning.“You may trust me, dear Hebe,” he said, as he pressed her hand in farewell, and then he was gone.But Hebe sat thinking deeply for some time after he had left her.“Whatwould Josephine say?” she thought to herself. “What a romantic goose she would think me. But I have never seen Archie quite like this before. And if such a thing came to pass—if I could be sure he is in earnest for once—it would be delightful in many ways. But”—and here a new view of the subject struck her—“I don’t believe Blanche would accept him,” she thought. “She is proud, rightly proud, and she has seen so little of him. She is not a girl to marry a man without thoroughly caring for him. No, I don’t believe she would accept him. But if he is in earnest now, he has certainly never been so before.”Mr Dunstan returned to Alderwood that same evening, having already written to Norman Milward with some suggestion of the proposed plan, and promising to see him in London early the following week.“It would have been perfectly impossible to refuse Hebe,” he thought to himself, as he was sitting alone in the small room where dinner had been served for him, “but it does seem dreadfully unlucky. I don’t see my way at all, and yet can I go away for an indefinite time and leave things as they are? I must trust to chance, I suppose. Imustcall there to-morrow, for I promised Hebe to give her message. Beyond that, I see nothing.”Mr Dunstan’s visit had not made any great impression on the members of the little household in the High Street, with the exception possibly of Miss Halliday and Herty.An unexpected and rather important order coming at a dull season had made the milliner and her young assistants unusually busy, and it was not without a feeling almost amounting to annoyance that Blanche found herself called away from the workroom the day after Archies return from London, to join her mother in the drawing-room.“Do you want me particularly, mamma?” she said as she went in. “I am so busy just now. I could come in half an hour or so.”As she spoke she suddenly became aware that her mother was not alone. Mr Dunstan was standing by the window.“I did not know any one was here,” she went on, with an instinct of apology, “I had not heard the bell ring.”“I am exceedingly sorry for interrupting you,” said the young man as he came forward, “but I could hardly help myself. I promised to see you personally to give you a message from Lady Hebe. I have been telling Mrs Derwent about it, but I know it would be a satisfaction to Hebe to hear that I had seen you, yourself.”Blanche looked perplexed, and glancing at her mother’s face, she saw that it was unusually grave.“Is there anything the matter?” she said quickly.“Yes,” said Mrs Derwent. “You will be very sorry for poor Lady Hebe. A great trouble has come upon her.”“Has anything happened to Mr Milward?” asked Blanche, and somehow Archie felt pleased that this was her first idea.“No,” he answered. “Norman is all right. The trouble has come to Hebe herself, though, of course, it is terrible for him too.”And then he went on to give the details of the grievous loss with which the young girl was threatened.Blanche’s face grew graver and graver as he spoke. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed, when he had finished. “How dreadfully sad! Those pretty, happy eyes of hers. I can’t believe it. May I write to her, Mr Dunstan, do you think? I do feel so inexpressibly sorry for her. Mamma, our troubles don’t seem much in comparison with this, do they?”“No, indeed,” Mrs Derwent agreed heartily. “But still it is not hopeless by any means, is it, Mr Dunstan?”“I trust and believe not,” he replied. “But then I have only Hebe’s own account, you see. I shall know more after I have seen Norman and the Marths.—About writing to her,” he continued, turning to Blanche, “I don’t quite know. I don’t fancy she’s allowed to read at all, and you might not care for your letter going through other hands.”Blanche looked disappointed.“Then will you tell her from me?” she began, but he interrupted her.“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you won’t think me officious—if you like to write to her and will give me the letter, I’ll take it myself, and she can have it read to her by some one you would not mind—Rosy—Rosy Milward, perhaps.”“Thank you,” said Blanche. “I would like to write a little, however little, if I were sure she would get it herself. I can write it at once,” she went on, “if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes;” and she left the room as she spoke. She had hardly done so, when Stasy made her appearance.“Blanche,” she said, as she came in, “Miss Halliday does so want you—How do you do, Mr Dunstan? I did not know you were here.—Where is Blanchie, mamma?”“She is writing a note,” Mrs Derwent replied—“something rather particular. Can I not do instead of her?”“Oh, well, perhaps you can; it’s about a letter she is wanted,” said Stasy. “If you could come, Miss Halliday will explain about it.” And with a word of apology to Mr Dunstan, Mrs Derwent left the room with her younger daughter.“What a life of slavery for women in their position!” said Archie to himself. “To be at the beck and call of all the Blissmore shopkeepers. It is insufferable!”He strolled restlessly to the window and stood looking out, feeling very indignant with the world in general and, most unreasonably, with Miss Halliday in particular.He had not stood there long when Blanche returned with an envelope in her hand.“This is my little letter,” she said, holding it out to him. “Thank you for taking charge of it, though it does not say half—not a hundredth part—of what I feel for her.”“I know that she will value your sympathy,” said Archie, wishing he could think of something less commonplace to say.He stood there, feeling, if not looking, uncertain and embarrassed, Blanche’s evident expectation—for she did not sit down again—that he was on the point of going, not tending to set him more at his ease.Suddenly he spoke.“I know you are busy, Miss Derwent,” he began. “I’ve no doubt you are wishing I would go. But the truth of it is, I can’t go without saying something more to you.”Blanche looked up, a gleam of surprise in her face.“I am busy,” she said, smiling a little. “But if it is anything important, I can wait a few minutes.”Archie glanced irresolutely towards the window.“Wouldyou mind,” he said, “coming out into the garden. Itissomething important, and if we stay here they will be calling for you immediately.”

The very next afternoon found Mr Dunstan standing at the door of the Marths’ house in London.

“Is Lady Hebe at home?” he inquired at once when it was opened, glancing up with some anxiety as he asked the question.

But nothing was to be learned from the man-servant’s impassive face, though—yes, it was surely unusually grave, for Archie was no stranger to him.

Her ladyship was at home, he replied, and expecting Mr Dunstan. For Archie had telegraphed that he would call at a certain hour.

Then he was ushered up-stairs to Hebe’s own little sitting-room, where many a happy half-hour had been spent by the circle of young “old friends.”

“Well, Hebe,” he said, as the door closed behind him, “here I am. I only got Norman’s letter yesterday afternoon, for I have been out of town for a few days. What an age it is since I have seen you!”

He had hardly as yet noticed her face, for the room was very dark; but as she came forward, holding out her hand, he almost started. She was unusually pale.

“You’ve not been ill, have you?” he said. “Its surely not that that has been the matter?”

“Then Norman did tell you something was the matter?” were her first words. “No, I have not been ill, at least not exactly. But, sit down, Archie, dear; I’ve a good deal to tell you.”

The young man drew a chair near her—she sat with her head to the light—with a feeling of increasing uneasiness.

“You make me feel quite frightened, Hebe,” he said. “What is this mysterious trouble?”

To his distress Hebe—happy Hebe—gave a little gasp that was almost like a sob.

“Archie,” she said, “it is a very great trouble that has come upon me, or rather upon us, for I am sure it is quite as bad or worse for Norman. Do you know there have been, there still are, grave fears that I am going blind? That is what I have been at Coblenz for. You know there is a very great oculist there.”

Archie’s bright, sunburnt face had paled visibly.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “My poor child—my dear little Hebe. Itcan’tbe true; those specialists are always alarmists as well.”

“No,” she said. “I will tell you all about it, for I quite understand. They’ve not hidden anything from me. My guardian has beenverykind, and Josephine—I did not think there was so much tenderness in her. It is not hopeless. It has come on gradually. But till this summer I did not realise it at all; I have always been so strong and well, you know, in every way. Then the glare and the heat of London seemed to make it worse suddenly. I began to think it must be something more serious than short-sightedness.”

“Youneverwere short-sighted,” Archie interrupted. “You had splendid sight.”

And indeed, as he looked at her eyes now, deep and lustrous, but with a sadness in their brown depths which he had never seen there before, it was difficult to believe that there could be anything wrong.

“Yes,” she agreed; “but for some time I have not seen so well, and I got in the way of thinking I must be short-sighted. But this summer pain began, very bad sometimes, and then we consulted our doctor, and he sent me to Coblenz.”

“And the opinion you got there was?—”

“I will tell you exactly,” said Hebe, “for I know you care.”

And she gave him a rapidresuméof the whole. It had ended in an operation being decided upon, in the anticipation of which she was already under a course of treatment.

“We are going back to Germany in a fortnight,” she said. “It is to be in about a month or six weeks from now. The Marths can’t stay with me all the time, but when Josephine leaves, Aunt Grace will come; and if all goes well—or, indeed, in any case—I hope to be back at East Moddersham some time in October. But what I wanted to seeyouabout. Archie, was to ask you to look after Norman. He is so miserable, and it is much better for us not to be together. It breaks my heart to see him, and he says it breaks his heart to see me.”

“What can I do?” said Archie.

“I thought,” said Hebe, with some hesitation—“I thought perhaps, if it didn’t interfere too much with your own plans, you might propose taking him off to Norway, or something like that.”

Archie did not at once reply.

“You are such very old friends, you know,” said Hebe. “I wouldn’t ask such a thing only for my own sake.”

There was just a touch of hurt feeling in her tone. She had been so sure of the heartiest response from him. She was changed—her happy, almost childlike confidence seemed to have deserted her, and as Archie glanced up at her pale face, he felt disgusted with himself for his even momentary hesitation.

“My dear Hebe,” he exclaimed, “as if I wouldn’t do far more than that, for you as well as for Norman! I was just considering if I could explain everything to you! But I can’t just yet. Of course you may count upon me for Norway. I will set about it at once, and plan it so that Norman shall not in the least suspect that you had suggested it.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Hebe, in a tone of great relief.

“Let’s see,” Archie went on. “We might start in ten days or so, and you’d like me to keep him away till after—”

“Yes,” said Hebe calmly, “till after the operation. That is to say, till its result can be known. I am not afraid of the operation itself—nowadays those things are managed painlessly—but it is the afterwards. Oh Archie, I mustn’t cry, they say it is so bad for my eyes; but if I am going to be blind, Ican’tmarry Norman. He’s so young and full of life, it would be terrible for him to be tied to—”

She drove the tears back bravely, but it was all Archie himself could do to reply cheerfully.

“He would never give you up, I feel convinced,” he said. “But I am quite certain that what we have all got to do just now is to be hopeful. I will see you again soon, Hebe, when I’ve got things into shape a little. Trust it all to me. I must go back to—the country again to-night, for a day or two.”

He rose as if preparing to go.

“Where are you staying?” said Hebe—“at Saint Bartram’s?”

“N-no, I’m at Alderwood,” he replied. “I had some things to see to about there.”

Hebe’s brown eyes looked at him curiously.

“At Alderwood,” she repeated. “Oh, by-the-bye,” and she sighed, “I am so sorry never to have replied to a letter I had from Blanche Derwent. It was a private letter, and I have not been allowed to write at all.”

“Yes,” said Archie coolly, “I know about it. She told me.”

“You know all about their troubles, then—their loss of money?” asked Hebe, with some surprise.

“Yes, I heard it when I went down there. And then I saw them. They have left Pinnerton; they are living at Blissmore. They—no, I hate talking about it—they’ve actually joined that funny old milliner there; they are working for their daily bread.”

Hebe gasped.

“Is it so bad as that?” she said. “But how splendid of them, how brave, and oh how horrid I must have seemed! Oh Archie, could you explain about me if you see them again? I can’t write myself, and there is really no one I can ask to do so, especially now, after what you’ve told me.”

“Certainly I can do so,” replied Archie briskly. “Nothing can be easier. I will make a point of seeing Miss Derwent as soon as possible.”

“Thank you very much,” said Hebe, but some amount of reservation crept into her tone; something in Archie’s voice and manner struck her, and revived her former misgivings.

“It was thoughtless of me to propose it,” she said to herself. “Archie,” she began again, “I—”

“No,” interrupted Mr Dunstan, with some impatience. “Don’t ask me anything, Hebe, for if you do, I can’t answer. You blamed me before undeservedly, and I deserve it still less now.”

His words startled Hebe still more. She looked very grave.

“I didn’t blame you, Archie,” she said. “I only wanted you to be careful. You have always treated some things so lightly, it makes it difficult to believe you could be in earnest. And in this case—under the circumstances”—She did not like to say what was in her mind—that serious attentions on the part of the rich and much-made-of Archie Dunstan to Blanche Derwent, however charming personally, would appear in the eyes of the world highly improbable. Doubly so considering the change in the latter’s position. “I mean,” she went on hesitatingly, “you must be very careful.”

Archie smiled at this somewhat lame conclusion to her warning.

“You may trust me, dear Hebe,” he said, as he pressed her hand in farewell, and then he was gone.

But Hebe sat thinking deeply for some time after he had left her.

“Whatwould Josephine say?” she thought to herself. “What a romantic goose she would think me. But I have never seen Archie quite like this before. And if such a thing came to pass—if I could be sure he is in earnest for once—it would be delightful in many ways. But”—and here a new view of the subject struck her—“I don’t believe Blanche would accept him,” she thought. “She is proud, rightly proud, and she has seen so little of him. She is not a girl to marry a man without thoroughly caring for him. No, I don’t believe she would accept him. But if he is in earnest now, he has certainly never been so before.”

Mr Dunstan returned to Alderwood that same evening, having already written to Norman Milward with some suggestion of the proposed plan, and promising to see him in London early the following week.

“It would have been perfectly impossible to refuse Hebe,” he thought to himself, as he was sitting alone in the small room where dinner had been served for him, “but it does seem dreadfully unlucky. I don’t see my way at all, and yet can I go away for an indefinite time and leave things as they are? I must trust to chance, I suppose. Imustcall there to-morrow, for I promised Hebe to give her message. Beyond that, I see nothing.”

Mr Dunstan’s visit had not made any great impression on the members of the little household in the High Street, with the exception possibly of Miss Halliday and Herty.

An unexpected and rather important order coming at a dull season had made the milliner and her young assistants unusually busy, and it was not without a feeling almost amounting to annoyance that Blanche found herself called away from the workroom the day after Archies return from London, to join her mother in the drawing-room.

“Do you want me particularly, mamma?” she said as she went in. “I am so busy just now. I could come in half an hour or so.”

As she spoke she suddenly became aware that her mother was not alone. Mr Dunstan was standing by the window.

“I did not know any one was here,” she went on, with an instinct of apology, “I had not heard the bell ring.”

“I am exceedingly sorry for interrupting you,” said the young man as he came forward, “but I could hardly help myself. I promised to see you personally to give you a message from Lady Hebe. I have been telling Mrs Derwent about it, but I know it would be a satisfaction to Hebe to hear that I had seen you, yourself.”

Blanche looked perplexed, and glancing at her mother’s face, she saw that it was unusually grave.

“Is there anything the matter?” she said quickly.

“Yes,” said Mrs Derwent. “You will be very sorry for poor Lady Hebe. A great trouble has come upon her.”

“Has anything happened to Mr Milward?” asked Blanche, and somehow Archie felt pleased that this was her first idea.

“No,” he answered. “Norman is all right. The trouble has come to Hebe herself, though, of course, it is terrible for him too.”

And then he went on to give the details of the grievous loss with which the young girl was threatened.

Blanche’s face grew graver and graver as he spoke. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed, when he had finished. “How dreadfully sad! Those pretty, happy eyes of hers. I can’t believe it. May I write to her, Mr Dunstan, do you think? I do feel so inexpressibly sorry for her. Mamma, our troubles don’t seem much in comparison with this, do they?”

“No, indeed,” Mrs Derwent agreed heartily. “But still it is not hopeless by any means, is it, Mr Dunstan?”

“I trust and believe not,” he replied. “But then I have only Hebe’s own account, you see. I shall know more after I have seen Norman and the Marths.—About writing to her,” he continued, turning to Blanche, “I don’t quite know. I don’t fancy she’s allowed to read at all, and you might not care for your letter going through other hands.”

Blanche looked disappointed.

“Then will you tell her from me?” she began, but he interrupted her.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you won’t think me officious—if you like to write to her and will give me the letter, I’ll take it myself, and she can have it read to her by some one you would not mind—Rosy—Rosy Milward, perhaps.”

“Thank you,” said Blanche. “I would like to write a little, however little, if I were sure she would get it herself. I can write it at once,” she went on, “if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes;” and she left the room as she spoke. She had hardly done so, when Stasy made her appearance.

“Blanche,” she said, as she came in, “Miss Halliday does so want you—How do you do, Mr Dunstan? I did not know you were here.—Where is Blanchie, mamma?”

“She is writing a note,” Mrs Derwent replied—“something rather particular. Can I not do instead of her?”

“Oh, well, perhaps you can; it’s about a letter she is wanted,” said Stasy. “If you could come, Miss Halliday will explain about it.” And with a word of apology to Mr Dunstan, Mrs Derwent left the room with her younger daughter.

“What a life of slavery for women in their position!” said Archie to himself. “To be at the beck and call of all the Blissmore shopkeepers. It is insufferable!”

He strolled restlessly to the window and stood looking out, feeling very indignant with the world in general and, most unreasonably, with Miss Halliday in particular.

He had not stood there long when Blanche returned with an envelope in her hand.

“This is my little letter,” she said, holding it out to him. “Thank you for taking charge of it, though it does not say half—not a hundredth part—of what I feel for her.”

“I know that she will value your sympathy,” said Archie, wishing he could think of something less commonplace to say.

He stood there, feeling, if not looking, uncertain and embarrassed, Blanche’s evident expectation—for she did not sit down again—that he was on the point of going, not tending to set him more at his ease.

Suddenly he spoke.

“I know you are busy, Miss Derwent,” he began. “I’ve no doubt you are wishing I would go. But the truth of it is, I can’t go without saying something more to you.”

Blanche looked up, a gleam of surprise in her face.

“I am busy,” she said, smiling a little. “But if it is anything important, I can wait a few minutes.”

Archie glanced irresolutely towards the window.

“Wouldyou mind,” he said, “coming out into the garden. Itissomething important, and if we stay here they will be calling for you immediately.”

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