قراءة كتاب Blanche: A Story for Girls
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curious, to find ourselves really in England. There cannot be many English girls who have reached our age without having even seen their own country.”
“And to have been so near it all these years,” said Stasy, “Oh, it is too delightful to think we are really going to live in England—dear, dear England! Of course I shall always love France; we have been very happy in many ways, except for our great sorrows,” and her bright, sparkling face sobered, as, at April-like sixteen, a face can sober, to beam all the more sunnily the next moment—“we have been very happy, but we are going to be still happier, aren’t we, Blanchie?”
“I hope so, darling. But you will have to go on working for a good while once we are settled again, you know. And I too. We are both very ignorant of much English literature, though, thanks to papa’s library and grandfather’s advice, I think we know some of the older authors better than some English girls do. I wonder what sort of teaching we can get at Blissmore; we are rather too old for a governess.”
“Oh dear, yes. Of course we can’t have a governess,” said Stasy. “We must go to cours—‘classes,’ or whatever they are called. I suppose there is something of the kind at Blissmore.”
“I don’t know that there is. I don’t know what will be done about Herty,” said Blanche. “I’m afraid he may have to go to school, and we should miss him so, shouldn’t we?”
“There may be a school near enough for him to come home every evening,” said Stasy, who was incapable of seeing anything to do with their new projects in other than the brightest colours. “There he is—coming to call us in.—Well, Herty, what is it?” as a pretty, fair-haired boy came racing along the straight paths to meet them.
“The post has come, and mamma has a letter from England, and dinner will be ready directly, and—and—my guinea-pigs’ salad is all done, and there is no more of the right kind in the garden,” said the little boy. “What shall I do?”
“After dinner you shall go with Aline to the vegetable shop near the market place and buy some lettuce—that is the proper word—not ‘salad,’ when it is a guinea-pig’s affair,” said Stasy.
For it was early summer-time, and the evenings were long and light.
Blanche smiled.
“My dear Stasy, your English is a little open to correction as well as Herty,” she said. “You must not speak of a vegetable shop—‘greengrocers’ is the right name, and—there was something rather odd about the last sentence, ‘a guinea-pig’s affair.’”
“Well, you can’t say ‘a guinea-pig’s business,’ can you?” said Stasy. “Let us ask mamma. I am, above all, anxious to speak perfect English. Let us be most particular for the next few weeks; let us pray mamma to correct us if we make the slightest mistake.”
“I wonder what the letter is that has come,” said Blanche. “I think we had better go in now. Mamma may want us. After dinner, perhaps, she will come out with us a little. How difficult it is to picture this dear old house inhabited by strangers! I think it is charming here in summer; we have never been in the town so late before. I like it ever so much better than Les Rosiers—that is so modern. I wish we were going to stay here till we leave.”
She stood still and gazed on the long, narrow house—irregular and picturesque from age, though with no architectural pretensions at all—which for seventeen years had been her home. The greyish-white walls stood out in the sunshine, one end almost covered with creepers, contrasting vividly with the deep blue sky of the south. Some pigeons flew overhead on their way to their home high up in the stable-yard, the old coachman’s voice talking to his horses sounded in the distance, and the soft drip of the sleepy fountain mingled with the faint noises in the street outside.
“I shall often picture all this to myself,” thought Blanche. “I shall never forget it. Even when I am very old I shall be able to imagine myself walking up and down, up and down this path, with grandpapa holding my arm. And over there, near the fountain, how well I remember running to meet dear papa the last time he came back from one of his journeys to Paris! I suppose it is best to go to what is really our own country, but partings, even with things and places that cannot feel, are sad, very sad.”
Chapter Two.
Fogs.
The old house in Bordeaux was not to be sold, but let for a long term of years. An unexpectedly good offer was made for it, and a very short time after the evening in which in her heart Blanche had bidden it a farewell, the Derwents gave up possession to their tenants. For the few months during which Mrs Derwent’s presence was required in France on account of the many and troublesome legal formalities consequent upon her father-in-law’s death and the winding-up of his affairs, the family moved to Les Rosiers, the little country-house where they had been accustomed to spend the greater part of the summer months.
They would have preferred less haste. It would in many ways have been more convenient to have returned to Bordeaux in the autumn, and thence made the final start, selecting at leisure such of the furniture and other household goods as they wished to take to their new home. But the late Mr Derwent’s partner, Monsieur Paulmier, and his legal adviser, Monsieur Bergeret, were somewhat peremptory. The offer for the house was a good one; it might not be repeated. It was important for Madame, in the interests of her children, to neglect no permanent source of income.
Their tone roused some slight misgiving in Mrs Derwent, and she questioned them more closely. Were things not turning out as well as had been expected? Was there any cause for anxiety?
Monsieur Paulmier smiled reassuringly, but looked to Monsieur Bergeret to reply. Monsieur Bergeret rubbed his hands and smiled still more benignly.
“Cause for uneasiness?” Oh dear, no. Still, Madame was so intelligent, so full of good sense, it was perhaps best to tell her frankly that things were not turning out quite so well as had been hoped. There had been some bad years, as she knew—phylloxera and other troubles; and Monsieur, the late head of the firm, had been reluctant to make any changes to meet the times, too conservative, perhaps, as was often the case with elderly folk. Now, if Madame’s little son had been of an age to go into the business—no doubt he would inherit the excellent qualities of his progenitors—that would have been the thing, for then the family capital might have remained there indefinitely. As it was, by the terms of Monsieur’s will, all was to be paid out as soon as possible. It would take some years at best, for there was not the readiness to come forward among eligible moneyed partners that had been expected. The business wanted working up, there was no doubt, and rumour exaggerated things. Still—oh no, there was no cause for alarm; but still, even a small certainty like the rent of the house was not to be neglected.
So “Madame” of course gave in—the offer was accepted; a somewhat hurried selection of the things to be taken to England made, the rest sold. And the next two months were spent at Les Rosiers, a place of no special interest or association, though there were country neighbours to be said good-bye to with regret on both sides.
The “letter from England” which