قراءة كتاب Blanche: A Story for Girls
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paid for separately. It’s not like having a kitchen of our own, and Félicie going out and buying everything and cooking for us. Then it didn’t make much difference whether you ate a great deal or not.” Herty took the slice of bread-and-butter, in which he had just made a large semicircular hole, out of his mouth, and looked at Stasy very gravely. This was a new idea to him, and a rather appalling one.
“Yes,” his sister repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words, “you’ll have to think about it, Herty. Mamma isn’t as rich as she used to be; we haven’t got vineyards and great cellars all full of wine now. And when you go to school, that will cost a lot. English schools are very dear.”
Herty slowly turned his head round and gazed, first at his mother, then at Blanche. The round of bread-and-butter had disappeared by this time, so he was able to open his mouth wide, which he proceeded to do preparatory to a good howl.
“Mamma,” he was beginning, but Blanche stepped in to the rescue.
“Stasy,” she said, though she could scarcely help laughing, “how can you tease him so?”
For it was one of Stasy’s peculiarities that, in a certain depressed mood of her very April-like temperament, the only relief to her feelings was teasing Herty. The usual invigoration seemed to have followed the present performance; her colour had returned, and her eyes were sparkling.
“Blanchie, Blanchie,” said Herty, wavering for moment in his intention, “is it true? Will poor mamma have to pay a great lot of money if I eat much bread-and-butter?”
“No, no; of course not. Can’t you see when Stasy’s teasing you, you silly boy?” said Blanche caressingly. “Why, you are eight years old now! You should laugh at her. Mamma has plenty of money to pay for everything we need, though of course you mustn’t be greedy.”
“But hotels are dear,” persisted Stasy calmly.
“Well, we are not going to live at a hotel for ever,” said Blanche.
“Nor for very long, I hope,” added her mother. “I do look forward to being settled. Though, if the weather were pretty good, it would be nice to be in London for a little. We must get to know some of the shops, for living in the country makes one rather dependent upon writing to London for things.”
Blanche was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up suddenly.
“Have you no friends to go to see here, mamma? Is there nobody who can give us a little advice how to set about our house-hunting?”
“I scarcely thought it would be necessary to have any,” said Mrs Derwent. “My plan was simply to go down with one or both of you to Blissmore for a day, and look about for ourselves. You see, I shall feel quite at home once I am there, and it would be easy to ask at the inn or at the principal shop—old Ferris’s—if any houses are vacant. They always used to have notice of things of the kind.”
“But mamma, dear,” said Blanche softly, “all that is more than twenty years ago.”
Mrs Derwent was giving Herty a second cup of tea, and did not seem to catch the words.
Chapter Three.
Then and Now.
Negatively, the waiter’s prediction was fulfilled the next morning. That is to say, the fog was gone; but as to the “quite bright”—well, opinions vary, no doubt, as to “quite brightness.” Stasy stood at the window overlooking the street, when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and, glancing round, saw that it was her sister’s.
“Well, dear,” said Blanche, “it is an improvement on last night, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Stasy dubiously. “It’s certainly better than fog, but then, fog isn’t always there; and this sort of dull grey look is the regular thing in London, I suppose. I have often heard it was like that, but I don’t think I quite believed it before.”
“But we are not going to live in London,” said Blanche, “and the country in some parts of England is very bright and cheerful. Of course, this is the very dullest time of the year; we must remember that. Perhaps it is a good thing to begin at the worst; people say so, but I am not quite sure. There is a great deal in first impressions—bright ones leave an after-glow.”
Just then their mother came into the room.
“Isn’t it nice that the fog has gone?” she said. “And to me there is something quite exhilarating in the sight of a London street! Dear me, how it carries one back—”
She stood just behind the two girls, and as Blanche glanced round at her, she thought how very pretty her mother still was. Her eyes were so bright, and the slight flush on her cheeks made her look so young.
“You have slept well, mamma, haven’t you?” she said affectionately. “You seem quite fresh and energetic.”
“Yes, I feel so; and hungry too. I always think London air makes me hungry, even though people abuse it so. Here comes breakfast.—You look well too, Blanchie.—But Stasy, have you not got over your fatigue yet?”
“I don’t know,” said Stasy. “Perhaps not; everything feels so strange. I don’t think I like London, mamma.”
Mrs Derwent laughed, but she seemed a little troubled too. Stasy, like herself, was very impressionable, but less buoyant. She had been full of enthusiastic delight at the thought of coming to England, and now she seemed in danger of going to the other extreme.
Blanche darted a somewhat reproachful look at her sister.
“Mamma,” she said, “are you going to make some sort of plans? It would be as well to do so at once, don’t you think? For if we are to be settled in a home of our own by Christmas, as we have always hoped, there is not much time to lose about finding a house. And if there was nothing at Blissmore—”
“Oh, but there must be something at Blissmore,” said Mrs Derwent confidently. “And I quite agree with you, Blanchie, about not losing time. I wonder what is the best thing to do,” she went on, consideringly.
The waiter just then entered the room.
“Can you let me see a railway guide?” she asked.
“A Bradshaw, ma’am, or a ‘Hay, B, C’?” said the man.
“A what?” enquired Mrs Derwent, perplexed.
“A ‘Hay, B, C,’” he repeated. “They are simpler, ma’am, more suited to ladies, begging your pardon.”
“Please let me see one, then.—It must be some new kind of guide since my time, I suppose,” she added, turning to the others. “I must confess, Bradshaw would be a labyrinth to me. I want to see exactly how long it takes to Blissmore, and if we could get back the same evening.” And as the waiter reappeared with the yellow-paper-covered guide in one hand, and the Morning Post in the other, she exclaimed, as soon as she had glanced at the former, “Oh, what a nice guide! B—‘Blackheath,’ ‘Blendon’—yes, here it is, ‘Blissmore.’”
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Mrs Derwent spoke again: