Blanche: A Story for Girls

by Mrs. Molesworth

unacknowledged suspicions. But she lookedout of the window as if for the first time she had noticed anythingamiss.

  "Why, yes," she replied, "it is rather unlucky; but, after all, it willbe an amusing experience. We have made our debut in the thick of a realLondon fog!"

  Herty, who had been asleep, here woke up and began coughing and chokingand grumbling at what he called "the fire-taste" in his mouth; and eventhe cheerful-minded Aline, the maid, looked rather blank.

  Blanche said nothing, but from that moment a vague idea that, if nosuitable house offered itself at Blissmore, she would use her influencein favour of London itself as their permanent headquarters, wasirrevocably dismissed from her mind.

  "We should die!" she said to herself; "at least mamma and Stasy, who arenot as strong as I, would. Oh dear, I hope we are not going to regretour great step!"

  For they had left Bordeaux in the full glow of sunshine--the exquisite"autumn summer" of the more genial south, where, though the winter maynot infrequently be bitingly cold, at least it is restricted to its ownorthodox three months.

  "And this is only November," proceeded Blanche in her unspokenmisgivings. "Everybody says an English spring _never_ really sets intill May, if then. Fancy fully five months of cold like this, and notimprobable fog. No, no; we cannot stay in London: the cold must befaced, but not the fog."

  Yet she could scarcely help laughing at the doleful expression of hersister's face, when the little party had disentangled themselves andtheir belongings from the railway carriage, and were standing,bewildered and forlorn, trying to look about them in the murky air.

  "Mustn't we see about our luggage, mamma?" said Blanche, feeling herselfconsiderably at a disadvantage in this strange and all but invisibleworld. "It is managed the same way as in France, I suppose. We mustfind the--what do they call the room where we wait to claim it?"

  "I--I really don't know," said Mrs Derwent. "It will be all right, Isuppose, if we follow the others."

  But there were no "others" with any very definite goal, apparently.There were two or three little crowds dimly to be seen at differentparts of the train, whence boxes seemed to be disgorging.

  "It is much more puzzling than in France," said Blanche, her own spiritsflagging. "I do hope we shall not have long to wait. This air isreally choking."

  She had Herty's hand in hers, and moved forward towards a lamp, withsome vague idea that its light would lessen her perplexity. Suddenly aface flashed upon her, and a sense of something bright and invigoratingcame over her almost before she had time to associate the two together.

  The face was that of a person standing just under the lamp--a girl, atall young girl with brilliant but kindly eyes, and a general look ofextreme, overflowing youthful happiness. She smiled at Blanche,overhearing her last words.

  "You should call a porter," she said. "They are rather scarce to-night,the train was so full, and the fog is so confusing. Stay--there isone.--Porter!--He will see to your luggage. You won't have as long towait as in Paris."

  A sort of breath of thanks was all there was time for, then the girlturned at the sound of a name--"Hebe"--through the fog, and wasinstantly lost to view. But her face, her joyous face, in its strangesetting of dingy yellow-brown, streaked with the almost dingierstruggling gas-light, was impressed upon Blanche's memory, like anever-to-be-forgotten picture.

  "Hebe," she said to herself, as she explained to her mother, just thenbecoming visible, that the porter would take charge for them--"Hebe: howthe name suits her!"

  An hour later saw them in their temporary haven of refuge--a privatehotel in Jermyn Street. In this hotel Mrs Derwent had once spent ahappy week with her father when she was eighteen, and she was delightedwhen, in reply to her letter bespeaking accommodation for herself andher family, there came a reply in the same name as she remembered hadformerly been that of the proprietor.

  "It _is_ nice that the landlord is still there: I wonder if they willperhaps recollect us," she said. "Your grandfather always put up there.They were such civil people."

  "Civil" they still were, and had reason to be, for it is not every daythat a family party takes up its quarters indefinitely in a first-classand expensive London hotel. And it had not occurred to Mrs Derwent tomake any very special inquiry as to their charges.

  So in the meantime ignorance was bliss, and the sitting-room, thoughsmall, with two bedrooms opening out of it on one side and one on theother, looked fairly comfortable, despite the insidious fog lurking inevery corner. For there was a good fire blazing, and promise of tea ona side-table. But it was all so strange, so very strange! A curiousthrill, almost of anguish, passed through Blanche, as she realised thatfor the time being they were--but for this--homeless, and as if to mockher, there came before her mental vision the dear old house--sunny, andspacious, and above all familiar, which they had left for ever! Had itbeen well to do so? The future alone could show.

  But a glance at her mother's face, pale and anxious, under a veryobtrusive cheerfulness, far more touching than expressed misgiving,recalled the girl to the small but unmistakable duties of the present.

  "I mustn't begin to be sentimental about our old home," she said toherself. "Mamma has acted from the very best possible motives, and Imust support her by being hopeful and cheerful."

  And she turned brightly to Stasy, who had thrown herself on to a lowchair in front of the hearth, and was holding out her cold hands to theblaze.

  "What a nice fire!" said the elder girl. "How beautifully warm!"

  "Yes," Stasy agreed. "I am beginning already to understand the Englishdevotion to one's own fireside. Poor things! There cannot be muchtemptation--in London, at least--to stray far from it. Imagine walking,or even worse, _driving_ through the streets! And I had looked forwardto shopping a little, and to seeing some of the sights of London. Howdo people ever do _anything_ here?"

  Her extreme dolefulness roused the others to genuine laughter.

  "My dearest child," said her mother, "you don't suppose London is alwayslike this? Why, I don't remember a single fog when I was a girl, andthough I did not live in London, I often paid visits here, now and thenin the winter."

  "Oh, but, mamma, you can't remember anything in England butdelightfulness," said Stasy incredulously. "Why, I know one day youtold us it seemed to have been summer even when you were skating. And Idaresay fogs have got worse since then. Very likely we shall be toldthat they are beginning to spread all over the country. I know I reador heard somewhere that they were getting worse."

  "Only in London," said Blanche, "and that is because it is growing andgrowing so. That does not affect the rest of England. The fogs are the_revers de la medaille_ of these lovely, hot coal-fires, I suppose."

  She stooped and took up the tongs to lift a red-hot glowing morsel thathad fallen into the grate, taking advantage of the position to whisperinto her sister's ears a word of remembrance.

  "Do try to be a little brighter, Stasy, for mamma's sake."

  The entrance of tea at that moment did more perhaps in the desireddirection than Blanche's hint. Stasy got up from her low chair andlooked about her.

  "How long has there been fog like this?" she asked the waiter, as hereappeared with a beautifully toasted tea-cake.

  "Yesterday, miss. No, the day before, I think," he replied, as if fogor no fog were not a matter of special importance.

  "And how long do they last generally?" Stasy continued.

  "As bad as this--not often over a day or two, miss," he replied. "Itmay be quite bright to-morrow morning."

  "There now, Stasy," said her mother. "I told you so. There is nothingto be low-spirited about. It is just--well, just a little unlucky. Butwe are all tired, and we will go to bed early, and forget about thefog."

  "Besides," said Blanche, quietly, "we are not going to live in London.--Herty, you had better come close to the table; and if you mean to haveany dinner, you had better not eat _quite_ as much as you can, atpresent."

  "I
don't want any dinner," said Herty. "English boys don't have latedinner. They have no little breakfast, but a big one, early, and then adinner instead of big breakfast, and just tea at night. Don't they,mamma? And I am going to be quite English, so I shall begin now atonce. Please may I have some more bread-and-butter, mamma?"

  Mrs Derwent looked at him rather critically.

  "Yes," she said, "you may have some more if you really mean what yousay. But it won't do for you to come, in an hour or two, saying you areso hungry, you really must have some dinner, after all."

  "No," said Herty,