damp," said Mrs Derwent, in herirritation adding more than she need have done, or had meant to do.
Mrs Burgess, in her eagerness at some volunteered information, hadlistened with extra attention.
"You were brought up here?" she exclaimed. "Where? Here, atBlissmore?"
"No; at Fotherley," Mrs Derwent replied, in a sort of desperation,thinking, perhaps, that the best policy would be to tell all there wasto tell, and so get rid of this unwelcome visitor. "My father, MrFenning, was the vicar of Fotherley, and I lived there with him till ashort time before his death. I married abroad, and have never been inEngland since."
"Dear, dear, how very interesting!" Mrs Burgess exclaimed. "I haveheard the name, Mr Fleming of Fotherley; though, of course, it wasbefore my time."
"_Fenning_, not Fleming," said Mrs Derwent, who had reason for objectingto this mistake.
"Ah yes; _Fleming_," responded Mrs Burgess serenely.
And Mrs Derwent, afraid of beginning to laugh out of sheer nervousnessand irritation, gave up the attempt to set her right.
Then followed more cross-questioning, in which the doctor's wife wasalmost as great an adept as the smartest of great ladies. She variedher inquiries skilfully from mother to daughters, and back to motheragain, till none of the three felt sure what sort of correct or"crooked" answers they had been beguiled into giving, and finally tookleave in high good-humour, reiterating at the last that she would notforget to speak to Mrs Wandle; Mrs Derwent might depend upon her. "Aword from me will be enough: we are such great friends. I am sure shewill call as soon as she hears how anxious you are to see her."
As the door closed upon her, Mrs Derwent and Blanche looked first ateach other, then at Stasy, who put on an expression of extra innocenceand indifference. This hardened Blanche's heart.
"Well, Stasy," she said, "I hope you are satisfied. See what you havedone by telling Mr Burgess we felt dull, and so on."
"_I_ don't mind her having called," said Stasy, determined to keep up abrave front. "I think she is most amusing; and what possible harm canshe do us?"
"Every harm of the kind; though, of course, I suppose one should try tobe above those things," said Blanche doubtfully. "But still, we didn'tcome to live in England to have as our only friends and companionspeople we _cannot_ feel in sympathy with. It is not wrong not to wantto live among coarse-natured, vulgar-minded people, if it isn't one'sduty to do so."
"There are vulgar minds in every class, I fear," said Mrs Derwent."Still, that is a different matter. I do wish this had not begun; for Ido not like to seem arrogant or ill-natured. And it is very difficultto keep a pushing woman like this Mrs Burgess at a distance, withoutbeing really disagreeable to her."
"We could stand _her_ even," said Blanche, regretfully. "There would bea sort of excuse for it, as she is the doctor's wife; but it is allthese other awful people she is going to bring down upon us, `butchersand bakers and candlestick-makers,' like the nursery rhyme you used tosay, mamma! And if other people--refined people--hear we are in themidst of such society as that, _they_ won't want to know us. I wish wehadn't come to Blissmore."
It was not often that Blanche was so discomposed. Her mother tried tosoften matters.
"It will only call for a little tact, my dear," she said. "I am sure weshall be able to make them understand. It is not as if we were going tolive in the town."
"But Pinnerton Green is a nest of them," said Blanche.
"That won't matter so much. Once we are in our own house we can drawour own lines. And when other people--better people--come to see us,these good folk will keep out of the way," said Mrs Derwent.
"Well, I wish you would look up some of them, mamma," said Stasy. "Formy part, I would rather amuse myself with the Goths and Wandles, thanknow nobody at all."
The others could not help laughing; but, nevertheless, Blanche stillfelt not a little annoyed. She was more concerned for her sister thanfor herself; for there was a vein in Stasy's character which sometimescaused her mother and Blanche uneasiness--a love of excitement andamusement at all costs.
"She _must_ have some really good companions," thought the elder girl.
And that very evening she persuaded her mother to write to Mrs Lilford,Sir Adam Nigel's niece, recalling herself to that lady's memory. Theletter was addressed to Alderwood, and marked "to be forwarded."
"I hope something will come of it," said Blanche. "And you must try toremember some other nice people, mamma; though, if Mrs Lilford is kind,she can do a good deal in the way of introducing us, even though she nolonger lives here herself."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
MRS LILFORD'S TENANT.
In the increasing interest of getting the house at Pinnerton Green intoorder, the arrival of the furniture from Bordeaux, the unpacking ofvarious precious belongings which had been left to come with the heavythings by sea, all of which necessitated almost daily expeditions to thenew home, Mrs Derwent and her daughters forgot to think much of MrsBurgess and her unwelcome offers of introductions.
And as Mrs Wandle did not present herself, they began to hope thatperhaps the doctor's wife was as short of memory as she was hard ofhearing.
Still the latent fear was there, though what was to be done to evade theacquaintance, it was difficult to say.
One afternoon--a dull, December afternoon, when the air was misty andpenetratingly cold, and one could only feel thankful it had not theaddition of smoke to turn it into fog of the first quality--the littlefamily was sitting in Miss Halliday's well-warmed, best parlour, gladthat the walk to Pinnerton Lodge had taken place that morning, beforethe day had become so ungenial; and Stasy was proposing that, to cheerthem up a little, they should have afternoon tea rather earlier thanusual, when suddenly a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door--for thehouse owned both knocker and bell--followed by a resounding tinkle, madethem all start.
"Who can it be?" said Blanche. "It isn't often that any one both ringsand knocks."
"A telegram," said Mrs Derwent. "No; that isn't likely. There is noone to telegraph to us."
Then Deborah was heard hurrying along the passage; her footsteps soundedas if she were somewhat flurried with the anticipation of a visitor ofmore importance than the postman or milkman. The ladies listened withcuriosity, as a colloquy ensued between Deborah and some person orpersons unknown, ending, after some little delay, by footsteps slow andheavy, following the small servant's patter along the passage.
Blanche glanced at her mother.
"Mrs Wandle," she ejaculated in a stage whisper.--"Stasy, jump up. Forgoodness' sake, let us be dignified to her."
For Stasy was sitting on a low footstool on the hearthrug, doingnothing, as was rather a favourite occupation of hers, and greatlyenjoying the agreeable glow of the fire, which had sunk down to thepleasant redness preceding the sad necessity of "fresh coals," and theconsequent "spoiling it all" for the next half-hour.
"Coal-fires are very interesting, I find," she had just been saying."It almost makes up for the pleasure of turning the logs and seeing thesparks fly out, to watch the pictures in a coal-fire. The fairy castlesand the caverns, and the--Oh, there is Monsieur Bergeret's nose! Dolook, Blanche. Did you ever see anything so exactly like?"
But "Jump up, Stasy," was all the reply she got, and as the door slowlyopened, a repeated whispered warning--"Mrs Wandle."
The name was not clearly audible which Deborah announced, but sheannounced _something_, and to the prepossessed ears of her audience itsounded as like "Mrs Wandle" as anything else. And in trotted, with asmuch dignity as a stout, short person can achieve, a lady enveloped infurs and wraps, who, after glancing round her with a sort of"nonchalant" curiosity, held out a somewhat limp hand to Mrs Derwent.
"How de do?" she began. "I heard from Mrs--" (afterwards, with asensation of guilt and self-reproach, Blanche had to own to herself thatthe name had _not_ sounded like "Burgess") "that you--I mean that shewould like me to call, though it's quite out of my way to come intoBlissmore. Are thes
e your daughters?--How de do? how de do?"
And then she sank into a chair, apparently at an end of herconversational resources.
"What an impertinent, vulgar old cat!" thought Stasy, shiveringprospectively at the "all your doings" which she felt sure were inreserve for her.
But aloud, of course, she said nothing, only sat motionless, her greatdark eyes fixed on the stranger with a peculiar expression which Blancheknew well.
For a moment or two there was silence. Then Mrs Derwent's clear, quiettones sounded through the room.
"I am