Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
BlancheA Story for GirlsBy Mrs MolesworthIllustrations by R. BarnesPublished by W and R Chambers, Ltd, London and Edinburgh.
Blanche, by Mrs Molesworth.
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________________________________________________________________________BLANCHE, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE SUNNY SOUTH.
About a quarter of a century ago, a young English girl--AnastasiaFenning by name--went to pay a visit of a few weeks to friends of herfamily, whose home was a comfortable old house in the pleasantest partof France. She had been somewhat delicate, and it was thought that themilder climate during a part of the winter might be advantageous to her.It proved so. A month or two saw her completely restored to her usualhealth and beauty, for she was a very pretty girl; and, strange to say,the visit of a few weeks ended in a sojourn of fully twenty years inwhat came to be her adopted country, without any return during that longstretch of time to her own home, or indeed to England at all.
This was how it came about. The eldest son--or rather grandson of herhosts, for he was an orphan--Henry Derwent, fell in love with the prettyand attractive girl, and she returned his affection. There was noobjection to the marriage, for the Derwents and Fennings were friends ofmore than a generation's standing. And Henry's prospects were good, ashe was already second in command to old Mr Derwent himself, the head ofthe large and well-established firm of Derwent and Paulmier, winemerchants and vine-growers; and Anastasia, the only daughter of awidowed country parson of fair private means, would have a "dot" whichthe Derwents, even taking into account their semi-French ideas on suchsubjects, thought satisfactory.
Mr Fenning gave his consent, more readily than his friends and hisdaughter had expected, for he was a devoted, almost an adoring father,and the separation from him was the one drawback in Anastasia's eyes.
"I thought papa would have been broken-hearted at the thought of partingwith me," she said half poutingly, for she was a trifle spoilt, when theanxiously looked for letter had been received and read. "He takes itvery philosophically."
"Very unselfishly, let us say," her _fiance_ replied, though in hissecret heart the same thought had struck him.
But the enigma was only too speedily explained. Within a day or two ofthe arrival of her father's almost perplexingly glad consent came atelegram to Mr Derwent, as speedily as possible followed by a letterwritten at his request by the friend and neighbour who had been with MrFenning at the last. For Anastasia's father was dead--had died afterbut an hour or two's acute illness, though he had known for long that insome such guise the end must come.
He was glad for his "little girl" to be spared the shock in its nearappallingness, wrote Sir Adam Nigel; he was thankful to know that herfuture was secured and safe. For he had no very near relations, and SirAdam himself, though Anastasia's godfather, was an old bachelor, livingalone. The question of a home in England would have been a difficultone. And in his last moments Mr Fenning had decided that if theDerwents could without inconvenience keep the young girl with them tillher marriage, which he earnestly begged might not be long deferred, suchan arrangement would be the wisest and best.
His wishes were carried out. The tears were scarcely dried on the newlyorphaned girl's face, ere she realised that for her husband's sake shemust try again to meet life cheerfully. And in her case it was notdifficult to do so, for her marriage proved a very happy one. HenryDerwent was an excellent and a charming man, an unselfish andconsiderate husband, a devoted though wise father. For twelve yearsAnastasia's life was almost cloudless. Then, when her youngest child, aboy, was barely a year old, the blow fell. Again, for the second timein her life, a few hours' sharp illness deprived her of her naturalprotector, and she was left alone. Much more alone than at the epoch ofher father's sudden death, for she had then Henry to turn to. Now,though old Mr Derwent was still living, the only close sympathy andaffection she could count upon was that of her little girls, Blanche andAnastasia, eleven and nine years of age respectively, when this firstand grievous sorrow overtook them.
For some months Mrs Derwent was almost totally crushed by her loss.Then by degrees her spirits revived. Her nature was not a veryremarkable one, but it was eminently healthy and therefore elastic. Andin her sorrow, severe as it was, there was nothing to sour or embitter,nothing to destroy her faith in her fellow-creatures or render hersuspicious and distrustful. And her life, both as her father's daughterand her husband's wife, had been a peculiarly bright and sheltered one.
"Too bright to last," she thought sometimes, and perhaps it was true.
For trouble _must_ come. There are those indeed from whom, though inless conspicuous form than that of death, it seems never absent--theirjourney is "uphill all the way." There are those again, more likeAnastasia Derwent, whose path lies for long amid the flowers andpleasant places, till suddenly a thunderbolt from heaven devastates thewhole. Yet these are not, to my mind, the most to be pitied. Thehappiness of the past is a possession even in the present, and anearnest for the future. In the years of sunshine the nature has hadtime to grow and develop, to gather strength against the coming of thestorm. Not so with those who have known nothing but wintry weather,whose faith in aught else has but the scantiest nourishment to feedupon.
And the new phase of life to which her husband's death introduced MrsDerwent called for qualities hitherto little if at all required in her.Her father-in-law, already old and enfeebled, grew querulous andexacting. He had leant upon his son more than had been realised; hispowers could not rally after so tremendous a shock. He turned to hisdaughter-in-law, in unconscious selfishness, demanding of her more thanthe poor woman found it possible to give him, though she rose to theoccasion by honestly doing her best. And though this "best" was butlittle appreciated, and ungraciously enough received, she nevercomplained or lost patience.
As the years went on and in some ways her task grew heavier, there werenot wanting those who urged her to give it up.
"He is not your own father," they said. "He is a tiresome, tyrannicalold man. You should return to England with your children; there muststill be many friends there who knew you as a girl. And this living inFrance, while _not_ French, out of sympathy with your surroundings inmany ways, is not the best school for your daughters. You don't wantthem to marry Frenchmen?"
This advice, repeatedly volunteered by one friend in particular, theaged Marquise de Caillemont, herself an Englishwoman, whose own marriagehad not disposed her to take a rose-coloured view of so-called "mixedalliances," was only received by Mrs Derwent with a shake of the head.True, her eyes sparkled at the suggestion of a return to England, butthe time for that had not come. Blanche and Stasy were too young fortheir future as yet to cause her any consideration. They were beingwell educated, and if the care of their grandfather fell rather heavilyon them--on Blanche especially--"Well, after all," she said, "we are notsent into this world merely to please ourselves. I had too little ofsuch training myself, I fear; my children are far less selfish than Iwas. Still, I will not let it go too far, dear madame. I do not wanttheir young lives to be clouded. I cannot see my way to leaving thegrandfather, but time will show what is right to do."
Time did show it. When Blanche, on whose strong and buoyant nature MrDerwent learned more and more to rely, till by degrees she came almostto replace to him the son he missed so sorely, and whom she muchresembled--when Blanche was seventeen, the old man died, peacefully andgently, blessing the girl with his last breath.
They missed him, after all, for he had grown less exacting with failinghealth. And while he was there,
there was still the sense ofprotectorship, of a masculine head of the house. Blanche missed himmost of all, naturally, because she had done the most for him, and shewas one of those who love to _give_, of their best, of themselves.
But after a while happy youth reasserted itself. She turned with freshzest and interest to the consideration of the plans for the future whichthe little family was now free to make.
"We shall go back to England, of course, shan't we, mamma?" said Stasyeagerly, as if the England she had never seen were the land of all herassociations.
"Of course," Mrs Derwent agreed. "The thought of it has been thebrightest spot in my mind all through these last years. How your fatherand I used to talk of the home we would have there one day! Though Inow feel that _anywhere_ would have been home with him," and she sigheda little. "He was really more
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