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Title: Adrienne
Author: Amy Le Feuvre
Release date: February 20, 2025 [eBook #75428]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1928
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADRIENNE ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: He felt that he must make his presence known. (Chapter
XV.)
_Adrienne]_ _[Frontispiece]_
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
——————————————————
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS
"The vividly human and moving story of Rowena and her wonderful power
of influence in the lives of others will do every one good to read.
Charmingly told in Amy Le Feuvre's best manner."—_Northants Evening
Telegraph._
"A romance of a most pleasant and captivating character."—_Ladies'
Field._
A GIRL AND HER WAYS
"Miss Le Feuvre writes with much charm and insight of the escapades of
a modern girl who is fortunately possessed of the right spirit that
enables her to overcome her difficulties."—_The Record._
"Likely to become a popular book."—_Methodist Recorder._
JOCK'S INHERITANCE
"Miss Le Feuvre has never written anything more beautiful or more
amusing. The tone is as usual, excellent, and the story cannot fail to
interest one and all."—_Church of England Newspaper._
NOEL'S CHRISTMAS TREE
"Miss Le Feuvre has a classic style, and seems to be able to pierce
straight into the heart of human beings. It is a humane book, written
by a brilliant novelist."—_Cornish Echo._
ADRIENNE
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE
1928
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A LETTER
II. AN ACCIDENT
III. GODFREY SPEAKS
IV. THE COUNT'S ARRIVAL
V. AT THE CHÂTEAU
VI. HER AUNT'S CONFIDENCES
VII. THE LOSS OF AN HEIRLOOM
VIII. LITTLE AGATHA
IX. A CONTEST OF WILLS
X. A MORNING RIDE
XI. A SUMMONS
XII. AT HOME AGAIN
XIII. WHY THE COUNT WENT AWAY
XIV. THE NOTARY'S DEFEAT
XV. ILLNESS AT THE CHÂTEAU
XVI. LOVERS
XVII. WED
XVIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
XIX. ALAIN'S TUTOR
XX. AGATHA'S WARNING
ADRIENNE
CHAPTER I
A LETTER
SHE stood at the dining-room window looking out upon a snowy world.
The cypresses and firs at the end of the lawn were bowed down with
their weight of purity. There was great light, great stillness in the
atmosphere. And there was majestic grandeur in the groups of snow-laden
trees, and in the white hills that held tiny villages in their folds.
The girl's eyes were dreamy, and a trifle wistful. Her dark curly hair
was unfashionably twisted up into a thick knot at the back of her
small, well-shaped head. She had straight determined features, and a
slim dainty figure. Her dark wine-coloured jumper and skirt suited her.
As she stood there, one hand tightly clenched a letter; and no one
who saw her still attitude could have imagined what a tumult was
sweeping over her soul. Behind her was the breakfast table. The silver
tea-kettle was boiling on its stand. A packet of letters lay on the
corner of the table. There was a fragrant scent of bacon and kidneys
from a chafing dish. A bright-eyed Cairn terrier stood near the blazing
fire, occasionally giving quick glances at his mistress, but rejoicing
too much in the warmth and comfort of his position to join her at the
window.
And then the door suddenly burst open and in came a short square
elderly man, with a slight grey moustache and a tanned weather-beaten
face. He looked the essence of fussy energy, and of health.
He snapped his fingers at the terrier, and spoke to the girl:
"What ho, Adrienne! How's yourself? No hunting for me! If I weren't
such a busy man, I should be hipped by such an outlook. Drake has been
telling me the stable pipes have burst. I must go and have a look at
them after breakfast. Now where on earth did I put that new-fangled
stuff for mending pipes, and grates, and holes of every description?
Didn't I give it to you to keep safely in your store cupboard?"
Adrienne slipped her letter in her pocket, and turned a smiling face
towards her uncle, General Chesterton.
"Now, Uncle Tom, you know very well you did not. Your patent foods and
plasters and patchers-up are always in the gun-room. Since I kept your
sticking-plaster in my store-room, and you turned my whole cupboard
topsy-turvy one day when I was out, I have refused to keep anything
more. Come and have breakfast, and don't touch your fat packet of
letters till we have had some food."
"Where's Derrick? What a little martinet you try to be! But that packet
is mostly bills, I bet! Here's the lazybones! What do you think of our
white world? I told you snow was in the air last night."
The new-comer had made his entry very quietly, and took his seat at the
table without a word.
His appearance was hardly that of a naval man, though he was an
Admiral with a good many medals. He was a tall, handsome man, with an
intellectual brow, clean-shaven face and dreamy eyes like his niece's.
The brothers were devoted to each other and had lived together since
their retirement, in their old home, a small manor-house in Devon.
Adrienne had come to them three years ago, fresh from her boarding
school at Folkestone.
She bullied them, she coaxed them, and she mothered them by turns.
All three were on the happiest possible terms. General Chesterton's
chief hobby was horses and hunting; but he was only able to afford to
keep one hunter, and depended very often on mounts from his nearest
neighbour, Sir Godfrey Sutherland.
Admiral Chesterton was a keen fisherman and a great reader. He was
gentle, neat, and very particular about conventions and propriety. He
had a small room of his own which he called his study, and when he
was not reading or manufacturing flies, he was compiling the family
pedigree. He was as tidy as the tidiest spinster, a marked contrast to
his brother the General, who never put a thing in its place, and was
perpetually mislaying and losing what he wanted, in a hurry.
The General was a great talker and very impulsive. If the Admiral was
a gentle southerly breeze throughout the house, the General was a
blustering noisy sou'wester. Nobody was in doubt as to whether he was
in or out. He rarely sat down before dinnertime.
But in the evening the two brothers played chess together. Neither of
them cared for cards, and if laughed at by their friends for such an
old-fashioned taste, would reply:
"We have always played chess, and always will." And it was the only
time that General Chesterton was comparatively quiet.
Adrienne sat behind her tea and coffee, and poured out for her uncles.
"I'm rather glad of a day indoors," observed the Admiral, as he stirred
his coffee in a leisurely way; "our box from Mudie's arrived last
night, did it not, Adrienne?"
"Yes. I hadn't time to open it. Drake will take it to your study. I
will tell him. I'm not going to have a day in the house, oh dear no!"
"Where are you off to?" questioned the General. "If you go to the
village, get me a pound of French nails, will you? That trellis kept me
awake last night, tapping like a ghost against my window-ledge. There's
always something annoying me at night. Two nights ago it was the donkey
braying. And I can't do without my sleep. Extraordinary difficult thing
to make yourself sleepy. I pounded my pillow, and turned it a dozen
times, and then I rattled off all the limericks I could remember, and
by that time I felt electricity all through me—my hair positively
bristled. I struck a light and smoked two cigarettes, and I tried right
side, left side and back in rotation one after each other. Still I
couldn't droop an eyelid!"
"I should think not," said Adrienne, with a merry laugh; "don't you
know that you shouldn't be strenuous in bed?"
"But was I? I was doing all in my power to put myself to sleep. Working
at it till I got in a perfect fever of heat!"
The Admiral was looking through the letters, and sorting out his from
amongst them.
"An invitation to dine at the Hall next Thursday."
"I'm bothered if I'll go," said the General hastily; "for I'm hunting
that day, and won't turn out again at night—not if I know it!"
"But if this frost goes on, you won't be hunting," said Adrienne.
She quitted the room, leaving her uncles discussing the weather
prospects, and made her way to the kitchen. Her housekeeping duties
were not very heavy, for Mrs. Page, the old cook-housekeeper, had been
nearly twenty years in the family; but Adrienne as a matter of form
discussed the meals with her every day, and she took charge of the
store-room, and supplied all necessary stores when needed.
Half an hour later she stood in the hall, clad in her long fur coat.
A soft grey felt hat was crammed down on her curly head, and she had
strong brogue shoes and cloth gaiters on her feet.
"Now I'm off," she sang out, as she passed the smoking-room door; "and
I'm going through the village, so I'll get your nails, Uncle Tom."
The General came out, pipe in mouth, and accompanied her to the hall
door; Bruce, the Cairn terrier, was at her heels.
"Ugh!" he shuddered as he looked out at the soft snow which the
gardener was sweeping away from the drive as fast as he could. "My old
bones don't like snow. We oughtn't to have it down here in the west."
"Oh, I love it!" cried Adrienne, starting out gaily with bright eyes
and a flush on her cheeks.
But when she was out of sight of the house, she pulled a letter out of
her pocket, and began to read it over for the second time.
The contents brought a grave look upon her face.
And then, with a little sigh, she folded it up, and put it back into
her pocket.
The snow was crisp under her feet. As she walked along the road
bordered with fir woods on either side, it was a fairy-like scene. From
every branch the snow drooped in icicles which were sparkling in the
sun. Along a snowy glade under the pines she saw a rabbit scuttling.
Bruce scampered after it, and she had to wait till he rejoined her.
Then, suddenly, round a corner appeared a young man, accompanied by a
huge Alsatian wolf-hound.
"Hullo, Adrienne!"
"Hullo, Godfrey! You're the very person I want."
The young fellow looked pleased. "I'm on my way to Strake's Farm. But
it will wait."
"Walk to the village with me. Have you company on Thursday?"
"Only the Rector and wife, besides Colonel and Mrs. Blake, who are
staying with us. I hope you're coming. These small dinner parties are
deadly, but you know my mother loves them."
"Oh, yes, we are coming; but if there's a thaw, don't expect Uncle Tom."
"He'll be hunting, I suppose."
They were walking on together, Bruce making overtures to the big dog,
who viewed him indifferently. Young Sir Godfrey Sutherland, the Squire
of Compton Down village, was a big, broad-shouldered man, with a frank
smiling face and genial manners. He limped slightly as he walked, the
effect of a wounded leg in the War. He and Adrienne had been good
comrades and chums from the time when she first came to live with
her uncles. As a schoolgirl and boy, they had spent their holidays
together. Fishing, riding, and rabbiting in the woods; taking long
walks with the dogs; but never unless they could help it, keeping
indoors for long. Adrienne had no brothers or sisters, and had turned
to Godfrey for advice, comfort, and sympathy whenever the occasion
required it.
He did not hurry her now; he knew by her face that something was wrong.
And very soon she commenced:
"Godfrey, I've had a letter this morning from my aunt in France."
"I know. The Comtesse de Beaudessert, isn't she? She's not descending
upon you again, is she?"
"Oh, no. I'll let you read her letter. She's in bad health, she says.
I haven't said a word to the uncles. They get so fussed and worried at
the very sound of her name. But it's the same old story: only much more
difficult to combat now."
"She wants you to go to her?"
"Read what she says."
The letter was handed to him. It was as follows:
"MY DEAR ADRIENNE,—
"I write to you distracted and désolée. As you know your Cousin
Mathilde left me, and has gone over to America with her bridegroom. I
have struggled on in weak health and shattered nerves. My doctor says
it is imperative that I should have young cheerful society; somebody to
take some of the burden of housekeeping off my frail shoulders. With my
diminished income, I cannot keep the retainers who used to make life
easy to me. It is one long battle with old Fanchette and Pierre. They
are nearly past work, but very obstinate, and very inefficient. The
under servants come and go, they will not conform to their rules. I am
rapidly losing weight, and losing sleep.
"When last I was over, I told both Tom and Derrick that your father
would wish you to spend as much time with me as with them. Your
education is finished. It will improve you in every way to come to me.
Your French accent is horrible. Your manners are blunt, not finished or
refined. And I have my town flat in Orleans, and there is good society
there. And finally you are my niece, and I need you. Your uncles have
each other, and have not a Château to keep up minus retainers and
means. It was a mistake your settling down with them. You ought as I
have repeatedly told you, to have come straight to me when you left
school. I was content to let them have you as long as you were a school
girl. Their monotonous country life was good for a child. But an idle
girl with nothing to occupy her hands or thoughts, needs a woman's
guidance and supervision.
"My head is aching so much, I must lay down my pen. But now to be
practical. A very great friend of mine, Madame de Nicholas, is leaving
London on the fifteenth of this month. That will be three days after
you receive this letter. Lose no time but wire at once to her at the
Hotel Grosvenor, and tell her you will meet her at Victoria Station and
travel here with her.
"And will you bring me from the Army and Navy Stores some of this
printed note-paper and envelopes to match. I always get mine there.
"Tell your uncles it is imperative that I have a niece with me in my
present delicate health. I cannot be left alone any longer.
"Your affectionate Aunt,
"CECILY."
Godfrey read this letter through in silence, and gave a low whistle as
he handed it back to her.
"Well," said Adrienne, looking at him with anxious eyes, "don't you
think it is a shame of her to write to me like that?"
"I suppose you know her better than I do. I only saw her once when she
came to stay with you two years ago, and brought her rather pretty
daughter with her."
"Yes, that was when Mathilde told me she would marry anyone—a
hunchback, or a dwarf, or a man who broke stones in the road—to get
away from home. She told me her mother really wanted a white slave to
live with her. So, you see, Godfrey, I know what would be in store for
me if I went."
"It's a letter of an unhappy woman," said Godfrey, looking at her with
his clear blue eyes; "and she seems to want you badly."
"Now don't tell me I ought to go. My duty is to remain in that state of
life in which God has called me. That is in the catechism of my youth.
I am happy where I am. Why should I deliberately choose to leave my
present life for one in which I know I should be miserable?"
"Is our own happiness the chief aim in our lives?" said the young man
slowly. "And do we really know what makes our happiness? I rather doubt
it. I thought at one time when I gave up going into the Church that I
was giving up my happiness, but I found I was not."
Adrienne looked at him thoughtfully. She knew that from his boyhood
Godfrey's whole aim had been to take Holy Orders. He was at Oxford
when his eldest brother had died. Things were not going smoothly at
home. His father had died when his sons were quite children. His mother
knew nothing of business and had been for many years in the hands of
a dishonest agent; the estate was in a very bad way when the eldest
boy Ernest came into his property. He manfully put his shoulder to the
wheel, dismissed the agent and worked the estate himself, but just at
a critical stage, he was struck down by pneumonia and died after a few
days' illness. Lady Sutherland summoned Godfrey home, and told him it
was his duty to come back and take his brother's place.
And after a terrible conflict in his own mind, Godfrey gave up his own
will and heart's desire, and came home to be the comfort and joy of his
mother's life. His frank sunny nature did not alter; and though many
of his college friends blamed him for having, as they said, "put his
hand to the plough and looked back," Godfrey went on his way serenely,
perhaps influencing more people by his personality as a landed
proprietor than as a parson, for he had something in his heart and soul
worth passing on, and was not ashamed to do it.
But a few of his friends—and Adrienne was one of them—knew that the
sacrifice of his soul's desire had been a heavy one. She had always
admired his serenity and cheerfulness, as he had carried out the wishes
and whims of a rather capricious mother. And now, as she met his gaze,
the colour mounted into her cheeks.
"You think me a selfish pig to talk or think about my own happiness.
But I can't help it. I hate being unhappy. When I was a little girl I
always did, and I remember saying to a governess who punished me for
some impertinent remark to her:
"'If I was wrong to speak rudely to you, you're much more wrong to make
me miserable!'
"Besides, I know your creed—it is that in making others happy, our
own happiness comes. And that's what I'm doing. I know I make my
uncles happy by living with them. We're all as jolly as we can be
together. And they want me. They've always told me so. They paid for my
schooling; my aunt never did. She was always a spoiled selfish wayward
girl. Uncle Derrick told me so."
Adrienne spoke eagerly, but there was a pleading tone in her voice. She
added:
"Oh, do tell me it wouldn't be right to leave the uncles!"
Godfrey laughed.
"I am not your Father Confessor. I wish I could advise you one way or
the other, but it wouldn't be wise. You are old enough to judge for
yourself. We must come to cross-ways in our journey when we have to
decide which path is to be ours."
"I hate cross-ways!" exclaimed Adrienne vehemently and childishly.
"You have been in the sunshine so long, and you have so much of it in
your heart," said Godfrey slowly, "that it does not follow you will
lose it by going into the shade for a time. Isn't it possible that you
could make the dark corner sunny?"
"Now I know that you are on Aunt Cecily's side," said Adrienne; and
tears were not far from her eyes as she spoke.
They were now approaching the village, which lay covered in snow, and
looked silent and deserted. As they came up to the little general shop
next the post office, a girl came out of it. She was rather taller than
Adrienne and had a fair freckled face, and reddish golden hair which
was bobbed in the modern fashion. She was clad in a rough frieze coat
and Russian boots reaching to her knees. A close green felt hat covered
her head and ears.
She waved her hand cheerily as Godfrey and Adrienne approached her.
"A jolly morning, eh? I'm not going to market to-day. Am trying to
dispose of three dozen eggs in the village. We never expected this
weather, and the drifts are four feet deep they say on the Newton Road."
"Are you going home, Phemie? Wait for me," pleaded Adrienne. Then she
turned to Godfrey, who was about to leave her.
"I came out on purpose to hunt you up, and see what you would say.
You've done me good, though you may not think it. Good-bye."
"If this frost holds, we'll have skating on the ponds," he said.
"Anyhow, I'll see you again before you settle anything. Good-bye to you
both. How's Dick, Miss Moray?"
"First-rate," the girl replied; "but very cross at the snow stopping
his ploughing to-day."
The young squire with his big dog went his way.
Adrienne went into the shop, and got her pound of nails and a few other
trifles as well.
Then she linked her arm into that of Phemie Moray's, and the two
girls began to chat together in a light-hearted fashion. Adrienne was
her sunny self again, she cast off all thoughts of the letter in her
pocket, and listened to Phemie's humorous account of her struggles
with two belligerent cows that morning, and the arrival of a calf the
evening before.
"I believe you are getting to love your farm life," said Adrienne
presently.
But Phemie shook her head.
"It is too absorbing; and you know how strenuous and strong and dogged
Mother is? Of course I know she is splendid; she is determined that
Dick shall make his farm pay, but she works us both like carthorses.
And often I ask myself, is it worth it? I've never time to read a book,
hardly a minute to mend and keep myself tidy. If it isn't the poultry
or the pigs or the cows, it is the meals and the house. Oh, how I hate
the mud that makes such work round a farm!
"But I don't mean to grumble. And when I think of Mother and me stuck
away in dingy lodgings in a Bayswater road, and Dick, poor Dick
tramping round with his discharge papers and medals in search of work,
and coming home in the evening to eat margarine and a bit of cold
mutton, and to tell Mother once again of his non-success, I can thank
God for where he has placed us now. Mother and Dick are always blessing
Sir Godfrey for his remembrance and interest in his old war chums. And
I think that is what makes Mother so eager over it. She's so grateful
for the farm, that she wants to show Sir Godfrey he won't be the loser
by his generosity. And if pertinacity and continuous hard grinding work
will do it, we ought to make the farm a success."
"I'm sure you will," said Adrienne cheerfully. "Everyone is saying that
your brother might be a born farmer from the way he works."
"They don't know how much he owes to Mother. She is behind him. What
he doesn't know, she gets out of practical farm books, or out of talks
with the farmers round. She never forgets what she reads or hears. I
wish I were more like her."
"Do you never wish yourself back in London again?"
"Oh, often. I dream of a big legacy coming to us. And of my going back
there and taking up my life in a Kensington studio and studying art.
You don't know what cravings come over me to handle pencil and paints
again. Mother never had any sympathy with artists. She used to tell me
that they were an improvident immoral set, and she will never believe
that I could have earned my living by art. She said only one in a
hundred made their fortunes by painting, and that I would certainly
not be that one. Doesn't it seem hard that here, where I see the
wonderful sunsets over the hills, and the beautiful nooks in woods and
valleys which are crying out to be painted, I have not the leisure to
reproduce them for the benefit of others? I always say that artists are
benefactors. It is not a selfish profession. Nothing that you produce
is."
"And now you're producing milk and butter and corn and all the
necessities of life for others by your labour," said Adrienne. "What an
idle drone I am beside you!"
Phemie laughed merrily, then she pointed down over some fields to a
valley in the distance, lined on one side by a fringe of snow-clad
pines:
"Isn't that a picture?" she exclaimed. "There is one thing—if I am not
allowed to make a poor attempt at reproduction, I get pictures for my
own delight and pleasure, and pictures fresh from the Hands of God."
She soon parted with Adrienne, who went on her way thoughtfully
pondering over two round pegs in square holes—Godfrey, who had been
turned from a parson into a squire, and Phemie, who had been turned
from an artist into a farmer.
"And they are both contented and happy," she said. "I wonder if
everyone in this world is baulked of their own desires, and I wonder,
how I wonder, whether I ought to go to Aunt Cecily or not."
CHAPTER II
AN ACCIDENT
WHEN Adrienne reached home, she was met at the door by Drake with a
very solemn face.
Drake was virtually the butler, but he was in reality the factotum in
the house. He valeted both the Admiral and the General; he initiated
the maids as well as the bootboy into their work, and kept his eagle
eye on every part of the house. He saw that the brasses were shining,
that the floors were well polished, that every nook and corner was
thoroughly dusted. If the cook felt ill, he could take her place at
a moment's notice, and his cooking did him credit. If horses or dogs
were ill, he doctored them; if china was broken, he could mend it. As
Adrienne leant upon Mrs. Page, so did the Admiral and General lean upon
Drake.
Adrienne saw at once that something had happened.
"The General has had a nasty fall, miss. He slipped just outside the
stable on a bit of ice. We've sent for the doctor. He has hurt his
knee, but I don't think it is broken. A bad sprain, I should say. We
got him up to his room, and he's on his bed."
"Oh, Drake, how dreadful! Poor Uncle Tom!"
She ran lightly up the stairs into the big sunny front room, which
belonged to the General.
The next moment she was bending over her uncle tenderly.
"That you, Adrienne? This confounded frost has knocked me over, and I'm
done for, as far as hunting this week is concerned. It was that dolt
of a stable boy!—Slopping about with his buckets, and making pools all
over the place—didn't even finish my job at the pipes out there—Have
turned Drake on to them—Why on earth hasn't that fool of a doctor
arrived? My knee is swelling up like a gas bag—smashed the knee-cap, I
should say! And it hurts like fury!"
"You must have it bathed—a cold compress, I should say. Let me do it
for you!"
"I won't have it touched—can't stand the pain of it—dislocated, I
should say! If it's a long job, how am I to stick it? I was never
meant to be off my feet. If this pain goes on, he must give me
gas-morphia-chloroform—what's the stuff that puts you to sleep?"
As Adrienne was trying to soothe him, she heard the doctor's car drive
up.
And thankfully she went to meet him.
The Admiral and she were both a little relieved at the verdict
delivered a short time later.
Dr. Tracy told them the knee was badly sprained, and some of the
ligaments were twisted, but that with rest and treatment it would soon
be better.
"He will be a bad patient," he said to Adrienne; "but you and the
Admiral must keep him in bed. Try to amuse and entertain him there, and
keep him as still as possible."
Easier said than done. General Chesterton was a very bad patient,
restless and irritable, and before that day was over Adrienne felt
utterly exhausted. In the evening, after dinner, the General had at
last gone off to sleep. Drake took up his position as head nurse in
his room, and Adrienne and her uncle Derrick sat over the fire in the
smoking-room and discussed the accident.
"We must read aloud to him," said Adrienne cheerfully; "and I dare say
to-morrow evening he will be well enough to have his game of chess.
He's very fond of detective stories. There's one just come down from
Mudie's. And if this frost holds out, it will comfort him to feel that
he couldn't hunt in any case."
And then, for the first time since the morning, she thought of the
letter she had received from her aunt, and felt delightfully at rest
now that she had a definite reason for not going to her.
"Uncle Derrick," she said presently, "I got a letter from Aunt Cecily
this morning."
"Did you? You never mentioned it."
"No; I was keeping it from you, I am afraid. I wanted to answer it,
before I told you about it."
"I suppose she wants you to visit her?"
"I'll go and get the letter. I left it in the pocket of my tweed
skirt." She left the room and returned with it.
The Admiral read it through. Once he smiled; but he looked very grave
as he handed it back to her. "We don't want to lose you, dear child. In
any case, this accident of Tom's prevents your leaving us at present.
He'll want your youth and gaiety to carry him through his days. What
parasites upon the young we older folk are!"
"Now, Uncle Derrick, don't dare to talk like that! This is my home and
I love it, and Aunt Cecily has no claim upon me. She owns herself that
she did nothing for me when I was a child. I wanted care and attention
then, but I got it from you and not from her. Her letter makes me feel
bitter against her. I'm to go to minister to her wants. I shall have
no life of my own, but will have to be an unpaid servant in her house.
That is what Mathilde was."
"No, no, as a daughter, it was her duty to be with her mother and help
her."
"Well, now she can get a companion and pay her. She's very well off, is
she not?"
"I don't think so. We wanted her to get rid of the Château years ago
when her husband died, but she would not. Indeed, I think she cannot,
under the terms of his will. It is to go to a son of her husband's.
She was the second wife, and, strangely enough, his first wife was
American, not French. She wrote to me a few weeks ago mentioning him,
and I gathered that he has lately appeared in her neighbourhood, and
she is very angry because he won't live with her in the Château."
"Then she has somebody belonging to her? I did not know she had."
"You must write to her at once, Adrienne. She will be expecting you.
Tell her about your uncle's accident and she will understand."
So Adrienne moved across to the big writing-table, and there and then
composed a very nice refusal of her aunt's invitation.
As she sealed and stamped it, she brought down her slender fist upon it
with some force.
"There! That's my final word to her. I have suggested that she should
get a companion."
She came across to the fire, and threw herself into the big easy-chair
opposite her uncle.
She looked at him affectionately:
"I believe you're missing your game of chess. Now, aren't you? Will you
let me play with you and I dare say to-morrow evening Uncle Tom will be
well enough to play himself."
"I think we might have a game," said the Admiral with alacrity; "you
can play very well if you like, Adrienne."
And Adrienne did, throwing her whole heart and soul into the contest,
and casting all thoughts of her aunt to the winds.
It was only when she went to bed that she murmured to herself:
"Fate has been kind. I am no longer hesitating between cross-ways, but
cheerfully trudging along in the sunshine, and in the path which I
love."
She went to visit the invalid just before breakfast the next day. She
found him irritable.
"What kind of a night have I had? The devil of a night, and I've been
swearing like a trooper all through! That fool of a Drake snored—yes,
he snored like a bull! Out of my room he shall go to-night. He fussed
himself in, but what good did he do me? My knee feels as big as a
Christmas pudding. I wanted sleep and relief from pain. Why didn't that
young jackass give me an opiate to make me sleep? What's the weather
like?"
"The frost still holds," said Adrienne cheerfully; "so there 'll be no
hunting, and you look in the lap of comfort with your blazing fire and
breakfast tray by your side. It won't be half bad, Uncle Tom, to be in
bed for a few days. I'll come up and read to you, and Uncle Derrick
will bring the chess-board. I'm sorry you're still in pain, but you
might have been worse—cracked your head or your spine, or broken your
jaw or your nose!"
The General gave a grim smile.
"You're too cheeky by half, young woman! Just ring the bell for Drake.
He might have brought me 'The Times.' Go on down to breakfast. I've had
mine, worse luck. There's nothing to do in bed but eat and sleep, and I
can't do either now."
"I'll come and see you very soon, and tell you something. You did me a
good turn by falling down, but you'll never guess how. I'll send up the
paper."
Adrienne left him and ran lightly downstairs. She found her uncle
Derrick waiting for her.
"How's our invalid? Drake said he slept fairly well, but I went into
his room early this morning, and he told me a different tale. We shall
have a pretty stiff time with him."
"Yes, but he looks well, and he has eaten a good breakfast. Of course
he is never ill, so he feels it all the more now. Will you dine at the
Hall on Thursday?"
"I don't think so," said the Admiral slowly.
"Will you go, and let me stay at home? You know I hate dinners. Now do,
Uncle Derrick. Lady Sutherland is very fond of you, so you must not
disappoint her."
"And what will Godfrey say if you don't appear?"
"It won't cause him the flutter of an eyelid. We see each other as
often as we want to. I told him about Aunt Cecily's letter to-day. Of
course he thought I ought to go."
"He's a bit of a prig. A good parson spoiled, I always say!"
"Oh, I won't have you call him a prig! He's not a bit. He is too
natural and unaffected to be that!"
The Admiral smiled, and Adrienne began discussing other things.
The day proved to be more difficult than she had anticipated.
The Admiral, who was a J.P., had to attend some court meeting in the
neighbouring town, and he went off soon after breakfast in his closed
car, and did not return till half-past three in the afternoon. All that
time, with the exception of half an hour for lunch, Adrienne was in the
General's room. She talked, she read, she played games with him. He
would not try to sleep, and was like a child in his restlessness and
discontent. The doctor came at twelve o'clock, and offended him greatly
by some plain speaking.
"Your pulse is good, and so is your heart; there's nothing for it but
to set your teeth and endure the discomfort and pain. Your knee is
going on very well; but if you won't keep the limb still, you'll make
it a longer job. And we must put it into a cradle. You won't like that."
"He's a cussed jackanapes!" said the General to Adrienne when his visit
was over.
She shook her head at him, but did not argue the point. And then she
began to tell him about her aunt's letter. That really interested him.
"Cecily is a hypochondriac—she always has been—since her husband's
death. She ought to be ashamed of herself to write to you like that!
Don't turn a hair. Derrick and I mean to keep you with us. You surely
didn't wish to go to her?"
"No, oh, no! But if you hadn't been ill, I might have gone to her for a
little visit!"
"Not to be thought of! When once you're over there, you'll never get
away! I went once soon after her husband's death, but never again!
I loathe those French meals; you starve till twelve o'clock, then
overeat yourself—not with good nourishing food, but all kinds of slops
and vegetable messes. They give you cabbage-water for soup, and their
chickens are all skin and bone. And as for drink, some white wine is
Cecily's one and only! She always was a bad housekeeper, but her meals
over there are perfect cautions!"
"How came she to marry a Frenchman?"
"She met him in Paris. Your father was Consul there at the time, and
she went to stay with him, and got acquainted with the Count. I think
the title and Château had some weight with her. He was a nice old chap,
years older than herself, and he had been married before, and had one
son."
"Then how is it that his son doesn't have the Château? Why does Aunt
Cecily live in it?"
"Châteaux are not very attractive in these days. There is seldom enough
money to keep them up, and they're cold and draughty, and tumbling to
pieces. He told his father before he died that he would never live in
it. He was a keen explorer and has spent his life travelling round the
world. I believe he has come back now for a time. He owns the small
home farm, not far from the Château, where he stays. He paid us a visit
here once. It was when you were at school. Rather a bumptious young
fellow. Not a bit French! Takes after his mother, who was an American."
Adrienne thought over this.
"Then I suppose Aunt Cecily owns the Château, and she likes it better
than England."
"She's more French than a genuine Frenchwoman; always liked Paris—its
ways—and its gowns! No, she'll never end her days in England!"
Then giving a lurch in bed, he hurt his knee. Conversation was at an
end, and Adrienne needed all her patience to cheer and soothe him.
When the Admiral returned, things were better, and she was able to get
away, and have a little time to herself.
But the General was in bed for a week, and when at last he could get
downstairs, it was only to hobble about with the help of a crutch.
The frost disappeared and hunting recommenced. Adrienne had the
pleasure of exercising "Catkins," the hunter. She was a good rider, and
did not often get as much riding as she would have liked. Sir Godfrey
lent her a mount occasionally, and sometimes she would take the old
pony that did the station work and ride off across the hills to a bit
of Dartmoor. When she did this, she would take some lunch in her pocket
and be out all day. She loved solitude, and the moon had a peculiar
attraction for her. The strange thing was that, though she liked
riding, she did not care for hunting. She told her uncle she loved the
horses and the jumps, but hated the chase of the fox. Every animal's
life under the sun was precious in her eyes and nobody could argue her
out of it.
One morning she took Catkins off to the Morays' farm on a quest of a
broody hen. She managed the poultry yard herself, and had a sitting
of ducks' eggs, but no hen to oblige her. It was a sunny morning in
February. Since the disappearance of the snow, there was distinctly a
promise of spring in the air. The catkins hung their yellow heads in
the sunshine; the sap was rising in the bare brown trees and swelling
their tiny buds; a few early primroses were in the sheltered lanes.
Bruce trotted happily along at the heels of her horse, and Adrienne
lifted up her sunny face to the blue sky, inhaling the fresh sweet air
with delight.
Tents' Farm, as it was called, lay halfway down a sunny slope of
pasture land. The house itself was small, with stout cob walls and
thatched roof. The buildings behind it were more modern, and, in common
with all Sutherland property, in thorough good repair. There was a
small garden in front of the house. Adrienne pulled up outside the
green wooden gate and called. In a moment or two a young man opened the
porch door and came down the path.
"Come in and have a cup of tea," he said when he had learnt her errand.
"Phemie and I are alone. Mother went off to Lufton this morning, and
hasn't got back yet. How's the General?"
[Illustration: "Come in and have a cup of tea," he said, when he had
learnt her errand.
_Adrienne]_ _[Chapter II]_
"Getting on fine! Can you take Catkins? I mustn't stay long."
Dick Moray was in corduroy breeches and an old tweed coat, but nothing
could conceal the fact that he was a gentleman by birth. He had a thin,
rather worn face, with furrows across his brows between his eyes, and
he stooped with a peculiar hunch of his shoulders, telling of chest
delicacy. He had been badly gassed in the War and had not entirely—even
now—got rid of its ill effects.
Adrienne handed over Catkins to his charge, and as he took him round to
the stables, she made her way into the house.
There was a small entry, and a staircase going up from it. To the left
was a door, and it was this that Adrienne opened. It led into a large
comfortable farm kitchen, but it was furnished comfortably. The floor
was tiled, and, under a window, and near the fire, were two good Indian
rugs. The oak gate-table, drawn near the fire for tea, held a silver
teapot and tray, and the china upon it was dainty, as was also the
white cloth.
Phemie was in the act of making the tea, taking a kettle off the fire
for that purpose. There was a plain glass bookcase on one side of the
room, a writing-table in one of the casement window recesses. The
rest of the furniture, the dresser, the well-scoured table, the store
cupboard and the big open stove, all essentially belonged to a kitchen.
"Come along, Adrienne. How nice to see you! Sit down at the table, will
you? How's the General?"
"Much better, but oh! We've had a time!"
"I'm sure you have. I said so to Mother the other day."
Adrienne always enjoyed her meals at the farm. Phemie's butter was
beautiful; there was no lack of cream, and always home-made bread and
plain currant cake.
To-day there were hot scones.
"Just as if we expected you," said Phemie, laughing, "but I made them
for Dick as a treat. When Mother is out, we always have a good tea.
There is no one to bustle us away from the table."
Dick here made his appearance, and sat down to enjoy both Adrienne and
his tea.
The young people chatted gaily together.
"You don't know of my dissipation, do you?" said Phemie. "I actually
was asked to dine at the Hall last week. To fill your place, of course.
I hardly knew myself, but Sir Godfrey came round with an invitation
from his mother, so I went. Mother was willing. I had an ancient black
dress, but I chopped off a good foot of it in length, and I happened
to have one good pair of evening-shoes. Mother lent me a pair of silk
stockings, and Dick went off and brought me a huge bunch of violets
from the florist in Lufton. Wasn't he a dear? The only part of me that
disgraced me were my hands. I used to have such nice ones, too!"
A little sigh fell from her lips, as she spread out her reddened
work-worn hands before her.
Adrienne smiled.
"Nobody would notice your hands. I'm sure you looked very nice. Uncle
Derrick told me you were there. I made him go, but I could not leave
Uncle Tom. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"I enjoyed the dinner," said Phemie honestly; "it's such a pleasure to
eat when you do not cook. And Colonel Blake took me in and was very
amusing. Some of them played Bridge and the rest of us talked. We had
no music. Sir Godfrey insisted upon walking home with me; wasn't it
good of him?"
"No, I don't think so. He always loves an evening stroll, and so does
Tartar. I'm sure he accompanied you."
"Oh, yes. Do you see anything new in front of you?"
"That embossed brass jug on the chimney-piece."
"Yes, Sir Godfrey gave it to me. He picked it out of his collection in
the smoking-room. I couldn't help admiring them. You know how I love
brass! but I never dreamt of his doing such a thing. Mother was cross.
It's always a bone of contention between us. I say that farmhouse
kitchens are always renowned for their pewter, their copper and their
brass, and that we ought to have some. We have a few pieces hidden
away in the attics. Mother won't allow me to bring them down. She says
they bring and make work, and she's not going to have to clean useless
ornaments.
"I would willingly rise half an hour earlier or go to bed half an hour
later, to keep them bright and shining; but it's no good. They're
tabooed. So that's that!"
"Phemie would like to turn this into an art studio if she could," Dick
said with a little chuckle. "The Mother doesn't see it, and I honestly
don't think it would work."
"I should work much the better for having a few beautiful things to
look at," said Phemie. "I should like a picture or two on the walls,
but those again are banned by Mother."
"Well, you do as you like in your own room," said Adrienne; "for I've
seen it, and that is where you want beauty most."
"I'm rather with the Mother that a kitchen ought to be a kitchen," said
Dick; "but then I'm only a male, and have no artistic tendencies."
"You lose a lot of pleasure," said Phemie, looking at her brother with
thoughtful eyes.
"I don't go into raptures over a baby calf as you do, or see pictures
in rotten barn-doors and decaying roofs; but I do take pleasure in the
earth, and all that comes out of it, barring the weeds!"
"Dick and Mother have things in common," said Phemie; then she tossed
up her chin, and a light came into her eyes, making her look positively
handsome; "and if my father had lived, he and I would have understood
each other. As it is, I stand alone with my father's spirit in me,
which cannot be beaten even if it is suppressed."
There was a moment's silence. Her words were true. Her father had
loved art and was full of it to his fingers' tips, though he had never
made a name for himself. He had died at an early age, leaving only
half-finished, undeveloped paintings, and bits of sculpture behind
him. And his widow having known penury and want, and being left almost
penniless, felt bitterly towards the art that had proved so disastrous
to her husband.
Adrienne changed the conversation. She felt that the topic was
difficult, if not dangerous, so she began telling them of her
invitation to her aunt.
Phemie was full of interest at once.
"But you will go to her when your uncle is better? Oh, you must. How
delightful! An old country Château. It sounds so romantic. I should
love to see the country life in France. And she is your aunt, isn't
she? Oh, I wish, I wish I were in your shoes."
"Well," said Adrienne impulsively, "why should you not go instead of
me? Will you? She only wants a bright young companion. I will tell her
that I can send a substitute. She will welcome you. Will you do it?"
Phemie laughed, but there was bitterness in her laugh.
"My dear Adrienne, if the King himself wrote and offered me a position
in Buckingham Palace, do you think I could go? Would the upheaval of a
mountain move me a hair's-breadth out of my rut?"
"Don't be a rotter!" said her brother, turning upon her. "You speak as
if you are a slave. You are of age. You could leave us to-morrow if
you chose, and you know you could. If you choose to stay here, don't
grouse!"
"Do I grouse?"
"No, I'll own you don't, unless Adrienne comes along."
"Then I'd better stay away," said Adrienne with her pretty laugh. "Oh,
Phemie, you're a dear, and much too good and valuable to waste your
life on a capricious old lady like Aunt Cecily. You're the light and
sunshine of your home, you know you are. What would Dick do without
you!"
Then they all laughed together, and the slight storm blew over.
The opening of the front door suddenly startled them. The next moment
Mrs. Moray made her appearance. She was a tall good-looking woman with
rather a weather-beaten face, and very dark eyes which dominated and
held her auditors when she spoke. She was dressed in rough tweed coat
and skirt and a plain grey felt hat.
"How do you do, Adrienne?" she said briskly, nodding to her as she
deposited some parcels on a side-table.
"Dick, do you know that it's past milking-time, and Andrew won't be
back from Lufton till six as I told you."
Dick was at the door in a moment.
"I was just going. Good-bye, Adrienne. My respects and sympathy to your
invalid."
Adrienne rose from her seat, and took her departure.
Phemie was already being sent here, there, and everywhere.
There was always a stir and a bustle when Mrs. Moray made her
appearance, and though her daughter implored her to sit down and have a
cup of tea, there seemed endless small things to do first.
Adrienne's feeling, as she escaped, was thankfulness that she did not
live in the same house as Mrs. Moray. She went to the stables and
found her horse tied outside and ready for her. Dick appeared from the
cow-sheds and helped her to mount.
"I always feel an idle drone when I see how you and Phemie work," she
said; "do you never get fed up with it?"
Dick laughed.
"We have our discontented days, Phemie and I, but I love the land.
Always have. The very smell of the earth is a tonic to me!"
"Yes, I understand that. When I go to town, the air has no life in it.
Good-bye, Dick, and thank you."
She rode away. For one moment Dick's eyes rested on her light graceful
figure in the saddle; then, with a short sigh, he went back to his
milking.
CHAPTER III
GODFREY SPEAKS
IT was spring at last. The winter had been a cold and late one; now
with a rush of warm bright weather every tree and bush was waking into
life. Adrienne, with her hands full of daffodils, was filling great
bowls upon the wide window-sills.
She was always down in the morning long before her uncles, and had been
out in the garden rifling the beds beneath the windows of their golden
treasures.
Softly singing to herself as she arranged the flowers to her liking,
she did not hear the entrance of the General or of Drake with the
postbag.
"Here, Adrienne, you take the cake! Five, as I'm a sinner, a budget of
circulars for Derrick, and the usual execrable bills for me!"
General Chesterton was practically well again, but he had not been
allowed to hunt in spite of his agonized entreaties. His doctor warned
him that the slightest strain put upon his injured leg might mean
weeks of confinement again to his room. So he made the best of it, and
occupied himself by superintending the young gardener, and arranging
with him the order in which the vegetable garden was to be sown.
Occasionally he would shout for Adrienne to come and help him over some
knotty point. She never failed him.
Now, she held out her hands for her letters.
"I shall never get too old to love the post," she said. "It's the one
thing that prevents monotony: one from Phemie—a recipe I wanted—one
from my dressmaker, one from May Edginton who's in Venice, a bill from
the library, and—"
She paused, holding a letter in her hand and scrutinizing it closely.
"Now I wonder," she went on, "who writes to me in such a small black
dashing hand. Postmark—London. It's from a man, I'm sure."
"Women are the rummiest lot," observed the General, looking at her;
"why waste wonder and time in turning a letter over and over before you
open it?"
Adrienne did not hear him. She had slowly opened her letter, and was
now deep in its contents. Then she looked up and sighed:
"It's very extraordinary. I felt something would happen to-day,
something unexpected, and now this has come."
She handed her letter over to the General, who took it, and with a
frowning brow read as follows:—
"DEAR MISS CHESTERTON,—
"Your aunt, my stepmother, badly wants you. Why not give her the
pleasure of your society if even for a few weeks? I expect by this time
that the circumstances which prevented your going to her a month ago
have changed.
"I shall be returning to France on the 18th of this month and we could
travel over together.
"Perhaps I could run down and persuade you to do this kindness for an
invalid relative. Could you put me up for a night if I did so?
"Will this next Thursday suit you? I expect my stepmother's brothers
will be glad to hear the latest account of her.
"Yours sincerely—
"GUY DE BEAUDESSERT."
"Plague take the fellow," spluttered the General; "why has he thrust
his finger into the pie? Cecily is determined to take you from us.
Here, Derrick, I'll pass it on to you. For consummate cheek give me an
American!"
"But he isn't that exactly," protested Adrienne. "He isn't French. His
letter tells you that. He has lived in America more than in any other
country."
The Admiral read the letter through, and then looked inquiringly at his
niece.
"I shall have to go," she said quietly; "but only for a short visit. I
shall make that quite clear."
"I think you will, my dear, and we must put up this young man. After
all, he is a connection of ours. Thursday is the day after to-morrow.
You had better write at once to him."
Adrienne laughed her happy ringing laugh.
"I don't like the feeling of coercion in this visit. He writes so
dictatorially."
"He's a nasty, masterful fellow," said the General viciously. "I'll
give him a piece of mind when I see him. I remember when he came over
to us some years ago. He stood up to me and tried to batten me to the
ground over some international question. I told him then that age and
experience had some weight in the world, though he didn't appear to
think so."
"I don't see how I can go off on the 18th. That is Thursday week," said
Adrienne thoughtfully; "I have several engagements, and I've promised
Lady Talbot to take the flower-stall at her Bazaar in Lufton on the
19th. Besides, if I go, I prefer to go alone to travelling with him. I
might go on the 21st."
"It's utter rot your going at all," growled the General. "Cecily is an
octopus! She'll lay hold of you and keep you. But we can wire for you
to come back. Either Derrick or I will be alarmingly ill. Both sides
can play that game."
"Oh, I shall come back right enough," said Adrienne reassuringly; and
then she turned her attention to the breakfast table and purposely
talked of other things.
"I promised Godfrey to walk out to Claphanger's Farm this morning," she
said. "That dear old Mrs. Viner is very ill, and asked if I would come
to see her."
"Take her a bottle of port," said the Admiral; "she mothered us when
we were boys. She left us when we went to school, and brought up young
Godfrey from his birth."
"Yes, he's devoted to her. I believe she is ninety this month."
An hour later Sir Godfrey appeared. He and Adrienne set off together,
tramped through the village, then crossed three or four fields and
finally climbed on to the moor. Both of them loved walking for
walking's sake, and there was no lack of conversation between them.
Adrienne told him of the letter which she had received.
"I know you think I shall be right to go, don't you?"
"I think it's an opportunity."
"Oh, Godfrey, your opportunities! Do you ever lose yours, I wonder, as
I do?"
"Often," he said, smiling. "And then I have regrets and remorse,
accordingly."
"I'm perfectly certain you never go against your conscience. Sometimes
I wish you were more human!"
He looked a little startled.
"But that's what I work to be," he said; "surely to fill up breaches
and gaps, and lend a hand to any needing help, is not inhuman?"
"I'd like to see you do a really selfish thing for once in your life,"
said Adrienne impetuously.
"I'm doing one now," he responded quickly. "I have a big pile of
correspondence on my writing-table waiting to be tackled, and I've let
it go hang, because I wanted a walk with you."
Adrienne laughed lightly.
Then he asked, with some interest in his tone: "And does this fellow
who's written to you live at the Château?"
"No, I think not. He comes and goes, and spends most of his time when
there at a farm near. I don't know him at all. I have never seen him."
"Is he a married man?"
"I don't think so. He may be. I really don't know. He has made over the
Château to my aunt. I know that. I believe he's a wanderer by nature.
He loves travelling."
There was silence for a moment, then Godfrey said: "Adrienne, when will
you let me speak to you seriously?"
"Oh, Godfrey, please—not yet—I don't like to say never, but I want
nothing to spoil our pleasant friendship. I don't want you to break it
into a thousand pieces!"
"I've been waiting about two years since I last spoke to you."
There was a hint of patient resignation in his tone. Adrienne laid her
hand softly on his coat-sleeve. "I should so love to see you become
engaged to some nice girl," she said. "You ought to marry and have a
home of your own."
He shook his head, but did not speak.
For a few moments they walked on in silence, then Adrienne broke it:
"Look here, Godfrey. Let us have it out. It will be best. Do you know
what I think about you? You like grooves. You think, because we have
grown up together, that we're meant to spend our lives together. You're
accustomed to go about with me, and we're good chums, and we confide in
each other, and so you think you want me altogether; and in spite of
what you say, and what you think you feel, I don't believe you've got
the right sort of love in your heart for me, and I'm perfectly certain
I have not got it for you."
Godfrey was so taken aback that he stood still and stared at her.
"What kind of love are you looking for?" he asked her a little
breathlessly.
Adrienne looked a little shamefaced and confused; then she plucked up
her courage, for she was nothing if she was not courageous.
"I'm going to probe deeply," she said; "and if I hurt you, it's only
for your good. I know some girls are satisfied, as they may well be, by
a good man's quiet unemotional affection—well—love, as you would say.
But I'm not like that. I want to be carried off my feet, thrilled; I
want to feel that I care for nothing and nobody in the wide world but
the one who is beside me. That I would follow him to suffering or to
death with the greatest possible joy. Now do I feel that for you, and
do you truthfully feel that for me?"
"You're so intense!" said Godfrey, flushing under his tanned skin. "I'm
not excitable by temperament; but I think my love would wear better and
endure longer than those passionate heroics."
"I dare say they sound childish to you," said Adrienne quietly, "but I
am made that way. I cannot help it. I must be intense. I must feel to
the bottom of my heart, when realities come into my life. I'm afraid,
Godfrey, I've a turbulent soul, and I welcome storms rather than
stagnation."
"Would life with me be stagnation?" asked Godfrey. "I thought you were
a contented soul. You enjoy your quiet life with your uncles."
"I do—I do—And that is why I would not exchange it for another similar
one. Marriage means a big, mysterious thing to me."
"You put me in the same category as your good uncles. Do you know you
are being rather cruel to me this morning?"
Adrienne sighed.
"I don't mean to be, but I feel I should like things to be quite
settled between us, and not, I fear, as you wish. I want you as a
friend, a good comrade; but I can give you nothing more than faithful
friendship, Godfrey, and I am more certain of it now than two years
ago, when you first spoke to me."
"Is this your final and determined decision?" Godfrey asked slowly and
gravely.
"Yes, I am afraid it is."
And, to her annoyance, great tears rose to her eyes.
Godfrey gave her a fleeting glance. Then he braced himself.
"I am not going to make you sad upon such a lovely morning," he said.
"I will accept your answer like a man, and won't bother you any more.
Let us talk of other things. We won't let our friendship go; and if you
want help at any time, you know that I'll do my utmost for you."
"You're too good for me, and that's the fact," said Adrienne ruefully;
"but I do believe that the day will come when you will feel glad that
my answer is what it is. And I'm sure there's another much nicer girl
than I, who will make you happy."
He did not reply, and as they were now nearing the farm they began
to talk of the nurse who had been with both the Chestertons and
Sutherlands for the greater part of her life.
No one would have thought, as they sat a little later by the old
woman's bed, that there had been such a momentous conversation between
them.
Adrienne was always at her best when with the village folk. Godfrey's
gaze was sombre, his eyes rarely left her face, but he showed no
discomposure as he talked and even laughed with his old nurse.
And then suddenly she turned to him:
"Well, sir, when are you going to take yourself a wife? 'Tis what we
all expect from you."
"You must wait a bit, Nannie; wives are not to be picked up so easily."
"You mean you're not so easily pleased?"
"We'll leave it at that."
He refused to be drawn, but Adrienne felt and looked very uncomfortable.
As they rose to go away, the old woman said:
"'Tis good of you to come and see me. It's the weary waitin' that tries
me so sorely. If the Lord called me quickly, 'twould be so much easier;
I know I've got to go; and every day brings it nearer, but I feel at
times like David:
"'Oh, that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away, and be
at rest.'"
"You are being called very gently, Nannie. Pillow your head on this:
'Underneath are the Everlasting Arms,' and rest down here as a
foretaste of what is before you."
Her whole face brightened, and when they were walking home Adrienne
said:
"Oh, you ought to have gone into the Church, Godfrey. What a delightful
rector or vicar you would make! I wish I had your faith and outlook."
"I'm not an eloquent speaker," said Godfrey with a short laugh; "I
fancy my sermons would be dry and dull, so I dare say I am best as I
am. When do you think you will be off to France?"
"After Lady Talbot's Bazaar takes place. I think I shall go on the
21st."
"I'll look the General up as often as I can. He's the one who will miss
you most. The Admiral is so content amongst his books."
"And—and—" hesitated Adrienne, "shall I write and tell you how I get
on, or would you rather not hear from me?"
Godfrey looked straight ahead of him with compressed lips.
"We always have corresponded, haven't we? I don't want things altered,
Adrienne—not until you do."
Adrienne was silent; but when he left her at her gate and held out his
hand, she took it and held it tightly between her own for a moment.
"You're much, much too good for me, Godfrey. Forgive me for not wanting
your all. It's shameful of me, but it's just something in me, which I
can't control or get over. And I still have the unswerving conviction
that there's someone in the world waiting for you, someone much
nobler—much better than I."
He shook his head as he turned away, and his walk home, and the
thoughts that accompanied it, brought him into his house with gloom in
his eyes and deep depression in his soul.
His mother at luncheon watched him anxiously, but was too tactful to
ask him any questions.
She knew he had been out with Adrienne, and was pretty certain that she
had again refused him.
Lady Sutherland had known for a long time that her son's affections
were set upon Adrienne. She also knew that the girl was strangely
indifferent to him. And though she was well content that her son should
not marry at present, she resented Adrienne's lack of appreciation of
his love.
"She will never get a better husband, socially or morally," she thought
to herself; "I really hope she will be made to suffer. If Godfrey is
not good enough for her, who will be?"
* * * * *
And Adrienne was shedding some miserable tears in her room before she
joined her uncles at lunch.
"Why can't I love him? He's so deep and true and steadfast. But I
believe if he were less quiet and controlled, if he took me by storm as
it were, and showed more heat and intensity, I should yield to him."
She could not afford much time over useless tears. Quickly she bathed
her face and went downstairs.
The General thought what good form she was in as she chatted and
laughed and joked with him through lunch, but the Admiral always
surmised the truth when his niece was unusually animated and his quick
eyes detected the signs of trouble in her face.
When lunch was over, the General went off to the smoking-room with his
pipe.
Adrienne stood at the window for a moment or two, looking out upon the
sunny garden, and the Admiral joined her and, laying a hand on her
shoulder, said:
"You're not fretting over going to France, are you, my dear?"
Adrienne slipped her hand into his arm caressingly. "I'm trying not
to think about it," she said; "why do you have such sharp eyes, Uncle
Derrick?"
"I hate to see you worried," was his quick response.
"It's only—you know the old trouble—Godfrey has been coming to close
quarters again, and it's no good—I can't give him what he wants. And I
hate making him unhappy."
The Admiral did not speak.
"You want me to marry him, I know," she went on in a low breathless
tone; "but I'm terrified of taking such an unalterable step, feeling as
I do—or rather not feeling as he deserves I should. Sometimes I think
I have no heart. It's cold and dead as far as he is concerned. I don't
say I don't like him. I do very much—but I like him as a friend or
brother, and nothing more."
"Well, my dear child, don't fret about it. You know your own business
best. He's an out-and-out good sort; but if he doesn't appeal to
you, don't for goodness' sake force yourself against your instinct.
Perhaps it will be just as well for you to be away from him for a bit.
Personally I think you see too much of each other."
"I think perhaps we do. But I have really made him understand to-day
that I cannot give him the love he ought to have. He won't ask me
again, I feel sure."
Then after a moment's silence she said:
"Don't say anything to Uncle Tom, will you? You and I have a few
secrets together, and this must be one of them. Now I must go and write
to this stepcousin of mine. But he is no relation really, is he? Don't
you think his letter rather dictatorial?"
The Admiral smiled.
"He goes straight to the point and keeps to it. He's been very good to
Cecily."
Adrienne went to her private sitting-room. It was upstairs next to her
bedroom, and was very daintily furnished. Old-fashioned chintz curtains
and chintz-covered couch and chairs brightened up the grey walls and
the soft grey carpet underfoot. A canary in a cage was singing lustily
as she entered the room. A bright fire was in the grate, and big
blue and white china bowls of daffodils and narcissus stood on the
writing-table and on the wide window-sills.
Adrienne went over to her writing-table by the window and wrote as
follows:
"DEAR COUNT DE BEAUDESSERT,—
"Thank you for your letter. We shall be very pleased to see you on
Thursday for a few days, when we can do as you suggest—talk things over
together. My uncles will be very glad to hear of my aunt. I trust she
is fairly well. Will you let us know your train, so that we can send
the car to meet you.
"Yours sincerely,
"ADRIENNE CHESTERTON."
"There!" she said a little triumphantly. "That will leave you in doubt
as to my intentions, which will be very good for you."
She posted her letter and tried to think of other things. But her
anticipated visit to her aunt seemed to hang over her like a heavy
cloud.
She always said that she was like a cat, and hated change of any sort,
and she was so happy in her home life that she did not want to leave it.
CHAPTER IV
THE COUNT'S ARRIVAL
THURSDAY came. A wire had been received saying that the guest would
arrive at four, and the car had been sent for him.
Adrienne had seen that the spare room was ready and comfortable for
him. She even put a blue jar of daffodils on the writing bureau, and
wondered, as she did so, if he would notice or appreciate them.
Tea was brought into the drawing-room. The Admiral paced the room in
expectation of the arrival. The General was out with the dogs.
"Don't want to see the fellow more than I can help," he said as he went
off.
When the car arrived, the Admiral went out into the hall, and a moment
later Adrienne was shaking hands with a tall, broad-shouldered man not
in the very least like a Frenchman in voice or manner or look. He had
a clean-shaven, tanned face, startlingly clear blue eyes, and a very
determined mouth and chin.
"We've heard about each other, sure!" he said. "But it's very pleasant
to see one another at last."
His grip was so hearty that Adrienne winced. She smiled at his slight
Americanism.
"I was at school when you were over here before."
"Yes, and I was shown a photo of you in tennis costume, with long hair,
and a smile that made me want to kiss you!"
"Will you have some tea?"
Adrienne's tone was cool and detached, but nothing quenched Guy de
Beaudessert. He was alive to his finger-tips, and turned to the Admiral
with a flood of talk about France and her difficulties.
Adrienne listened, and was surprised at the interest she felt in what
he was saying.
"I'm not French, you know. I never would take my father's title. If
you haven't a position in France, you're better without it. Indeed,
you're not popular with the powers that be, if you keep up a state of
'Noblesse.' My stepmother won't understand this, but even she to the
neighbours round is simply 'Madame.' And what is the good of a handle
to your name when your house is in ruins, and your property nil?"
"I wonder," said Adrienne a little pointedly, "that you don't live with
Aunt Cecily when you are over there. It would make her less lonely."
"I dine with her every night and spend the evening with her," he
responded quickly, "but my visits are not long ones, and I confine my
energies wholly and unreservedly to the farm which I took over ten
years ago, and which bolsters up the estate."
"Are times still bad?" asked the Admiral.
"What can you expect after such a devastating War? And you know how the
franc stands."
"I can't think why my sister persists in living out there. She would do
much better to sell the Château and come to England."
Guy gave a little laugh and turned to Adrienne.
"You are young and enthusiastic, I am sure," he said; "you must use
your powers of influence to induce her to leave her ruined castle."
"No," said Adrienne perversely; "if her heart is there, why should I
try to tear her away from it?"
Guy made no reply, but turned to the Admiral.
"My stepmother is unfortunate in her adviser out there. He is a little
village notary, and she turns to him for everything. He's fleecing her
right and left, and she won't see it. Why don't you or the General pay
her a visit sometimes? You could do more with her than the rest of us."
"Never!" laughed the Admiral. "Cecily has always managed us. We never
could manage her. And we're both getting old now, and are neither of us
good travellers. I should think a young and able man like yourself is
more than sufficient for her."
They talked on for some time; and then, when tea was over, Guy strode
to the window and stood looking out.
"An English garden," he said; "there's nothing like it in the world.
Miss Chesterton, will you take me over it?"
"Certainly," Adrienne answered politely.
She led the way through the hall, taking down a straw hat from the
hatstand and putting it on her head. Then they crossed the lawn
together, and wandered down the paths between the herbaceous borders in
the old walled garden.
"When are you coming over to us?" he said, turning to her quickly. "Can
you manage to get away by the 18th?"
"No," said Adrienne, with a little hauteur in her tone; "that date does
not suit me. I will come a few days later on. I have talked it over
with my uncles and they are willing to spare me for a month—not longer,
they say."
"I suppose, like most old people, they're inclined to be selfish," Guy
remarked.
"They're neither old nor selfish," said Adrienne hotly.
Guy smiled to himself. He wanted to break the icy crust in Adrienne's
voice, and he had succeeded.
"Excuse me, I think they are; here are two of them in a comfortable
house, waited on by efficient servants, and everything to their hand.
In France their sister lives alone, she has lost her daughter. The
times have been hard. She has lost money, ergo, she has lost good
servants, for she cannot afford to keep them. Now, as I go about the
world, I see this, that half creation is overburdened, because the
other half refuses to shoulder their portion. Here's your opportunity
to put your shoulder to the wheel, leave the burdenless ones, and ease
the big burden of loneliness and unhappiness which is bearing down your
aunt. If your uncles are unselfish, they will be willing and anxious
for you to do this."
"And where do I come in?" asked Adrienne, trying to speak lightly. "I
seem to be but a pawn in the game."
"We're all pawns," said Guy, "and pawns are not to be despised, for
their life is full of purpose and aim, and every step they take is a
vital one. Remember that some pawns become queens."
Then Adrienne laughed.
She had a delicious laugh, soft and mellow and infectious.
"I am beset with preachers," she said; "are all young men so serious,
I wonder? You needn't pile it on, for I'm going, and my uncles are
willing that I should do so. They're such unselfish dears that they are
sparing me. As you go about the world, do you preach to everyone as you
have done to me?"
He surprised her by joining in her laughter.
"I always make a bee-line to my point," he said, "and you must allow
that this is a selfish age. I suppose you're not an exception to the
run of girls I've come across. 'To have a good time' is the whole aim
of their existence."
"A moment ago it was the old who were selfish, now it is the young.
What a censorious person you are!"
He did not answer her, but bent his head and buried his face in a mauve
lilac bush, then he straightened himself.
"I'm not as bad as I sound," he said. "We must be friends, you and I."
"I never shall be friends with anyone who carps and cavils at the world
in general. It is so easy to find fault with the times. Everyone does
it. It is second nature—first the weather, then this modern world! And
yet the poor old world goes on rolling, and men and women go on living.
And history repeats itself. I'm not pessimistic, and I hope I never
shall be. And I've lived with kind relatives and I've nice friends. And
nothing is wrong with the world, it is only individuals."
Adrienne spoke hotly. There was a pink flush on her cheeks.
"I applaud your sentiments, and I hope you will instil them into your
aunt's heart. Poor soul, she sadly needs more optimism in her outlook."
"And now, having finished judging us all, may we talk of other things?"
Again he laughed.
"Are you a gardener? Who supervises this delightful spot? I am sure
brains have been at work in the choice of colours."
"My Uncle Tom and I do it between us, but it is our dear Barton who
does the actual work. We potter round in the evenings, taking up a few
weeds here and there. Is there a garden at the Château?"
"There used to be. I think something could be made of it now, but there
is no one with a head to do it—or hands either, for the matter of
that. You'll see your aunt's staff and will, I expect, marvel at their
industry as I do. The country villages in the out-of-way provinces in
France have still the feudal system of retainers who grow up round
the Château and consider they are part and parcel of it. It is out of
date and all wrong from the socialist point of view, but it's rather
pathetic. We have nothing like it in America, and I guess it's fast
vanishing out of England!"
"What do you call yourself? French or American?" asked Adrienne,
standing still and regarding him with a flash of amusement in her
pretty grey eyes.
"I'm a mongrel, nothing more or less. You'll be able to tell me in a
few weeks' time which country I favour most."
"I think," said Adrienne rather slowly, "that I should do better if I
were to time my visit to my aunt when yours ends. She can't need me so
much when you are there as when she is quite alone."
"She mustn't ever be alone again," was his quick response. "It has
been nearly disastrous for her nerves as it is—these months since her
daughter has left her! You don't realize how imperative it is that she
should have companionship."
"No, I don't," said Adrienne quietly; "there are so many widows who
live their lives alone. I feel sorry for them, but they have had a good
time, and if I were to like moralizing as you do, I should say that
good and bad times are the lot of us all. Even the flowers require
shade as well as sunshine. Aunt Cecily is no worse off than hundreds
of other women. I know several widows in our neighbourhood, but they
manage to exist, and love managing their husband's properties."
They had made their round of the garden by this time, and Adrienne
led the way back to the house. She found it impossible to suppress or
to silence Guy de Beaudessert. He talked again about loneliness and
depression.
"I know what destructive forces they are. I have seen it out in the
Bush and on ranches in the Rockies. I've experienced it myself, and if
it can be eased or prevented in any way, for God's sake, I say it must
be done."
He had quite silenced Adrienne by the time they had reached the house.
She felt as if her aunt's circumstances must rule her life, and was
unusually thoughtful for the rest of the day.
At dinner the guest was the chief speaker; he talked well, and his
range of experience was wide. There seemed hardly a country which he
had not visited.
"How can you hope to benefit any faction of the human race which is
outside your own orbit, unless you have visited and lived in it until
you understood the views and aims of the individuals therein? I take up
the papers and read the rot that is talked in Parliament on Imperial
interests. Every politician who seeks to benefit his country ought to
travel round for at least five years. Then his sentiments and advice
would be worth listening to. And, mind you, this delegate business is
worse than useless. Let them go on their own, and rough it like our
pioneers. Then they would get to the heart of things, not a scratch on
the veneered surface whilst being regaled by sumptuous banquets, and
driven in luxury to see the city from a Rolls-Royce."
"You sound rather like these infernal Socialists and Radicals,"
spluttered forth the General.
"Oh, no, Uncle Tom," said Adrienne; "it is they who go round in cars,
and overeat themselves at banquets."
"The question of £ s. d. doesn't enter your head," said the General;
"we would all like to travel and see the world, but it can't be done on
nothing."
"Oh," laughed Guy; "go as a stowaway—a stoker—a steward—but go, and get
your mind broadened, and don't think the world begins and ends with the
Trinity of the British Isles."
"Rot, my dear fellow, rot!" exclaimed the General. "Britain is good
enough for me. Rolling stones may roll round the globe, but they'll
gather no moss; and will only fill themselves to repletion with
self-glorification and—dashed cocksureness!"
Adrienne's laugh rang out merrily.
"You and Uncle Derrick have both been about on the other side of the
globe, Uncle Tom, so don't pretend you haven't. I am the only stay at
home. But if I visited every country in the world, I know I should come
back and say that England was the brightest and best of them all."
"Well, well," said the peace-loving Admiral, "we will admit that some
of our rulers would be the better for practical knowledge outside our
Empire, but travellers are not infallible. Their outlook is sometimes
biased by the company in which they have found themselves."
The General subsided, but he had a way of glaring at Guy that tickled
Adrienne's sense of humour. After dinner she got hold of him.
"You're like a turkey-cock, my dear," she said to him; "you wait till
the first word comes out of this young man's mouth, and then you try to
gobble him up. And it isn't a bit of good wasting your ammunition on
him. He's impervious to every insult you can offer him."
"Dash it all, I don't want to insult him. I think it's the other
way about. But I won't swallow my country being blackened. And for
consummate impudence give me an American, and that a young one."
"He doesn't seem young to me. He's done so much and seen so much. But I
own I'd like to see him crushed by someone. I'm sure he never has been,
and I am afraid never will be."
Yet shortly after, when Guy sat himself down to the piano and began to
play, without music, some of the compositions of the old masters and
then drifted into Chopin and Grieg, his exquisite touch and soulful
rendering of some of the most beautiful passages brought tears to her
eyes and a thrill to her heart.
Adrienne was very susceptible to music. She whispered to her Uncle Tom:
"He is an angel, after all! He has an angel's soul!"
And the General was rude enough to give a loud guffaw, which he stifled
with a cough, and then left the room precipitately.
"Oh," cried Adrienne, when Guy rose from the piano, "I'd like to listen
to you all night."
He smiled and gave her a little bow in French fashion. "Thank you, but
your uncles have had too much of it. I like the organ best. There is
one in the hall of the Château. Your aunt likes to listen sometimes.
Don't you play yourself?"
"Not much."
"She sings," said the Admiral. "Sit down and sing, my child."
So Adrienne obeyed. She sang a song which Guy had never heard before;
and if his music had thrilled her, her voice now thrilled him.
The joyous vibration in it, the sweetness of tone, and pathos, rang on
in his ears for hours afterwards:
"Give as the morning that flows out of heaven:
Give as the waves when their channel is riven;
Give, as the free air and sunshine are given—
Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give I
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing,
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing;
Give as He gave thee, who gave thee to live!
Pour out thy love like the rush of a river
Wasting its waters for ever and ever,
Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver!
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.
Scatter thy life as the summer showers pouring!
What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring,
What if no blossom looks upward adoring!
Look to the life that was lavished for thee." ¹
¹ By R. T. Cooke.
There was silence for a few moments after her last note had died away,
then the Admiral said:
"I like the sentiment of that song, my dear. Where did you get it?"
"Godfrey gave it to me, one day after he had been talking to me for my
good!"
Here she stole a glance at Guy, and there was something mischievous in
her glance.
"You haven't the monopoly of preaching," she said.
"Ah," he said, "if you can sing like that, you must feel like it, and I
have no fears for the future."
Then he turned to the Admiral.
"Can I catch an early train back to town to-morrow morning?" he asked.
"Why, certainly. There is the ten o'clock express. But won't you stay
with us another day?"
"I'm afraid not."
Then his clear bright eyes looked straight at Adrienne,—"into her
soul," she told her uncle afterwards.
"My mission is fulfilled," he said, "and when I accomplish my purpose,
I waste no time."
"Don't delude yourself," said Adrienne lightly; "nothing has been
altered because of your visit. I had settled with my uncles that I
should go over to my aunt. It was all arranged."
The Admiral looked at her reproachfully.
"My dear," he said, "be courteous. I feel deeply indebted to Count de
Beaudessert for his interest in my sister, and for his loving thought
and care of her. It is very good of him to have come down to us on her
behalf."
"Please drop the Count!" said the young man. "But thank you, sir, for
your kind words. I don't get many of them."
Adrienne looked a little ashamed of herself. For the rest of his stay
she was sweetness itself.
When he shook hands with her the next morning, he kept her hand in his
for the fraction of a moment:
"It is only 'au revoir,' and we part friends, do we not? I am forgiven
for my audacious interference, for my dictatorial, dogmatic speeches?"
Adrienne smiled up into his face.
"If only you would not try to be so masterful, I think I should get to
like you," she said.
He dropped her hand.
"If I was a genuine Frenchy," he said, "I would raise your hand to my
lips. We are both, in spite of national prejudices, going to like each
other very much."
And then he got into the car awaiting him, and the General, overhearing
his words, ejaculated:
"Insufferable puppy!"
CHAPTER V
AT THE CHÂTEAU
IT was towards the end of a lovely afternoon in May that Adrienne
arrived at her destination. Both her uncles had accompanied her to
town, and seen her off in the boat express to Dover. She had a quick,
smooth passage across the Channel, then a long train journey to
Paris, where she stayed for the night at a comfortable English hotel
recommended by friends. She did a little sight-seeing in the morning,
and then took the train on to Orleans. Here a car was waiting for her.
The chauffeur, who could speak broken English, explained matters:
"Monsieur, he mean to come hisself, but at last minute he called away—a
terrible accident happen to Jean Lucien, he be the fermier—and Monsieur
he drive him to hospital all quickly, and not return in time. And
Madame he tell myself to come."
Adrienne stepped into the car, and as she drove along the smooth,
straight roads with their rows of poplar trees on either side, and
noted the small patches of cultivated land, with the peasants tilling
their ground, and the women and children busy hoeing and weeding in the
bright sunshine, she felt that England was already very far away. A
spasm of home-sickness crept into her heart, and then she laughed at it.
"Why, I was breakfasting at home yesterday—it is too ridiculous of me.
It takes no time to get here, and I can go back when I like."
She repeated these last words very emphatically, and found comfort
in doing so. They rushed through villages, and climbed hills between
woods of young, freshly planted trees. Finally they slowed down in a
quaint little village with a green, and a big pump in the middle of it
round which was a little group of idle men. There was a small church
on a rising knoll outside the village, and then they came to some
beautifully wrought iron gates between two tall grey stone pillars. The
gates were open, and they glided up an avenue of chestnut trees now in
full bloom.
At intervals there were great stone vases and blue wooden seats, then
they rounded a curve and the Château was in sight. In the mellow
afternoon sunshine Adrienne admired it. It was a grey stone building
with a deep blue slated roof; long, narrow windows were on either side
of a very handsome front door under a stone portico. A flat stone
terrace ran along the whole length of the Château. A fountain was
playing into a marble basin at one end of it. Statuettes of boys and
nymphs adorned the low stone wall that edged the terrace. There was an
untidy piece of park surrounding the Château, cows were grazing in it.
The trees were few in number, but there was an old walled garden behind
the house, and quite a long line of stables and outbuildings. There
appeared to be no flowers, but some young orange and myrtle trees were
in blue painted tubs just outside the front door.
Before Adrienne had had time to pull the heavy iron bell-handle, the
door was opened, and an old white-haired butler appeared, bowing low
before her.
"Is Madame at home?" Adrienne asked in her best French.
He led the way without a word across a dark polished parquetry floor,
then up a broad shallow flight of stone steps along a wide corridor
which contained some rather shabby settees ranged against the walls,
one or two gilt tables, and some good oil paintings hanging from a
highly decorated ceiling.
Pierre, the old manservant, threw open a beautifully carved mahogany
door halfway down the corridor, and Adrienne was in the presence of her
aunt.
She was a small slight woman with pale golden hair, and a pathetically
sad-looking face. She was dressed in black, and had a black lace
mantilla wound round her head and neck. Adrienne thought that she
looked more youthful than ever, but she was well over sixty years of
age. She carried herself well, and her face was rouged and powdered.
She had very pretty, delicate hands and used them in talking, as a
Frenchwoman would have done.
"At last!" she exclaimed, as she drew Adrienne forwards by both her
hands, and imprinted two dainty kisses upon each cheek in turn.
"I thought I should never get you! How you have grown and—yes—improved.
You were no beauty as a child, but you give promise of it now—a little
too rosy perhaps for good breeding, but it is your outdoor country
life. And how are the brothers? As inseparable as ever? Now come and
sit down. Pierre, we will have tea; tell Louis and Gaston to take
Mademoiselle's luggage to her room."
The last sentence was said in French. Adrienne glanced around her. It
was a long, narrow salon furnished mainly in Louis Quatorze style;
the floor was polished till it shone like a mirror, but dust lay on
pictures and ornaments, and the decoration of the room was very shabby.
There was a bright wood fire burning, and Adrienne was glad of it, for
the room seemed to her damp and unused.
She discovered later that her aunt never sat in it when she was alone.
The Countess motioned to her to sit down upon a faded blue satin couch;
and if Adrienne's bright young eyes were taking in her environment, her
aunt's sharp eyes were taking in her niece.
In her neat dark blue travelling suit, with her blue velvet hat pushed
well down on her shapely little head, Adrienne would have passed muster
in Paris.
Tired she was, but not so tired that she could not talk very pleasantly
to her aunt till the tea arrived.
A small silver tray with a very big silver teapot and fragile china
cups was placed on a little table in front of her aunt. A few sweet
biscuits on a plate was the accompaniment to the tea, which Adrienne
found weak and tasteless. But it was hot, and Pierre served it, as if
it were the choicest champagne.
The Countess asked her numberless questions about herself and her
uncles, and then suddenly she pushed away her cup of tea from her, and
produced her handkerchief. Burying her face in it, she began to sob:
"Oh, I am miserable, lonely, forlorn! Since my child has left me so
heartlessly, I have suffered terribly. No one in the neighbourhood to
understand or comfort me. My brothers and you refusing to come to me!
And this great big old house going to pieces, and the winter with the
rain and snow and darkness, and poor little me sitting up waiting,
waiting for life to smile on me again, and always waiting in vain."
"Poor Aunt Cecily," said Adrienne softly. "If I were you, I would sell
this old Château, and come to England and be happy in a charming little
English cottage near your friends and relations. Why should you live in
a foreign country away from us all?"
The Countess put down her handkerchief, and her eyes sparkled with an
angry light in them:
"English cottage! Me, at my age, in my position! You ignorant, foolish
girl, do you think for a moment that I would leave my husband's home
and property? Do you think, after forty years of French life and
Parisian society, I could settle down in an English village, with its
mud, and dull stolid unsociability?"
"But we live in the country, Aunt Cecily, and we have many nice friends
round us, and our village looks as well cared for as this. And we are
never dull or lonely."
"Oh, bah! I have seen your life and it is not mine, nor ever will be.
You will like to go to your room. Pierre will take you. We dine at
eight o'clock."
Adrienne felt that she had blundered, and was being dismissed.
Pierre was summoned, and took her up another flight of stone stairs.
Adrienne felt already that the old Château with its scent of polish
and wood fires, its mellow atmosphere, and dignified antiquity was
beginning to fascinate and hold her.
Her room was large and comfortable, with an expanse of dark shining
parquetry floor, some soft rugs, and a very large state bed. Faded
green satin damask curtains and hangings, a very handsome couch and
writing-table, and several easy-chairs completed its furnishing; her
washstand with its accessories was in a little closet adjoining the
room: four big French windows open to the floor, looked out upon the
park, and some woods on a rising hill, not very far from the house.
She found her luggage already there, and a stout, middle-aged peasant
woman appeared, asking her if she could help her. She soon discovered
that the Château was run by one family of the name of Tricard. Pierre
and his wife Fanchette ruled over all supreme. She was cook, their
daughter Annette was general housemaid, her husband was gardener, their
young daughter helped in the kitchen, and two sons waited at table,
polished the floors, and helped their mother about the house.
"We have always served the De Beaudesserts for two generations,"
Annette told Adrienne, as she helped her to unpack her things; "but my
mother remembers the time when the Château was full of great ladies and
gentlemen, and there were five or six waiting men."
Then she insisted upon showing Adrienne the best state bedroom. She
pulled off the coverings of the furniture, and smiled complacently when
Adrienne expressed her admiration of it. The bed was a magnificent
erection, gilt and blue paint and a gilded coronet over the head of
it; it had blue satin hangings and curtains with gilt fringes. The
sofas and easy-chairs and spindle-legged tables were all gilt and blue.
Annette showed Adrienne a real lace coverlet which was laid over a blue
satin one for the bed, and blue satin cushions with the same old lace
upon them. The room was panelled in blue satin with gilt decorations.
There were cabinets in it, but they were empty. The priceless china
that used to be in them had all been sold, but there were some
beautiful old paintings on the walls. Five large French windows looked
out upon the old park.
"Royalty has slept in that bed," said Annette in an awed whisper.
"Queen Marie Antoinette stayed here for three days once."
"How interesting!" said Adrienne enthusiastically.
She lingered in the room, trying to realize bits of the past, but
Annette hurried her back to her own room.
"Madame is proud of her guest-chamber, but she will not show it to
tourists. The Marquise in Château Divant is obliged by Government to
let the public come through her Park and Château every Wednesday during
the summer. But our Château is not so old as hers, nor so historic."
Adrienne returned to her room and went to the windows when she was
left alone. There was sunshine streaming over the opposite hills, and
lighting up the fresh green in the woods. The air was soft and sweet,
and she drew in a long breath of it with content.
"It is very quiet, very sweet here," she thought. "I shall enjoy
staying here for a time."
She slipped into a pale blue filmy dress, and then made her way
downstairs. For a moment she hesitated as she came to the salon door,
then she passed it, and made her way out into the garden at the back of
the Château through an open door and down a flight of stone steps. Here
she found herself in an old walled garden, with wisteria falling over
the walls, pear and apple trees in full blossom, and two long untidy
borders of spring flowers on either side of the vegetables. There were
paths with box-hedge borders; in one shady corner was a clump of lilies
of the valley. But she noticed that, though the vegetables looked well
cared for, the flowers were utterly neglected, and she longed to get
down on her knees and weed.
Then, as she came to a blue painted door at the bottom of the garden,
she slipped the bolt, and found herself facing a grassy path between
trees. It was an entrance into the wood. She wandered along it,
rejoicing in the fresh green above and around her. Presently she came
to a seat, and from here, looking back, she had a good view of the
Château and village.
The quaint blue roofs, the grey wood of the houses, the scent of wood
fires, and the tinkle of bells as the oxen passed along the lanes with
their loads delighted her artistic soul. It was all so different from
England! Dreamily she gazed around her, oblivious of time, and then
horses' hoofs roused her. A rider was coming through the wood, and as
she looked, she recognized Guy de Beaudessert.
He dismounted directly he saw her, and held out his hand.
"I thought it was a wood nymph. Have you found your way here already?
Sorry I couldn't meet you, but business prevented me. I'm on my way to
the stables. The farm isn't good enough for my Estelle. What do you
think of her?"
Adrienne looked at the glossy chestnut with a smile, and noted her
proud and spirited bearing.
"I think she's a darling!" she said enthusiastically. "And I'm
fascinated with it all here. It's so—so romantic!"
He smiled, then took a sharp turn in the woods.
"Don't follow me," he said, "or you may be late for dinner, and that is
displeasing to Madame. I shall be the culprit to-day. Ask her not to
wait for me."
So Adrienne returned the same way as she had come, and, as she entered
the house, Pierre was clanging a great bell in the hall.
Her aunt was waiting for her in the salon. She frowned when she
received Guy's message.
"He is so oblivious of my wishes. He always has been. He knows, in my
delicate state of health, that punctuality of meals is most essential.
I expect he thinks that now you are here, he is no longer necessary to
me. Come, my dear, we will go in at once."
She slipped her hand into Adrienne's arm, and leant upon her heavily.
They entered the dining-room, a rather gloomy room with painted ceiling
and walls. A long refectory table in the centre and chairs surrounding
it were all that was in it. The many windows were draped heavily with
faded rose damask hangings. A huge cut-glass chandelier hung from the
ceiling, and in this, were a number of lighted candles.
The meal commenced. Pierre waited deftly, though his steps and
movements were very slow. His old hands shook as he handled the dishes,
and Adrienne felt a great pity for him, as she noticed how old and
frail he was. Her aunt talked, but it was chiefly about her delicate
state of health. Adrienne tried to interest her in her uncles' pursuits
at home, but the Countess seemed to be purely indifferent to their
existence. Soup, an omelette, and chicken with salad had already been
served before Guy appeared.
Adrienne drew an inward breath of relief as she saw him.
He seemed so full of life and energy, that he changed the gloomy
atmosphere at once.
"So sorry, ma mère? But you have heard of Jean's accident. I have been
with him; his arm will be saved, the doctor hopes, so I took the good
news to his wife. It was terribly mangled; he tripped and caught it in
the mowing machine."
"Do not give us any terrible details," said the Countess quickly; "you
know I cannot bear any horrors. Did you cash my cheque for me at the
Bank?"
Guy looked across the table at his stepmother with a slight smile, then
shook his head.
Adrienne saw a look of dismay in her aunt's eyes. But she said nothing.
Then he turned to her: "Do you ride? I expect you do."
"I love it," said Adrienne, with glowing eyes.
"Then we will have some rides together. I have two horses. Sultan is
quiet, and not quite heavy enough for me. Have you a side-saddle on the
place, ma mère?"
"No," said the Countess quickly, "you must not forget, Guy, that
Adrienne came over here to be a companion to me."
He nodded at her reassuringly.
"None of us mean to forget that fact, but she must have exercise, and
in the early morning before you are awake, she and I will have rides
through the lanes. We want her to become enamoured with our country, do
we not? I think she is smitten with it already."
"The novelty of it is pleasant," said Adrienne a little cautiously.
"But," said the Countess with rising colour, and a little frown between
her brows, "you will not have the ordering of my niece's days, Guy; it
is I, her aunt, who will do that. You are too fond of arranging and
ordering and willing this or that."
Guy's face was perfectly imperturbable.
"Then you," he said with a little bow towards her, "will order your
niece to ride in the early mornings for her good, and I will help her
to carry out your wishes."
Adrienne's delicious little laugh rang out; she could not help it.
"I hope I shall be tractable under this discipline," she said. "I
shan't forget that I have come here to cheer you up, Aunt Cecily. I am
sure we shall not quarrel over that."
Her aunt's frown gradually disappeared.
Guy began giving Adrienne a description of the village and the
neighbourhood round.
"We are just a small community here," he said, "who know all about each
other's virtues and vices and discuss them lengthily when our days are
dull and time hangs heavily on our hands.
"Madame ma mère, of course, is the centre, and the past glories of our
Château and the present decay is a never-ending topic of conversation.
The Curé comes next. He is a mild little man, very fond of his flock,
very conscientious in his duties, very wide in his charity. I always
feel a better man after I have had a talk with him."
"He wants too much," put in the Countess fretfully; "he seems to think
I have bottomless gold chests from which I can give and give and give,
whenever there is a birth or wedding or funeral."
"The next in importance," continued Guy, "is our notary, a very small
man with a big head, and a bigger idea of his own importance than
anyone round him has. He has a wife who is what we call in America a
climber. She looks to end her days as mistress of a Château. I hope it
won't be this one. By the way, ma mère, is it true that you have sold
the fishing to him? I knew the shooting was his, that was done last
autumn; but I was hoping to get some good trout here."
Adrienne could not help noticing the extreme uneasiness which the
Countess showed during this speech. Her hands trembled visibly, as she
peeled some fruit upon her plate.
"How else do you expect me to live?" she said in quavering tones. "It
is a struggle to exist. My doctor's bills must be paid."
"Yes—yes—well—where was I? We'll dismiss the notary. He is clever; he
lives by squeezing others; he is getting rich. The village folk regard
him with awe. They love their Curé, they fear their notary. Who can I
describe next? The doctor lives five miles away, he does not belong to
the village. Ma mère will tell you all about him, she knows him better
than any of us. Oh, I must tell you of little Agatha."
His voice softened, the rather amused curl of his lips disappeared.
"Agatha—I believe she will be calendered one day. To me she is amongst
the saints already. You must go and see her, Cousin Adrienne. She lives
with her cheery, hard-working sister in a little house at the top of
a green knoll outside the village. I always wonder at such a suitable
position being their home. But it was their home before Agatha was
born. Her father was a chemist by profession, and also a scholar. You
climb if you go to see Agatha, physically and mentally. She is a modern
Joan of Arc, without her fiery enthusiasm, but she lives in the unseen,
and has her visions."
"She sounds awfully interesting," said Adrienne.
The Countess shrugged her shoulders.
"The peasants are superstitious; they regard a sick girl as a seer and
mystic. She fosters their credulity and poses as a saint."
"We will pass on," said Guy in his cool way, "to Nicholas Bruce the
good-tempered blacksmith, to André Gaugy the talkative backbiter and
tailor, to stolid Ambrose Hellier with his placid wife and sixteen
children under fifteen, and who makes his cows and goats support
them all, to Jacques Smuré our drunkard, and Anton Guyère our gloomy
cobbler, and Gaspard Pont our newsmonger the postman.
"There are twenty-five families in all, living round us. I see ma mère
is impatient! She will doubtless describe our outside neighbours better
than I can."
The Countess was already rising from her seat, and Adrienne followed
her back to the salon.
Candles were lighted in it now. The wood fire was blazing cheerfully.
Adrienne drew up a chair close to it, and her aunt lay back in a deep
cushioned chair opposite her.
"Guy is strangely indifferent to good society," the Countess said with
a sigh; "he seems quite happy gossiping with the farmers and peasants.
I cannot get him to accompany me to any bridge parties or tennis or
tea. He hates my flat in Orleans, and wants me to give it up. As if I
could vegetate in this place all the winter!"
She began talking to Adrienne about her great friend Madame Nicholas,
a rich widow, who lived about a couple of miles away in a very large
villa, of the Marquise de Pompagny, who had two pretty daughters and a
son, and of several other friends in the vicinity of the Château.
And then a little later Guy joined them.
It was Adrienne who suggested that he should play to them.
They went out into the hall, but the Countess found it chilly, and
retired to her chair by the fire. They left the salon door open for her
to hear. Adrienne sat down on a couch under one of the windows, which
were now shuttered up for the night. The organ was at the farther end
of the hall, and worked by water power. In the dusk there, with only
the dim lights of candles above the organ seat, Adrienne let Guy's
enchanted music steal through her soul. He played on, aware that one of
his listeners at least could appreciate his performance.
The Countess appeared at last.
"It is getting very dull for me; I am feeling tired. I think I shall go
to bed, and I am sure that Adrienne ought to do so. We will wish you
good night, Guy."
Guy was off his stool at once.
"Good night, ma mère. I think you and I must have a little business
talk to-morrow. Can you give me half an hour before déjeuner? No? Then
what hour will suit you? It is about the cheque. At five, then? I will
come round at five. I shall be in Orleans to-morrow morning. I have to
go there about farming business. Now, Cousin Adrienne, explore inside
and out of the Château, and make friends with everybody. Then you will
feel quite at home."
When Adrienne laid her head upon her pillow a little later, she said to
herself:
"Courage! It is not so bad as I feared. In spite of Aunt Cecily, I
believe I am going to be happy here."
CHAPTER VI
HER AUNT'S CONFIDENCES
SUCH a lovely morning! Adrienne got up and threw open her windows and
shutters. Annette brought her coffee and petit pain at eight o'clock,
and told her that Madame would like to see her at ten.
Adrienne lay in her comfortable bed, and looked out upon the flowering
chestnuts, and at the tiny village clustering round the church on the
green knoll. She heard the bells of the oxen as they passed along
the lanes, and the scent of the lilacs close to the house was wafted
upwards to her.
She wondered what her uncles were doing, and how they would like having
breakfast alone together.
And then her thoughts focused themselves upon her aunt.
She began to see that this French home of hers might have a fascination
for her, and would make it difficult for her to leave it.
"I could be happy here myself," Adrienne murmured to herself, "if only
the uncles were with me. I wonder if I could get them to come over, and
see it. I might say I would not come back unless they came to fetch me!"
She dawdled over her dressing, then sat down at her writing-table and
commenced a long letter to her uncles. She heard an outside clock
strike ten, and, shutting up her writing-case, she made her way to her
aunt's room.
The Countess's room was more English in its furniture than any other
part of the Château. She had pretty chintz curtains and covers for
her couches and chairs, photos and knickknacks were in profusion upon
tables and cabinets. Madame herself, in a blue satin tea-gown with a
boudoir cap, was sitting in an easy-chair by the open window.
She looked older in the morning light, and the fretful lines in her
face were more discernible.
"Don't kiss me," she said; "I am not too fond of it at any time. Have
you slept well? Ah! You have youth and strength, both of which I have
lost!"
"Yes, I have slept splendidly, and feel ready for anything," Adrienne
said brightly.
Then Madame began to give her a list of things she wanted her to
do—things which her daughter had always done, and which had suffered
since her departure.
The salon was to be dusted carefully, and the china in the corridor;
flowers could be gathered from the garden. Fanchette was to be
interviewed; and if anything were wanted from the village, would she
see to it? Also, would she get the salads and vegetables from the
garden? Louis or Gaston would accompany her, but they were not to be
trusted to do it alone. Would she do a little gardening round the
house? There were seeds to be sown, and weeding to be done. It was too
much for Jacques, as he was cutting the grass in the big meadow for the
cows. Would she return to the house before eleven to assist Madame in
the last stages of her toilet. Déjeuner was at half-past eleven.
Adrienne saw that her morning would be fully occupied, but she went
off cheerfully at once to her duties, and very soon Madame heard her
singing in the gardens.
At eleven o'clock she was back in Madame's room, helping her arrange
her hair, and tidying up generally. And while she was so employed, she
was hearing for the twentieth time an account of all Madame's illnesses
since her husband's death. The one person who was sincerely appreciated
by her aunt was her doctor, Monsieur Caillot. He came to see her pretty
frequently. Monsieur Bouverie was mentioned with bated breath.
"If he comes here, my dear, you must be very, very polite and
pleasant. He is a little man, but he is a great power here; his wife
is my abomination, but I dare not quarrel with her. I will tell you
all my troubles one day. I feel sometimes like a tangled ball of
silk—impossible, quite impossible to be disentangled and unknotted!
Monsieur pulls here and there, but for a little smooth bit, there
appears more knots and tangles to come. Ah! It's a weary world for a
forlorn and lonely woman!"
"I should think," said Adrienne tentatively, "that Cousin Guy is a very
good one for disentangling tangles."
Madame threw up her hands:
"Ah! No! He is an American, hard and keen and implacable! Everything
with him is black or white. No mellowing greys, no misty uncertainties.
He terrifies me; though I am his stepmother, I am afraid of him. He
bends everyone to his will. He is a mass of steel and iron, and does
not possess a heart."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, think of his music! A man with such music at his
fingers' end must possess feeling!"
"Tut! Tut! Music is an accomplishment. He is clever. He takes after
his father in that. My dear Philippe—ah!" Out came the scented
handkerchief; tears began to fall.
Then Adrienne listened to a long account of her Uncle Philippe's
perfections. She was relieved when the bell sounded for déjeuner.
It was a long meal, but her aunt talked incessantly, and Adrienne
vainly tried to get her away from herself.
After it was over, Adrienne accompanied her back to her room, made her
comfortable for her afternoon siesta, and was given a quantity of old
lace to mend.
"We have tea at four, and then we will walk for a little in the garden
or wood."
Adrienne took her lace into the garden. The sun was so hot that she
looked about for a shady nook, and found it under a chestnut tree just
below the terrace. Here on a seat she got out her work-basket, and here
it was that an hour later Guy found her.
His eyes rested upon her with satisfaction.
"You have very quickly fitted yourself into your niche here," he said,
as he drew up a lounge chair and seated himself in it. "Well, how do
you find your aunt? Win her confidence if you can. I have failed to do
so."
"She is afraid of you," said Adrienne, regarding him with frank steady
eyes; "I wonder why?"
His eyes met hers for an instant, with a glint of sternness in them,
then they softened and a sparkle of amusement shone in them.
"I am always reading between the lines, and discovering more than I am
meant to discover," he said; "ma mère does not like her defences to be
pierced."
"Perhaps you do it triumphantly," said Adrienne; "nobody likes to be
triumphed over."
"Would you like to come and see your steed?" he asked, waiving the
subject.
Adrienne rose at once.
"I should love to," she said, "but how and when I am to ride is the
problem."
"In the early morning," he responded; "as early as you like. Six, seven
or eight. Will either of those hours suit you?"
Adrienne smiled.
"Yes. Make it seven. I feel that time will be mine. But will you be
able to come with me? I am quite accustomed to ride about alone."
"I want to show you our country. I will bring the horses round at seven
to-morrow morning."
They arrived at the stables; Adrienne was introduced to Sultan, a
coal-black horse, with a coat like satin, and a gentle chastened mien.
He lifted his head and looked at Adrienne with two rather sad and weary
eyes. She caressed his nose, and he lifted his head, and pricked his
ears when he felt the touch of her soft fingers.
Then Guy called out for Gaston, who was groom as well as house-boy, and
a brand-new lady's saddle was produced.
Adrienne protested:
"You have bought this new for me?"
"I saw it in Orleans this morning," said Guy.
Then he busied himself with it; and when Sultan was satisfactorily
adorned with it, Adrienne was invited to mount.
She rode round the yard and out into the paddock, and was delighted
with Sultan's smooth, easy paces.
"He has been a good horse in his time," said Guy; "you won't be too
hard on him. And for gentle exercise you won't beat him."
Then, looking at her watch, Adrienne found it was just four.
"I must go," she said; "are you coming in for a cup of tea?"
He shook his head.
"I shall be ready for your aunt in the library at five," he said. "That
is our business-room; have you seen it? No? Then come now, I will show
it to you. It used to be a hall of justice, and the ceiling is worth
looking at."
They returned to the house; he took her to the end of the hall up
a few steps along a corridor, and then opened the door into a big
panelled room with beautifully carved ceiling. The coat of arms of the
Beaudesserts was carved over the great mantelpiece. A long table with
an imposing-looking carved chair at the head of it was in the centre
of the room. The walls were lined with books behind glass doors. In
a corner of the room was a big writing-table, covered with books and
papers, and it was in this corner that Guy seated himself when Adrienne
had duly admired the ceiling and the room.
She left him there, and went upstairs to her aunt.
Tea was brought to them in her boudoir adjoining her bedroom.
She made a little moue, when Adrienne mentioned Guy.
"Oh, yes, I have to be called over the coals by him, my perfect
irreproachable prig of a stepson! But as to any help or assistance, it
is useless to expect it of him."
"He always speaks so sympathetically of you," said Adrienne, feeling
she must defend the absent one.
"Oh, là!"
Madame shrugged her shoulders in French fashion, and Adrienne said no
more.
It was with very slow steps that Madame descended the stairs to the
library.
"I shall not be long. We will go for a little walk; will you put out my
hat and coat for me? You will find them in my wardrobe."
But it was three-quarters of an hour before Madame joined her again,
and when she did so, Adrienne saw at once that she had been crying.
"He is an inquisitor, my stepson," she said angrily to Adrienne; "he
questions and cross-examines, and ferrets out every minute detail that
I would keep to myself. But we will not talk of him; we will take the
air."
They walked in the grounds of the Château, afterwards had a quiet
dinner together, and then in the salon, over their bright wood fire,
Madame suddenly made a confidante of Adrienne. She poured out in
a torrent of talk all her trials and money troubles, and Adrienne
listened and tried to advise and comfort. Monsieur Bouverie, the
notary, figured largely in the background.
"What can a woman do without a man to assist her? Monsieur Bouverie
manages all for me. He is like an agent as well as a lawyer; he knows
the ins and outs of all my husband's estate; he comes to me for
necessary repairs. Guy is angry because he says that the new fences I
have paid for on paper are not in existence; he says I ought to walk
round and see that the repairs I pay for are done. How can I? Then
he wants me to give up my pretty fiat in Orleans. I am there most
of the winter. I entertain, and enjoy myself. How could I stagnate
here through the snow? Monsieur Bouverie has helped me pay my bills
again and again. He has taken the shooting, he rents it, also the
fishing—and—but promise me you will not tell Guy this. I was in such
straits a few years ago—I am very fond of Bridge, but I had been
unlucky, and could not find the ready money to pay my debts, and there
were many bills that were pressing from Orleans tradesmen, you know, so
I borrowed money from Monsieur Bouverie and he has taken the Château as
security."
"Does that mean you have mortgaged it?" asked Adrienne.
"Well, yes—but I must have ready money."
"I thought the Château belonged to Guy, and that you were only living
here for your lifetime?"
"Oh, some years ago, he presented it to me as a deed of gift. He does
not care about it. He is not married; it is not as if he has a son to
succeed."
"But he may marry; he may have children."
"My dear Adrienne, I cannot plan and live for the future. I have been
cheated and taken in on all sides; I have had no income to speak of,
and Monsieur Bouverie has been my mainstay through these difficult
years."
"I wonder if he is quite honest."
Adrienne's frank comment displeased her aunt.
"My dear, he is my man of business; he has invested for me; he pays my
bills; he does all he can to help and support me. He has helped me in
selling the old china and some of the old plate—I was forced to part
with them. I have been living from hand to mouth. Guy is very angry
because my account is overdrawn at the Bank. How can I help it? I have
not enough to live upon. The last time he was over, he put me straight
and left me something to go on with. I hoped he would do it this time.
He must. After all, I am his father's widow."
"Is he very wealthy himself?"
"I do not know, he is so secretive; his hobby over here is the farm—he
makes it pay, I believe, but he is not civil to Monsieur Bouverie; they
look at each other like angry dogs. I dread them meeting. The thing I
am worried about now is, that I am not able to pay Monsieur Bouverie
his interest. How can I do so? I can barely make my income feed myself
and the servants, and he dropped a hint the other day, or rather she
did—she's an atrocious woman—she hinted that they would soon take
possession here. It is this that troubles me. Her one ambition is to
own a Château and she eggs her husband on. It would kill me if I had to
leave this. It has wound itself round my heart."
"I should tell Cousin Guy the whole thing," advised Adrienne. "He is a
strong man. Leave him to deal with this lawyer of yours."
"No, no, I could not. He must never know it. He does not know things
are so serious. He would blame me for it."
Adrienne sighed. It seemed hopeless to comfort her aunt. And she could
not understand her. At one moment she would talk as if ruin were close
to her; at another, of all the gaieties and amusements she hoped to
enjoy, when she returned to Orleans for the winter.
"You must stay on with me, and come with me to Orleans. There will be
young people there and plenty of gaiety. I stay here in the summer for
my health; I get patched up for my festivities in the winter."
When Adrienne eventually got to bed, she felt as if this day had been
the longest in her life. Her aunt's confidences had depressed and tired
her. But sleep came to her, and with it refreshment and rest.
When the morning dawned, she faced life once more with courage and
cheerfulness.
She had her coffee early, and at seven was down on the terrace in her
riding habit which she fortunately had brought with her.
Guy was there with the two horses. He mounted her, and then they rode
off in the fresh morning air.
He took her through the village, up a steep lane, under flowering
limes, and then they came to some green turf beside the pine woods upon
which they had a good canter.
Adrienne's pink colour and sparkling eyes showed how much she enjoyed
it.
And presently they began to talk about her aunt.
"Have you won her confidence yet?" he asked her.
"Not entirely," said Adrienne; "I cannot understand many things. She
seems to have plenty of money and yet is always in difficulties."
"I want you to help her," said Guy earnestly; "you are young and happy,
get her to be interested in the simple things of life. As regards
money, she has a way of letting it filter through her fingers; her flat
in Orleans costs her more for six months than a year's sojourn here.
And Bouverie is quietly, determinedly and systematically robbing her. I
have come to her rescue more than once, but I'm going on another tack
now. I'm allowing him enough rope to hang himself."
"I wonder how much you know," said Adrienne, looking at him
thoughtfully.
"More than you do," he retorted pleasantly.
Adrienne was silent.
"Broaden her outlook. Get her interested in others. What did your song
say:
"'Give as the fresh air, and sunshine are given,
Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give.'
"You can give her so much and she has so little."
"But you are quite mistaken in me," said Adrienne. "I have nothing
worth passing on."
"You must make little Agatha's acquaintance," he said; "she will show
you what can be done. All of us who come in contact with Agatha are
strengthened, and bucked up to do, and to give. You're meant to be one
of the givers in life; you show it in your face."
Adrienne laughed.
"What do I show?" she asked.
"Sunshine," he replied tersely.
"I've always been so happy," Adrienne said almost apologetically; "but
then my circumstances have been bright. If I were Aunt Cecily, I dare
say I should be quite as miserable, for I'm perfectly certain I should
cling to this old Château as she does. I think it's quite enchanting. I
love every bit of it—the waxed floors, the wood fires, the big spacious
rooms; the blue shutters, and windows down to the floor, and the mellow
colour of its wood and decorations. And outside it the chestnut avenue
and the gardens and the wood, and the darling little village! It all
bewitches me. I long to be able to spend money on it, and give Aunt
Cecily a happy old age in it."
"You and I will work to do the last bit; but unless our good notary
departs this life, the spending money on it will be a problem."
Then he pointed to a distant Château, and began to give her some
historic reminiscences of the part through which they were riding.
When later they were returning through the village, he showed her the
little white house in which Agatha lived.
"I will introduce you to her one day. She's altered my whole view of
life. She did it three years ago when I was home. I was hopeless, was
surrounded by a maze of intricate obstacles and intrigues, and was just
about washing my hands of the whole concern, and going off to the wilds
again, when I struck against her."
"How wonderful she must be!" said Adrienne.
"You've only to be with her for half an hour to feel her power—or,"
he added in a low voice, "the Power that dwells with her. That's what
she considers it. You wouldn't imagine a little peasant girl in an
out-of-way village like this could have any influence on men, would
you? Yet I've seen the biggest blackguard in the place on his knees
before her, and her little hands laid softly on his head. And not only
has he been reduced to tears, but sent off to the Curé, and then to
make restitution to the one he has wronged."
They had reached the Château; then, as she was dismounting, Adrienne
said:
"I wonder if Aunt Cecily rides? It is such a good receipt for the
dumps. And if she doesn't ride, isn't there a carriage for her?"
"There's an old pony chaise in the coach-house, I believe. Get her out
and about by all means."
Adrienne found plenty to employ her hands that morning, but she sang as
she worked, and met her aunt with a sunny face. The Countess scouted
the idea of driving out in the pony chaise.
"I hire the car from the inn when I need it—the one that met you at
the station. I ought to have one of my own, of course. Madame Bouverie
rolls about in her Daimler, but it is the lower classes who ride now.
We walk. I have asked my friend Madame Nicholas to tea this afternoon.
We will have it on the terrace."
"I hope I shan't disgrace you by my French," said Adrienne.
"Oh, she understands and speaks English; she is much in England, for a
sister of hers lives there."
Madame Nicholas arrived at half-past three. She was a handsome,
vivacious little woman, and the Countess visibly brightened when
talking to her. Not knowing the neighbours round, Adrienne did not
feel much interested in the conversation, for it was entirely about
them, and their sayings and doings. She poured out tea for her aunt
instead of Pierre, who was thankful to be spared the task, and let
her gaze wander over the tree-tops in the distance. Her thoughts were
in England, when she suddenly heard an ejaculation from her aunt, and
looking up saw a smart car gliding up the avenue.
"It is that hateful woman; she has seen us. We cannot get away."
In another moment Pierre was conducting a very stout, short woman along
the terrace to them. She was dressed in the extreme fashion of the
moment. Very tight short skirts from which two enormously fat legs in
flesh-coloured stockings appeared. Her shoes with their tiny heels and
big buckles seemed unable to contain her feet. Her hat was very small,
her face very big, and Adrienne felt a feeling of distaste sweep over
her as she saw her.
But her face radiated with cheerful good humour.
"Ah, Madame," she said, taking the Countess's hand in hers as if she
were her dearest friend, "how delighted I am to see you look so well
and charmante. And is this your English niece? I have come to make her
acquaintance. I said to Henri that I must be one of the first to pay my
respects to our English visitor. And how do you like us, Mademoiselle?
Do you not find our Château enchanting?"
She waved her hand at the old building as she spoke.
For a moment her fluent French made Adrienne a little shy of airing her
own. The Countess and her friend resumed their seats.
Madame Nicholas had only given a stiff little bow to the new-comer,
which was returned with an air of affable condescension by the
notary's wife. Then Madame Nicholas and the Countess went on talking
confidentially to one another, whilst Adrienne was left to entertain
Madame Bouverie, who with raised voice made every word of hers audible
to the two elder ladies.
"You must come and see my flowers. Your poor aunt has not health to
garden, and every true gardener knows that it cannot be left to village
men or boys. They know all about vegetables, but flowers—bah! They
serve them cruelly. If I had this garden—" she gazed over the terrace
with a greedy look in her eyes—"I would make a perfect dream of it. Can
you not see glowing beds of scarlet and white in front of us, and vases
with drooping pink and mauve, and long winding borders of every colour
under the sun?"
Then Adrienne said rather naughtily:
"But I love the cows under the shady trees, and the buttercups and the
flowering grass. I think they are so restful and pastoral."
Madame Bouverie shrugged her shoulders.
"And how do you find your dear aunt? We tell her she ought not to
shut herself up so, it is so bad for her nerves; she should spend
more time in Orleans, and only come here for the very hot weather.
There is really, entre nous, no society here, a few old fossils, who
from pecuniary reasons cannot leave their tumbledown places, and just
vegetate with the cows and goats."
Madame Nicholas was rising to go. She took an affectionate leave of the
Countess, then turned to Adrienne, asking her the next day to come with
her aunt "pour passer l'après midi avec moi."
And Adrienne, after a quick glance towards her aunt, accepted the
invitation with her pretty grace.
Before Madame Nicholas had passed out of hearing, Madame Bouverie's
shrill voice made itself heard:
"Now, Madame, we can be happy together; I have something good and
confidential to tell you. My husband is following me to bring you the
good news. Is your niece in your confidence, may I ask? She looks so
sweet and sympathetic I am sure she must be."
Adrienne had made a movement as if she were going to leave her aunt
alone with her visitor, but the Countess signed to her to remain.
CHAPTER VII
THE LOSS OF AN HEIRLOOM
THE poor Countess was now ill at ease; she reminded Adrienne of a mouse
under the fascination of the playful taps of a cat's paws.
Then Madame Bouverie proceeded to give her good news:
"A rich American, a client of my husband's, is anxious to give his
daughter, an only child, a little souvenir of his visit to Orleans.
He wants something antique, historic, with perhaps a little romance
attaching to it. He does not mind how much he gives, and we thought,
dear friend, of your great need, and cast our mind on your many
treasures. Suddenly I bethought myself of your beautiful watch set in
diamonds—the enamel one given to your family by Queen Marie Antoinette.
It is a rare chance; you will never have such another."
The Countess straightened herself in her chair:
"But, Madame," she said stiffly, "I told you that was an heirloom, not
to be taken out of the family. I have no desire, no power to sell that.
I told you so when you wished yourself to buy it from me."
"Oh, dear Madame, you have the power. Who can prevent you? Not your
stepson? To me he seems an amiable young man quite absorbed in his
farm, and indifferent to you and your Château. Well, well—I see my
husband coming up the drive, he will talk to you about it. It will
smooth out all your difficulties if you consent to part with it. Now,
Mademoiselle, shall we take a little walk together round the garden,
and leave these two to talk over business matters?"
Monsieur Bouverie had arrived. Adrienne was prepared to dislike him,
but as his dark, piercing eyes met hers, she felt a slight shiver down
her spine.
He reminded her of a snake's head lifted to strike. Though a smile
was upon his lips, unhidden under his very slight dark moustache, his
eyes seemed to hold both malice and power in them. He bowed as he was
introduced to her, but his eyes lingered—Adrienne felt he was asking
himself this question:
"Will this girl help me or hinder me?"
And she suddenly resolved there and then that, with all her might, she
would fight against him.
She felt herself drawn away by his wife. She had no trouble in talking
to her, for Madame Bouverie held the conversation in her own hands,
and Adrienne found herself listening, with an occasional assent or
exclamation.
"My poor husband! He is so devoted to your aunt's interests, and it is
so sad about her circumstances! No money to keep up the Château, and
the repairs and expenses of the property eating her out of house and
home! If it had not been for my husband, long, long ago the Château
would have been in the market to sell. He is so clever, so generous to
his clients, and he has such an affection for the family, that he would
sacrifice himself in their service.
"Do you know the young Count? So different to his father. Such a
silent, uncouth creature—so little to say! Of course, he likewise has
no money; he seems unable to relieve your aunt. She is such a dear,
helpless, irresponsible creature! She always has been. My husband puts
into her hand money that he has scraped together with the greatest
difficulty, rents from the tenants, sums by sales of timber and
pasture, and by his economy in every direction. It would last most
people quite a long time, but dear little Madame lets it flutter here,
there, and everywhere; she is always in debt, but nothing deters her
from buying. Has she shown you her wardrobe of Paris gowns? All too
grand for this poor village, but kept for her time in Orleans. And when
my husband comes next time, the money is all gone! And the poor lady
wringing her hands in despair!
"But we will not fill your young head with such dismal talk. I wonder
now if you could take me into the Château. I do so enjoy looking at the
pictures in the upper corridor."
Adrienne accordingly piloted her into the house. As she went upstairs,
she pointed out to Adrienne improvements that might be made.
"I should have a fountain and marble floor in the entrance hall, and
red felt carpet down this cold stone staircase. Ah well! Perhaps one
day this old Château will fall into the hands of those who can spend
upon it! It will be a happy thing for us when that occurs."
She was darting from side to side of the corridor by this time, looking
at the old cabinets, touching the velvet hanging to the windows, then
she paused beneath the portrait of a former Count de Beaudessert in
hunting dress with a falcon on his hand.
"Oh!" she said. "An artist who was staying here long ago told my
husband that this picture was worth a fortune. It is one of Van Dyck's.
Rather like the present Count, is it not?"
Adrienne glanced up at the handsome broad-shouldered man smiling down
upon them with lordly condescension.
"No, I don't think it is at all like Cousin Guy," she said. "He is
simpler, straighter, and not such a society man as this Count must have
been."
"Oh, you funny girl! I quite agree that the Count is not a society man.
Well, well, I must go! I am glad to have had a look at him again. I
dote upon good pictures; but then, though I do not paint myself, I am
an artist by nature."
As they were retracing their steps, they met the Countess coming
hastily out of her boudoir. She looked surprised at seeing them,
and Adrienne explained matters, but her aunt said nothing. She was
evidently uneasy and frightened.
Madame Bouverie occupied Adrienne's time and attention, till her
husband had finished his talk with Madame, and then they both took
their leave and rolled away in their car, Madame Bouverie with pleased
elation in her eyes. Adrienne guessed, without her aunt telling her,
that the valuable old watch had changed its owner. Of course she was
told all about it very soon, and the Countess cried like a child.
"It is no good, my chérie," she said, "what can I do? The bailiffs will
be in possession unless I pay some of my bills. This watch will bring
me a nice little sum. Two hundred and fifty pounds in English money is
not to be despised."
"Have you got the money?" Adrienne could not refrain from asking.
"Oh, no, no, but in a few days I shall receive it. My dear, I think
we could take the car to Orleans and do a little shopping. I want to
call at my flat, and you would like to see the old town, would you
not? We will give ourselves some pleasure. A little ready money is so
acceptable in these bad times."
"I wish you need not have parted with the watch," said Adrienne.
"Yes, I refused absolutely at first, but somehow Monsieur Bouverie
always persuades me against my will. When he is looking at me and
talking in his pleasant, smiling way, I feel absolutely in his power.
And he does reason things out so. And it is very true that Guy does
not care about these things, and as Monsieur Bouverie says—for whom
am I keeping them? When I die, they will be sold in a sale for mere
bagatelles!"
Adrienne was silent; she felt that things were going wrong, but that
she was unable to right them. And she had a longing desire that her
cousin might know about this latest exploit of Monsieur Bouverie's.
She was not surprised in a few days' time, when she came into her
aunt's room, to find her once more in tears.
"Oh, my dear, such a disappointment! Monsieur Bouverie has only sent me
a hundred francs for that watch!"
"What a villain he must be!" ejaculated Adrienne.
"No, no, he has explained it all. It appears that the big account for
repairing one of our small farms was overlooked. I certainly thought
I had paid it; but my memory is not good, and I forget so. And the
builder is pressing for the money, and Monsieur Bouverie has settled
it up, and this hundred francs is the balance left. Of course, he
congratulates me upon having this heavy bill settled, but I really had
forgotten its existence; and it seems that I have lost my watch, and
am no richer than I was. I fear our little visit to Orleans must be
given up, unless—well—I will speak to Guy about it. He dines here this
evening. Oh, what a miserable thing it is to be so poor!"
"Never mind Aunt Cecily. I am quite happy here. I don't want to go to
Orleans. I love the country at this time of year."
"But not if it rains, as it is doing now," said her aunt, looking out
at the rain which was driving against the windows; "it has kept us in
now three days, and prevented us from going to Madame Nicholas."
"We'll have a game of 'Colorado' together," said Adrienne cheerfully.
She was an adept at games from "Chess" to "Snap." She had even tried
to entice her aunt into the billiard-room, which was an unused, dreary
apartment, but this the Countess had firmly declined to enter. She did
not mind an occasional game of any sort, but "Bridge" was her hobby,
and she could not very often get the requisite number for it.
Adrienne's sunny temper and habitual cheerfulness was having a good
effect upon her; she was altering her sedentary life, and was really
taking an interest in the garden. Adrienne was making many improvements
to the flower part of it, digging and weeding and planting; and the
Countess looked on at first with some amusement, and then with dawning
interest.
The days did not seem so long now with this bright young niece, and it
was only after a visit from the notary, that she was plunged into tears
and depression.
Upon this particular evening they had a very bright dinner table.
Adrienne began telling her aunt about her Uncle Tom's aversions to wet
days, and the guiles and wiles with which she beset him to keep him
happy. Guy was reminiscent too, and his experiences in an old Indian
bungalow during the monsoon made Adrienne very merry.
When they adjourned to the salon they gathered round the wood fire, and
then the Countess said to her stepson:
"I want Adrienne to see Orleans; she would like to see it too. Only for
a few days; don't you think it could be managed? We ought to let her
see something of our country. Of course it is a question of expense—but
it would not cost much for a short time."
"I think we can manage it," said Guy, smiling across at Adrienne.
The girl's cheeks flushed.
"Oh, no," she cried, "I am content with this, Aunt Cecily. I will not
put you to any extra expense. It would make me miserable."
"Not at all," said Guy cheerfully; "your aunt has plenty of ready money
at present. It is a good opportunity."
The Countess looked at him with startled eyes:
"What do you mean?" she said falteringly. "You are quite mistaken."
"What?" he said, and his voice was a little stern. "Did you give away
our watch, ma mère? I can hardly believe that much."
The Countess's hands trembled. She fidgeted with her watch-chain, then
looked across at Adrienne reproachfully.
Adrienne spoke at once:
"I have never told him, Aunt Cecily. Believe me, I have not. I think he
must be a wizard."
"It is a pity, ma mère, you do not take me a little more into your
confidence, for I could assuredly prevent a good deal of robbery going
on. Now will you kindly tell me how much you received for that, one of
our most precious heirlooms?"
The Countess's ready tears rose to her eyes.
"Tell him all, Adrienne. I cannot. I am always in the position of a
convicted naughty child."
So Adrienne, with her frank, sweet eyes fixed on Guy's imperturbable
face, gave a short account of the shabby transaction.
And when she had finished, the Countess sobbed out:
"A hundred francs, only a hundred francs!" Guy produced a notebook and
pencil from his pocket in a business-like manner.
"Have you the receipt from this builder which Monsieur Bouverie has
paid?" he asked the Countess.
She shook her head.
"He keeps the bills; he does all my accounts, Guy: I have told you so,
again and again."
"Do you know if it is La Firmant Farm which he mentioned?"
"Yes."
Guy dotted it down and replaced his notebook in his pocket.
Then he gave a little smile.
"I walked into Bouverie's study to-day. It opens into their salon, as
you know. He kept me waiting, and I just happened to glance up at the
sun shining in there, and it caught the diamonds. The watch has already
been hung up above the fireplace in a place of honour. I can fancy what
a pleasure it is to Madame Bouverie."
"But," cried the Countess, "it was an American who bought it. Don't
tell me that Madame Bouverie is keeping it for herself?"
"She has got it for a hundred francs," said Guy gravely; "I do not
think, ma mère, that it is good to give away our heirlooms in such a
manner."
"What abominable thieves!" cried Adrienne. "Oh, Cousin Guy, I hope you
are going to get it back."
He shook his head.
"I never interfere with your aunt's proceedings. If I did, it would
only return again to the Bouveries later on."
There was a dead silence.
The poor Countess was white with horror and agitation.
"To think that he should have dared to deceive me so! And she, she
has robbed me! I could bear anything rather than this! Don't look at
me like that, Guy! I didn't want to part with it, but you will never
understand how hard pressed I am."
"I think I could, if you were to tell me," suggested Guy quietly.
But the Countess began to sob bitterly, and Adrienne knew that nothing
would induce her to be perfectly frank with her stepson.
At last she was so overcome with anger and misery that she said she
would retire to bed.
Adrienne accompanied her, and when she had helped her with her toilette
and seen her comfortably in bed, she went back to the salon for a book
which she had left there. To her surprise she found Guy still sitting
by the fire, apparently lost in thought. He looked up when she came in,
then got up from his chair.
"Well, I must be going. Your pauvre tante," he said with a tender note
in his tone. "She is her own worst enemy, did she but know it."
"Oh," said Adrienne passionately, "we must do something, Cousin Guy.
You seem half asleep, quite indifferent to the frauds of this wicked
little man. I'd like to tell you something, but I have promised not.
Aunt Cecily must be freed somehow from his clutches."
"I again repeat that you can tell me little that I do not know. I
suppose you are alluding to the mortgage he holds of this place, and of
his resolve to foreclose as soon as possible."
"You know, then? How did you discover it? You are quite wonderful."
Guy very slowly and deliberately drew out a pocketbook from his coat
pocket.
"Here," he said, "are about twenty pages of his frauds, as you call
them. I have them all verified. I have spared no trouble or time in the
doing of it. The watch is the last item."
"But oh, if you know, can't you relieve Aunt Cecily's mind? Is there no
way of paying up the mortgage?"
"Your aunt is what we may term difficile. Were I to pay off the
mortgage to-day, and settle all her debts, she'd have a glorious time
of contracting new ones, and of borrowing on the security of the
Château afresh to-morrow. I honestly think that no one in this wide
world could keep her out of debt. She's made that way. She can't help
it."
"It seems awful to me. Her brothers would be horrified. Poor Aunt
Cecily. I do feel so sorry for her. Are you going to let the Château
slip away from her?"
"Ah! That requires consideration. Sometimes I think it would be best,
for she would then settle down in her town flat and have no notary
plaguing her life out."
"But that would be allowing the wicked to prosper on stolen gains!"
said Adrienne passionately. "And if you won't stop him, I will. I feel
inclined to go off to his house at once, and confront Madame Bouverie.
She said in my presence that the watch was for an American. I suppose
that that bill for the farm had been already paid?"
Guy turned over the pages.
"At all events he had the money to settle it, as long ago as last
November. I have the date and the amount."
"But you mean to bring him to account, surely?"
"Yes, sooner or later I think I shall."
Then he smiled at her.
"Justice is always slow," he said; "don't be impatient. I have learnt
that to make haste means mistakes, and mistakes spell failure."
Then Adrienne smiled up at him. Relief and a sense of confidence in him
crept into her heart.
"Good night," she said; "now I shan't have a flutter of despondency or
fear for Aunt Cecily's future."
She left the room, and slept peacefully that night.
Her aunt was also sleeping from sheer exhaustion.
Guy was the only one who till the small hours of the night was pacing
his room in the farm.
But strangely enough his thoughts were not centred upon his stepmother
nor upon her business affairs, but wholly and entirely upon Adrienne.
CHAPTER VIII
LITTLE AGATHA
ADRIENNE was taking a walk through the village. Guy had gone to Paris
for a few days on business. The Countess was in the deepest depths of
despondency. Adrienne found it quite impossible to cheer her up; she
refused to leave her room, said she was ill, and her favourite doctor
was in attendance upon her.
Adrienne had interviewed him before she started for her walk.
"No, Mademoiselle," he assured her in fluent French; "there is nothing
serious in your aunt's indisposition, except that at no time is her
heart very strong, and she seems to be agitating herself unnecessarily
over trifles; her mind is acting upon her body, and she cannot sleep.
I have given her a sedative, and told her to rest for a few days, and
then you will see her up and about again."
So Adrienne, feeling that she herself needed both air and exercise,
had come away from the Château. The fresh breeze blowing down from the
hills fanned her cheeks, and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She began
going over in her mind the events of the last few days. Guy had come to
wish his aunt good-bye before he departed for Paris. She had alluded
again to the old watch.
"Can't you get it back for me?" she had asked Guy fretfully, and he had
made answer:
"Ma mère, it is easy to throw pebbles into the sea; it is difficult
to fish them up again. I would suggest that you throw away no more
pebbles."
Then fixing her with his eye almost sternly, he had said:
"You have lost a good many things out of the Château. And it is your
own concern; but you have lost more than you have gained. There is one
heirloom that I must beg you do not meddle with. And that is Van Dyck's
portrait of my great-grandfather. That belongs to me, as you know. I
have an affection for it, and I will not have it grace the salon walls
in Monsieur Bouverie's house!"
"You are very unkind," the Countess had sobbed, and she had parted with
her stepson in an injured state of mind.
He had hardly left the village before the little notary arrived for a
"business interview."
This had been a very long one, and so far, Adrienne had not been given
any particulars of what had transpired in it.
The Countess had taken to her bed immediately afterwards, and though
Adrienne had waited upon her most assiduously, she would no longer
confide in her; only lay in bed propped up on satin cushions in the
daintiest of boudoir caps and tea jackets, declaring that life was over
for her, and that death would be welcome at any moment.
"I'm afraid," Adrienne acknowledged to herself, "that I am not equal
to the emergency. And the task of keeping Aunt Cecily's spirits up is
too much for my own. I don't believe anyone in the world could make her
happy!"
As she mused in this despondent way, she happened to glance up, and she
saw she was passing the little white house on the knoll outside the
village.
A sudden impulse seized her.
"I will go and see this little Agatha, who seems to be a kind of modern
saint. I dare say she may drive away my dumps."
So she made her way to the whitewashed cottage with the green shutters,
and opened the little green wooden gate which led into a very pretty
flower garden. Here she found Marie Berthod, a woman with a round,
smiling face. She was seated just outside the door with a bowl in her
lap, preparing vegetables for the midday pottage, but she welcomed
Adrienne at once.
"You will be the English demoiselle at the Château. We have watched you
ride past in the early hours. Come in. I will take you to my little
sister. We wondered if we should have the pleasure of a visit from you."
She took her straight into a tidy little kitchen; and from thence into
another room leading out of it. In this room was a big couch by the
open window.
Adrienne's first impression was of great purity, great restfulness, and
great peace. The room was whitewashed. All the furniture, which was of
the simplest description, was painted white. Two big pictures hung on
the opposite walls. One of Christ as a tiny boy upon His mother's knee;
two other children gambolling on the grass at His feet were holding
out flowers which they had plucked. His tiny hands were outstretched
to take, but also they seemed in the act of blessing them. It was a
wonderfully beautiful picture, and when Adrienne looked at it later,
she was lost in admiration.
The other picture was of Christ weeping over Jerusalem; the city down
below and the walls and pinnacles of the temple were touched with the
golden rays of the setting sun. His Figure was in the shadow of a tree
above Him, but just one ray of sun was shining upon His Face, and the
tender love and longing in His Eyes was depicted by a masterly brush.
Underneath was written just these words:
"Et vous ne voulez pas!"
But for the moment Adrienne did not notice these pictures. Her eyes
were upon the couch, and upon little Agatha.
She lay there, a tiny childlike figure, clad in a white woollen gown.
Her bright brown hair was twisted like a coronet round her small head.
Her face was very pale; she had delicate features, but determined chin,
a broad brow and immense dark blue eyes fringed with black lashes. It
was her eyes that held and dominated the froward, that melted into
tenderness the most obdurate and hardened, that glowed always with a
burning fervour. Her lips were sensitive and sweet. Her hands were
clasped round a brown leather book with brass edges, and when Adrienne
entered, she was gazing out of her open window to the grassy pasture
land in front of her. On a small table by her side was a big bowl of
wild flowers.
"Here is Mademoiselle, Agatha, come to see us at last," said Marie in
her cheery tone; then, drawing a wooden chair close to the couch, she
offered it to Adrienne, and left the room.
[Illustration: "Here is Mademoiselle, Agatha, come to see us at last,"
said Marie in her cheery tone.
_Adrienne]_ _[Chapter VIII]_
Adrienne bent over the invalid, who took hold of both her hands, and
held them silently in hers, whilst her great eyes regarded her with
grave tenderness.
"Ah," she said in a very sweet voice, "you must forgive me for my
eagerness. I always want to see people's souls."
"But can you?" asked Adrienne with a smile, meeting Agatha's intent
gaze with great equanimity.
"Not always, not entirely; but I see further in than most people do.
It makes me understand them so much better; it gives me knowledge and
sympathy."
Then she let Adrienne's hands slip out of her grasp.
As she held her, Adrienne had a strange feeling, as if an electric
current were running into her from the gentle tenacious grip of those
little white hands.
When she seated herself she said:
"I would like to know how far you see through me."
Agatha looked at her with a smile and a flash of her eyes.
"Ah, you are young, you are happy, you have never suffered on your own
account; and you do not much like suffering on the account of others.
You are very willing, is it not so? But after a time the goodwill and
patience wear thin."
"I think you are a fortune-teller," said Adrienne with a little laugh;
but she felt uncomfortable, as she was distinctly conscious that day
that she was already beginning to be tired and fretted with her aunt's
continual depression and discontent.
For a moment there was silence. Agatha was gazing out again, up into
the blue sky and her lips were moving, though she did not speak.
Adrienne had an instinct that she was praying.
Then the small hand was laid caressingly on her arm. "And how much do
you know of our Father?"
Adrienne gazed at her at first uncomprehendingly, then the colour
mounted to her cheeks.
"You mean," she said with embarrassment, "God. I believe in Him, of
course."
"Where is the dear Lord in your life?" questioned Agatha. "Outside? Far
away. Up yonder in Heaven, or inside and close? Inside the heart which
He has made and bought back for Himself?"
"Oh," murmured Adrienne, "you are probing too deeply, too quickly may I
say. I hardly know how to answer you."
"But you will answer me later on, when you come again; you will think,
and use all the thinking powers that the Good God has given you."
Adrienne bowed her head, and felt the tears rise to her eyes. In two
minutes this small sick girl had filled her soul with tumult and
confusion. Never had anyone come to such close quarters with her.
Godfrey had often talked to her on serious topics, but he had always
taken it for granted that she with him had the highest ideals and
purposes within her.
Little Agatha seemed quite unaware of having said anything unusual; she
lay back on her cushions with a radiant smile upon her face.
As Adrienne glanced at her, she was almost startled at the radiance
in her eyes. She had all the joyousness of a child, combined with the
deep, glowing joy of an adult.
"You look so happy!" she could not help saying.
"And am I not? How could I fail to be?" responded little Agatha
quickly. "Don't you know that we Christians must be—we cannot help
ourselves—the very happiest creatures in God's creation?"
"But you," faltered Adrienne—"you lie here, year in, and year out,
don't you? You never have any change of scene?"
"No change, Mademoiselle?"
Agatha waved her hand outside:
"Have you ever thought of it? The Good God has no duplicates. He never
makes two leaves, or blades of grass, no insect, bird, or animal alike!
No human being, and each with a different soul. How then should His
days be similar? I look at the sky and find fresh beauty every fresh
day, and I see visitors—oh, so many—and all with different lives and
difficulties and joys. To-day will be a fresh joy to me. I have made
acquaintance with you, and all day after you leave me, I will be
thinking of you and talking to my Father about you."
Adrienne was touched.
"'This is the day which the Lord has made,'" went on Agatha, "'we will
rejoice and be glad in it!' Every morning I say that to myself. And if
we have clouds, and sweeping storms, they come from Him; and if this
sweet, sweet sunshine, then also it belongs to Him. And when we have
God's sunshine in our hearts, nothing in the world can touch us, or
bring anything evil to our souls."
"I suppose," said Adrienne, looking at her a trifle wistfully, "that
you have been good all your life, that praying and reading the Bible
comes natural to you."
"I never pray," said Agatha serenely.
Adrienne stared at her.
"To pray is to beg, to beseech. There is no need to do that. I talk,
ah!—I talk to my Father all the day long. I never want anything for
myself; does not David say, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not
want'? And when I want for others, I tell my Father, and leave it to
Him."
Adrienne was silent, and then suddenly through the open window she saw
a peasant woman with her apron up to her eyes crying loudly. Marie had
gone down the garden path to meet her, and with a backward sign at
Agatha's window tried to hush her.
"No," cried the woman, wringing her hands; "it is little Agatha I want!
Ah me! What a loss! What a black trouble! How shall we live without
her! What can we do? What will become of us?"
Adrienne got up to go.
"I will come another day," she said. "Here is someone in trouble, who
wants you. If sounds as if someone is dead."
And almost before the words were out of her mouth, in came the weeping
woman who had flung away Marie's restraining arm. She cast herself down
on her knees by Agatha's couch.
"Ah, little Agatha, here is black trouble and disaster for us all!"
Adrienne slipped out of the room. Marie drew her out into the garden.
"It is always so," she said; "they come and come all the day. I am
sorry, Mademoiselle, but you will come again. We have talked much of
you."
"Of course I will come. I shall like to. That poor woman has lost
someone dear to her, I suppose?"
"Her cow. It is a great loss. She is a widow and has five children. We
will tell the Curé. Madame, your dear aunt is so generous. She will
send relief at once. Lately she has helped the village so much. And
though, if I may say it, we hear she is so poor, there is always money
for the poor and distressed. May Heaven bless her!"
This did not sound like the Countess, and Adrienne felt puzzled.
"Does not your sister get tired with so many visitors?"
"It is her life. She is like a mountain spring, always giving, giving,
and refreshing those around her. They all come to her, some with sins
on their consciences; those she brings to repentance and then sends
to the Curé. But between ourselves, Mademoiselle, she brings them to
the feet of the Blessed Saviour first. We have a great many come up
our garden path; look how worn the stones are. But I—though I'm only a
commonplace woman—I have visitors too. Our Father, Mademoiselle, was a
chemist and herbalist, and he was much thought of here. We hardly ever
needed a doctor, he knew so much, and he taught me, and left me two
valuable medicines. A spring tonic which all the village use in spring,
and a cure for rheumatism which is one great foe when we get old and
feeble. Perhaps not in every case a cure, but it eases and drives away
the pain. They come to me for medicine for their bodies, but to Agatha
for healing for their souls."
"What a lot of good you must do!" said Adrienne. "And as for your sweet
little sister, she is an angel, she thrills me through when she speaks.
She's so intense and real and true!"
"Ah, Mademoiselle, I dare not begin to talk of her, or of what she
has done and is doing in the village here. The Curé himself loves and
reverences her, he says she has taught him many things, and that in our
religion Mademoiselle is something supernatural, for our priests, you
know, are the guardians of our souls."
Adrienne had reached the gate. She felt reluctant to leave, but as she
walked home her thoughts were busy. First, with her aunt, then with
little Agatha, lastly with herself. For the rest of that day the sweet
voice rang in her ears:
"Where is the dear Lord in your life? Far away; or inside and close?"
The following day her aunt seemed much better in herself, and in the
afternoon she asked Adrienne to take a note to Madame Nicholas for her.
"Do not leave it with anyone. Put it into her hands yourself, and if
she is not at home, bring it back to me."
Then Adrienne understood. A few days before, her aunt and she had spent
a long afternoon with Madame Nicholas in her beautiful garden. Relays
of fruit, cakes, syrups and cooling drinks were served, and there were
two tables of Bridge players under the trees. The Countess joined one
of these groups. It was after this visit that she became so depressed
and retired to bed.
Adrienne guessed that she had lost money over the game, and this note
was enclosing the amount due for her debts. She wondered how she had
got it, and found herself involuntarily casting her eyes round the
Château to see if any of its treasures were missing. She could not
discover any blank space on walls or tables. And then on the impulse of
the moment she told her aunt about the loss of the peasant woman's cow.
"I thought it was a child she had lost; but I suppose their cows are as
precious to them as their children."
The Countess seemed supremely indifferent to the story.
"They are always crying over something or other—these peasants—it is
either a bad harvest, or a pig lost, or some epidemic carries off their
fowls."
"I was wondering if we could help her at all?"
"Help her! My dear child, I can't help them in my state of poverty. I
never heard of such a thing! I've forbidden the Curé to come to me any
more with his begging appeals. Now don't lose any more time, but take
my note at once."
Adrienne set out for her walk. Her way lay through the woods, and the
fresh green loveliness around her, the sheets of bluebells on grassy
slopes, and the young bracken, uncurling under her feet, delighted and
refreshed her.
Through the woods, across two flowery meadows, and then into the
winding lanes she went, finally reaching her destination just as a
car of smart people was coming through the gates. Madame Nicholas was
one of them. She stopped the car and apologized to Adrienne for not
welcoming her to the house.
"We are just off to a friend's place near Orleans."
Adrienne gave her her aunt's note, and saw a gleam of content in Madame
Nicholas's eyes.
Then, after the car had left her, she determined to pursue her way
farther. She was fond of walking and loved exploring the country. She
soon got out of the lane, crossed a steep bit of wild moorland, and
then climbed up a green hill.
Suddenly down the steep path came a girl in rough tweed coat and skirt.
She was considerably older than Adrienne, and had the unmistakable air
of an Englishwoman. But on her face, which was a strikingly handsome
one, was an expression of agitation and alarm.
Directly she saw Adrienne she spoke. Her French was fluent.
"Oh, do you know where a doctor lives? I must have one at once. Is
there one in the next village? I don't know my way about at all."
"There is one five miles the other side of our village," said Adrienne
promptly; "but we're about two miles from this."
If the girl had been French, she would have wrung her hands. As it was
she looked at Adrienne in blank dismay.
"What can I do? I have left my brother alone. He has cut his arm
seriously, and I cannot stop the bleeding."
Adrienne was noted for her presence of mind. It did not fail her now.
She spoke in English, and the girl's face brightened when she heard the
familiar tongue.
"You must go back to him, and tie a bandage tight above the wound. Hold
it with your fingers if you cannot make a tourniquet. I'll get back as
quick as I can, and get my horse. I can ride the five or six miles in
no time. May I have your name and address?"
"It is Preston! We live in a cottage away from everyone. It's called
'L'Eglantine,' at the top of Le Sourge, tell him. Thank you. I will do
as you say."
She turned, and Adrienne saw her running lightly and swiftly up the
narrow path that wound in zig-zag fashion up the hill.
Adrienne began to run too. She was breathless and exhausted by the time
she reached the Château. But as she was nearing the stables a message
was brought to her by Pierre:
"Madame would see you at once, Mademoiselle."
Adrienne directed Gaston to saddle Sultan, then she ran up to her
aunt's room, and told her where she was going.
"But what nonsense," said the Countess; "I have been waiting for you
to look at my old black lace dress with a view to altering it. You
can't be at the beck and call of every stranger. Let them manage for
themselves."
"I couldn't refuse to get help; but if you will let Gaston ride instead
of me, I will not go."
"Gaston certainly will not go, nor any of my servants."
Her aunt spoke angrily, and for once Adrienne lost her temper.
"It's a question of life or death," she said; "I can't think how you
can be so inhuman, Aunt Cecily!"
Then she left the bedroom, and flew downstairs again.
In three minutes' time, she was galloping down the avenue and on the
road towards the doctor's house. She was fortunate to find him at home.
He promptly got out his car and was on his way with little loss of time.
Adrienne cantered back to the Château more leisurely than she had
come, but she was not surprised to meet with a curt reception by her
aunt, who for the rest of the day treated her like a naughty child and
preserved a frigid silence till bedtime. Then Adrienne apologized for
her hasty words, and was forgiven.
But when she was alone in her room she said to herself:
"I cannot understand Aunt Cecily being so good and generous to the
villagers, when to me she appears the most selfish and unsympathetic
woman that ever lived! There must be a mistake somewhere."
CHAPTER IX
A CONTEST OF WILLS
ADRIENNE thought a great deal about the English girl and her brother
during the next few days. She would have liked to call and make
inquiries, but her aunt made incessant demands on her time and
attention, and when she mentioned them said rather haughtily:
"My dear Adrienne, I am not in the habit of knowing English tourists;
they come and go. We have a lot of artists in this neighbourhood, and
as a rule they are not in our class of life. I beg of you to put these
people out of your thoughts. You went out of your way to help them, and
that's an end of it."
But there was a certain streak of obstinacy in Adrienne's nature; she
had been unaccustomed to control or surveillance. In her uncles' house
she was mistress, and there was something in that English girl's face
and bearing that made her want to know her. So she bided her time.
In the meanwhile she made the acquaintance of the Curé. He came up
one morning to ask when the Count would return. As Adrienne was upon
the terrace when he arrived, she spoke to him, and told him that they
expected the Count back the end of the week. He looked relieved, and
then Adrienne asked if there was anything that her aunt could do.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"She could, but I fear she will not. It is only the sad case of a widow
with children who has lost her only means of subsistence."
"Ah," said Adrienne with interest, "I know all about her; and now
I begin to understand, it is my cousin Guy who is the peasants'
benefactor and not my aunt. Why do they think all their help comes from
her?"
The Curd looked uncomfortable, then he said:
"It is his wish; he does it for his father's sake, he does not want the
Château to have a bad name. And he also does it for his own sake. He is
a very kindhearted man, the Count, though he hides it under a cloak of
reserve."
"I will tell him about the widow and her cow directly he comes back,"
said Adrienne; "I heard about it when I was with little Agatha."
The priest's round, cheerful face became quite radiant.
"You have made acquaintance with her, our little Agatha? She is well
worth the knowing. One of the Good God's saints. She lives always on
His Threshold."
He departed, and Adrienne wisely kept the purpose of his visit a secret
from her aunt.
Two days later the Count returned. He surprised Adrienne in the act of
gathering roses in the garden just before she went to her aunt's room
for tea.
Adrienne felt a sudden joy course through her veins as she saw him. She
knew then how much she had missed him.
"Well," he said to her, "how have things been going? Madame ma mère,
how is she?"
"Pretty well. She had an attack of—of what I think is nerves and
depression and went to bed, but she is better again now. Before I
forget, the Curé called upon you about a villager in distress. Her cow
has died. It is Jeanne Couiller."
"Why don't these peasants insure their cows?" he said a trifle
impatiently.
But he took his notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something into
it.
Adrienne looked at him, and glancing up he met her gaze.
"A penny for your thoughts," he said lightly.
"Why don't you take credit for what you do?" she asked him. "It is not
fair to credit Aunt Cecily with your good deeds."
He frowned.
"I don't like any criticism on what I do or say," he said rather coldly.
"I won't apologize for criticizing you," said Adrienne with her sunny
laugh; "because if I am cowed by Aunt Cecily, I am not going to be
cowed and browbeaten by you. She is weak and unhappy, you are strong.
It is the weak who tyrannize. I have seen little Agatha, and I think
she's perfectly charming. I had a very short visit, but I mean to go
again."
She could not but notice that whenever Agatha's name was mentioned, it
evoked a smile from people's faces.
Guy's rather stern countenance softened at once.
"That's good to hear," he said. "And now I must see ma mère."
The Countess brightened up, as she always did when her stepson
appeared. It was a warm afternoon, and they had tea on the terrace and
were quite a cheerful little party.
But Adrienne fancied that, in spite of cheerful words, Guy was
abstracted and absent in manner. He did not stay very long, pleading a
lot of business which awaited his return. And when he went, it needed
all her ingenuity to keep her aunt contented.
"He is getting more and more unsociable. He comes round much less since
you have been out here."
"Of course he does," Adrienne assented cheerfully; "for he knows you
are not left alone."
"But you are becoming so dull, you have so little to say."
Adrienne could not help laughing.
"I suppose I have used up all my small talk, and there is so little to
talk about. You are not interested in the village news. I think I must
try and have some adventures when I walk out, and then I shall have
something to tell you when I come back."
"A good conversationalist needs no fresh material to talk about."
"I have not lived long enough," said Adrienne demurely, "and I have led
too quiet a life to be an interesting companion, I fear. Now if Uncle
Tom were here, he would never stop talking; he's always amusing, and
he's never at a loss."
"Oh, Tom is the fool of the family," said the Countess with disdain.
The next morning Adrienne determined to ride off and inquire for the
stranger who had met with an accident. She said nothing about it to her
aunt, and at eight o'clock was riding through the woods.
She had just reached the end of them, when she met her cousin Guy. He
was walking with a farmer, but directly he saw her, he stopped, and his
companion walked on.
"Where are you off to?" he inquired.
"To Le Sourge. There are some English people living up there, and one
of them has met with an accident. I met his sister coming down for
help, and I want to know how he is."
To her surprise, Guy's brows contracted fiercely.
"I am sorry you have run across them," he said. "I must ask you to go
no further."
"But—but—"
Adrienne looked her amazement, then she stiffened in her saddle:
"Unless you have some very good reason, I mean to go on. It is only
kind to do so."
Guy's lips snapped together like steel.
"I cannot permit you. You must take my word for it without demanding a
reason."
The colour rose in Adrienne's cheeks and the fire to her eyes. Never in
her life had she been subjected to autocratic rule.
"That I will not do," she said. "You have no right to dictate to me,
Cousin Guy. Let me pass."
His hand was on the bridle of her horse; he held the bit in an iron
grip.
"You are under my stepmother's care," he said; "and when she is unable
to exercise her authority, I shall do so if necessary."
He had turned her horse as he spoke and was leading it back through the
pathway in the woods.
For an instant Adrienne's temper rose high; she realized that if it
came to a struggle she had the advantage. And yet the fear flashed
through her that even on foot her cousin was more than a match for her.
She could not resort to her riding switch. Dignity and pride forbade
her to prolong the contest.
With an exasperated laugh she said:
"But this is absurd! You are treating me like a child. I don't want to
quarrel with you. But you are exceeding your powers—as a cousin—we are
not even properly related."
"Thank goodness, no!" he ejaculated fervently.
Again Adrienne looked her surprise.
"You needn't lose your temper," she said; "it is I who should do that.
And I have done it. I am very angry with you. I am not accustomed to
being treated in such a manner. Will you kindly take your hand off my
bridle?"
"Not until I have your word that you will abandon this visit."
"That I shall not give you, unless you give me a satisfactory reason
for doing so."
There was silence, but his hand still controlled her horse, and his
face was set like adamant.
"Cousin Guy, you are making yourself ridiculous. Do you think we're
back in the mediaeval times when men managed women with high-handed
tyranny? Do you think that your will is law? It is not to me, nor ever
will be. If you prevent me going to Le Sourge this morning, I shall do
so to-morrow, or at the first opportunity that comes. And you're only
making yourself exceedingly unpleasant, for no just cause."
Not a word or a flicker of an eyebrow. Her cousin strode on, as if she
had not spoken.
"I am seeing you in a new light," Adrienne went on; "I was beginning
to like you, and to enjoy your company. Your behaviour this morning is
quite irritating enough to stop all friendship between us."
Then Guy stopped, and looked at her.
His sternness had disappeared, and his eyes were smiling if not his
lips.
"You are an adept at tongue lashing," he said; "women always are. But
words never affect me, only deeds. When you are calm, I will speak. If
you had full confidence, instead of mere liking, you would have given
me the promise I want, for you would have known I should never have
frustrated your wishes from mere caprice or from sheer tyranny."
"I cannot obey blindly. Why should I? I am not a child."
But Adrienne's tone was no longer haughty; she was beginning to feel
ashamed of the temper she had shown.
For a moment or two, he led her horse on in silence.
Then she said suddenly:
"You can take your hand away. I won't be led along in this fashion.
I'll give up my visit—for to-day."
He dropped the bridle at once.
Adrienne whipped up her steed and cantered away from him through the
woods, never drawing rein till she reached the Château.
She felt really angry with her cousin, angrier than she had ever felt
with anyone before.
"Does he expect to shut me up in the Château with my aunt, and only
know a few of her French Bridge-playing friends? And when I get a
chance of knowing another Englishwoman, shall I not take it? What
possible concern is it of his? I wish I had gone before he returned. I
liked the look of her. And I mean to see her again. I shall walk out
to-morrow if it is fine."
But that evening Guy appeared at dinner.
Adrienne was standing at an open door in the salon humming a little
song to herself, and waiting for her aunt. She always dressed very
simply. Her white gown was almost severe in its cut, and only a cluster
of crimson roses at her breast relieved its white purity. As she stood
there, a picture of a fresh English girl in her slim grace and dignity,
with her sunny brown hair just touched with the golden rays of the sun,
Guy from the threshold of the door gazed at her with intent dreamy eyes.
And then, turning, she saw him: her little song died away on her lips,
her smile disappeared.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked, advancing into the room.
Adrienne glanced at him in cold disdain.
The entrance of her aunt saved her from the necessity of a reply.
She was very silent during dinner, and her aunt said at last to Guy:
"Well, I am thankful you are back. I've been telling Adrienne that she
is becoming dull. I suppose she's getting tired of us."
"I have had the misfortune to offend her," Guy said coolly.
Adrienne shot an indignant glance at him, but it was not her way to
sulk.
"He has been very rude to me, Aunt Cecily, and I don't want to talk
to him. I am sorry you find me so dull, but my month here is soon
coming to an end. I shall have to be going home next week. I heard
this morning from Uncle Derrick, and he wants me to fix my date for
returning."
If Adrienne had exploded a bomb, she could not have startled her aunt
more. She burst forth into a torrent of expostulations, almost French
in her excitement and agitation.
"I will not hear of it, Adrienne! You came here to be with me. Your
uncles have each other! You know I cannot be left alone. It is
preposterous! To come over here for a month! You know you could not
do it! Your home ought to be with me altogether. I have a claim upon
you. You are my only niece, you have no parents, and your home ought
to be with me and not with your uncles! I will not hear of your going!
I shall write to Derrick to-night. I will wire! He shall not take you
away! How can I be left in my present state of health? It is cruel! The
very suggestion is making me feel quite faint and unnerved. Help me
into the salon. I must lie down. No, I do not want any strawberries."
Out came her handkerchief. Adrienne looked helplessly at Guy, who rose
and offered his stepmother his arm.
"No," the Countess sobbed; "I will go to bed, I am too unwell. My heart
is bad. To spring such a thing upon me is most unkind. Guy, use your
authority; tell her she is not to go. You brought her over; make her
stay!"
"Oh, Aunt Cecily," said Adrienne, quite distressed at the commotion she
had caused, "I am sorry, but you know I only came for a month. Don't
think any more about it to-night. Let me come up and help you."
For a moment the Countess seemed as if she were going to refuse her
help, then she thought better of it; but all the way upstairs she
was upbraiding her as she leant upon her arm, with ingratitude and
selfishness.
Guy lit his pipe and paced the terrace outside, wondering if Adrienne
would come down again, or if she would ignore his presence there.
He felt a great relief when he saw her white gown in the distance. A
few minutes later she stood before him.
"My aunt has sent me to you with a message. She wants you to come over
to-morrow morning and see her about a letter she has received from a
farmer. It is about some fences that want to be renewed. They border on
his ground, and his cattle break through."
"Tell her I will be here at half-past ten."
Then he drew forward a wicker chair.
"Come and sit down. If I had not offended you, you would not have
threatened to leave your aunt. And I have come to the conclusion that
I must explain. I know these people at Le Sourge, and the man is a
wastrel and a scoundrel, and not fit for any nice girl to know."
Adrienne dropped into the chair he had placed for her.
"Having said so much, you must tell me more," she said. "It is not the
man I want to know, of course I hope for his recovery, but it is his
sister who interests me, and a woman who has a brother who is a failure
is to be pitied, not shunned."
"I don't want to go into details," said Guy a little curtly. "It is
enough that he's not a man for you to know, and I'm thankful that he's
not likely to come within your circle."
"That's too arbitrary for me," said Adrienne in a tone of hauteur.
"I don't intend to go through life edging away from everything and
everyone who is not of spotless purity. What is their story? Their name
is Preston. Have they always lived here?"
"No, he's by way of being an artist. I met them in Rome some years ago;
he was rather well known upon the Riviera before that—ran through a
fortune at Monte Carlo—and then he took up art for a living."
"His poor sister! I expect she brought him to this out-of-the-way place
to keep him out of temptation."
"Oh, money is not his temptation. We won't discuss him. I will not have
you make his acquaintance."
"But, Cousin Guy, you are not my guardian."
"I have made myself one pro tem.," he said gravely. "Your uncles would
hold me responsible if you came to any harm."
"Oh, I'm not a child."
Adrienne's tone was impatient.
"Do you think I would fall in love with him, or he with me?" she went
on. "It is his sister I want to know. She is English, and is living
here away from friends. I liked her look so; she's straight and frank
and so handsome, and such lines of trouble upon her face!"
Silence fell between them for a few minutes, then Adrienne rose from
her seat with a little sigh.
"Well, I will submit to your discretion. I won't pay them a visit. If
I were younger and rasher, I would out of mere curiosity, but I will
write a note to her. That I can do, to show a little sympathy."
Guy rose and held out his hand to her.
"Shake, as we Americans say," he said, smiling.
Adrienne smiled at him in return. His smiles were so few that she was
absolutely fascinated by them. They made him look ten years younger.
She put her hand in his.
"Don't be so masterful and peremptory another time," she said; "it
never pays with me. I'm not one of those women who admire a 'cave man.'"
"I didn't lay my hand upon you," he said.
"You laid it on my horse. I wonder—" She stopped: a dreamy look came
into her eyes. "I wonder if he knows little Agatha."
"God forbid!" said Guy hastily.
Adrienne looked at him reproachfully.
"How can you speak so! I feel she would get hold of a man's soul if
anyone could, and bring light and hope to the most desperate. You are
very inconsistent, Cousin Guy. The first time I saw you, you talked to
me about half the world easing the burdens of the other half; you put
yourself and me in the position of burden-bearers, and said I ought
to ease the burden of loneliness and unhappiness which weighs down my
aunt—"
"And I really think you are doing it," said Guy, looking at her with a
little smile about his lips.
"Please don't interrupt me, but listen to your inconsistency. What
about the sister of this man whom you condemn in such a wholesale way?
Is she never to have her burden eased? Isn't an unsatisfactory brother
whom she is hoping to reform, a very big burden for any woman to bear?
Is she never to form a friendship because of it? Is she to be boycotted
because of him?"
Guy was standing in a leaning posture, his arm resting on the old
terrace wall. He straightened himself at Adrienne's words, and looked
away over the tree-tops in silence for a few minutes.
Then he said gravely:
"That's a straight thrust, my little cousin. I must weigh my words
well, if you store them up against me in such a fashion."
"If we talk from a height," said Adrienne demurely, "we must live up
there."
Guy did not appear to hear her. His eyes were still on the distant
view, as he said very slowly:
"I suppose I care more about you than her."
Adrienne was a little startled. Her self-possession was shaken.
She said quickly and nervously:
"You cannot trust me if you think the existence or life of this unknown
man could affect me in any way. It is his sister I should like to know
and help. But I will say no more. I have given you my promise not to
visit them. If I meet her by chance anywhere alone, I shall certainly
be friendly, should she wish it. And as for my returning home, you
know I must do it sooner or later, but I have promised Aunt Cecily to
stay another fortnight or so. I will say good night. Ever since I was
a small child, I have always refused to go to bed until I was friends
again with anyone who had had a difference with me, so you and I must
forget the events of this morning."
"We will," said Guy heartily.
He held her hand in his for a moment.
"If I could tell you a certain bit of my life," he said, "you would
understand my attitude towards these people. They have only come here
lately, and they don't know of my existence here, and I don't want them
to know it. But when they do, they'll remove themselves as far from my
vicinity as possible."
Adrienne looked at him wistfully.
"And you won't explain further?"
She left him, but he paced up and down the terrace for an hour later,
with set lips and moody eyes.
CHAPTER X
A MORNING RIDE
WITHIN the next few days Adrienne paid two visits in the village, one
to little Agatha again and one to Madame Bouverie. This last one was
compulsory; for a long time she had made excuses when invitations came
to tea or to tennis, but her aunt insisted upon her accepting this one.
It was to an "English tea" in the garden.
"Madame Bouverie is angry; she says you think yourself too good for
their company, and I cannot afford to displease her, much as I loathe
her. It won't hurt you as much as it hurts me to continually receive
her when she calls."
So Adrienne went. The Bouveries lived in a villa just outside the
village. His brass plate was on the door, and his office adjoined the
street, but at the back they had a very pretty and rather pretentious
garden, with rose pergolas, fountains and masses of bright-coloured
flower beds.
The doctor's wife, some young people from Orleans, the Curé, and two
nieces from Tours who were staying in the house, formed the party.
Though they sat in the garden and played tennis, Madame Bouverie could
not resist showing Adrienne her house, which was overcrowded with
furniture and treasures of all sorts.
"It is rather full," she apologized; "but we shall be soon leaving it
for a bigger house. My husband and I have a collecting mania; we pick
up things all over the world."
If Adrienne had only known, nearly the whole of the old china, and
glass, and many pictures had come from the Château, which indeed had
proved a treasure-house to the collectors.
The conversation was entirely in French, but Adrienne was now able to
understand and take part in it. She played tennis, and made herself
as agreeable as she could to everyone. The doctor's wife was a very
talkative little soul. Adrienne felt that, as a doctor's wife, she
lacked discretion. Her husband's patients were the source of the
greatest interest to her.
"Adolphe is so busy, so popular! All the great people in the
neighbourhood call for him. The Marquise of Pompagny was 'phoning in
distraction yesterday; I could not appease her. Adolphe was with a Mr.
Preston, a countryman of yours, Mademoiselle. He is very dangerously
ill of a fever following a wound. He is not too abstemious, and it
tells, it tells when sickness comes. I promised the Marquise my husband
should come immediately he returned—I asked if it were herself or her
children, and then—imagine it—her pet Pom was indisposed, and it was
urgent—imperative that Adolphe should leave the sick Englishman, and
attend instantaneously upon the little darling! When he returned, I
gave him the message. He snorted! He rebelled, but he went post-haste,
with no bit of lunch, no rest, for we cannot afford to quarrel with the
Marquise!"
"How is Mr. Preston?" Adrienne asked as soon as she could get in a word.
"Dying, Mademoiselle, dying, my husband says. They live not very far
from this village, but he came in very delicate health, and they do not
like visitors. I went up to see them, but was not admitted. But then
they are English, so—a thousand apologies, Mademoiselle. I forget I am
speaking to an Englishwoman. Still you know some of your country people
are reserved—haughty—as is this sister of the invalid."
"I feel sorry for her," said Adrienne. "I did not know he was so ill."
"Do you know them?"
"No, I met the sister. If you remember I summoned your husband when the
accident happened."
"Ah, so you did! Strange that I should have forgotten. The accident!
Think you it was an accident? She said he was chopping wood, but my
husband says he gets fits of delirium tremens, and does damage to
himself and others. He has been an artist; but Adolphe thinks that the
sister knew, when she brought him here, that she was bringing him to
die."
Adrienne heard no more, for Madame Caillot was called away, but she
thought much of the brother and sister in their trouble, and wondered
if she could help them in any way.
When she called upon Agatha the next day, she mentioned them to her.
To her surprise she learnt that Agatha had already received a visit
from Miss Preston. It appeared that a young peasant woman who knew
Agatha well was attending upon them. And Miss Preston had been advised
to go to Marie for some cooling medicine which had a wonderful effect
in cases of fevers. When she came, Marie had brought her into the sick
girl's room.
"Mademoiselle," said Agatha in her sweet grave voice, "there is one
thing I am never permitted to do—to talk about my visitors, to tell
their troubles to others. But I will say this to you. Mademoiselle
Preston is a heavy-laden soul, and she is a brave one, though she
expends her strength needlessly. For cannot our burdens be rolled upon
the shoulders of the One who holds the world in the hollow of His hand?"
"I am sure you comforted her, Agatha."
"Nay," said Agatha, looking out of her window dreamily; "at times it
hurts to probe for the thorn. And troubles and cares harden the soul
more than pleasures, Mademoiselle."
Adrienne was silent. Presently she said:
"You have made me think, Agatha. I have passed my years very pleasantly
and easily, with just enough religion to take me to church, and to say
my daily prayers. I have done it from habit or from duty. But I have
gone no further. I worship afar off. I do not know Christ as my near
and dear Friend as you do. I don't think I ever shall be so good as
that."
Agatha turned to her with her radiant smile. "It is not the good ones
that our Lord covets for His Friends. It is the lowly and contrite
heart that is His chosen habitation. You are losing happiness, that is
all I can say. Happiness that stays, and deepens, and never dims."
"I should like to know Him like that," was Adrienne's wistful reply.
"You will, dear Mademoiselle. Just a quiet talk with Him about the big
need in your life, the union with Him. He died to join earth to heaven,
the sinner to his Saviour."
She said little more. Agatha's words were always few, that was why they
were remembered. But when Adrienne got up to go, she said:
"I expect you to come to me next time with your happy soul shining
through your eyes. May I say, I expect to see signs of our dear Lord's
presence within!"
"Oh, Agatha, I'm cold and far away, but I'm reading my Bible. I should
like to get nearer if I could."
And as she went home, a deep and earnest resolve took root within her,
that her religion should no longer be a mere respectable cloak, but a
deep and living reality within her soul.
A day or two after this visit, the Count came over to see his
stepmother on business. He appeared at five o'clock. It was a lovely
afternoon in June, and Adrienne and her aunt were taking tea on the
terrace, outside. The Countess was in one of her brighter moods. She
was expecting the quarterly sum of money that Guy brought her from his
farm accounts, and money to her represented ease and enjoyment of life.
Without it, she was abject and miserable. Adrienne, too, had heard from
her uncles that day accepting her decision to prolong her stay away. In
fact they had told her that they intended to take a six weeks' cruise
to Norway, so could spare her to her aunt for that time.
The Countess told Guy this fact with a triumphant air.
"I have said again and again to Adrienne that my brothers can get on
quite well without her. The longer she stays away, the more they will
get accustomed to her absence. And the better it will be for all of
us. French air seems to suit her. Madame Pompagny remarked to me how
improved she was in looks."
"She meant that I was thinner," said Adrienne, laughing.
"Ah well, you could do with a little less flesh," said the Countess,
who prided herself upon her slimness; "and it is not comme il faut to
be thick and stout. We leave that to Madame Bouverie and her kind!"
"When are we going to have some more rides together?" asked Guy, his
eyes on Adrienne's graceful figure as she poured out tea for her aunt.
"To-morrow morning, if you like," Adrienne responded gaily; "but I am
quite accustomed now to ride about alone. You have been so much away,
and so immersed in your farm!"
"Haymaking is a busy time, but it's over now for this year. To-morrow,
then, at seven o'clock."
"So terribly early," murmured the Countess; "it reminds me of those
dreadful hunting mornings in England. I never could bear them. They say
over here that we take our pleasures sadly. Anything more spartan than
an English sportsman I hope I may never see. And I don't at all approve
of your riding about alone, Adrienne. French girls don't do it."
"No, but they know that English girls do," responded Adrienne.
It was at this juncture that Pierre appeared with a note which he
presented to the Count.
Adrienne, watching him idly, as he politely asked his stepmother's
permission to read it, was startled to see what an effect the contents
had upon him. Under the tan of his cheeks a red flush mounted. His
features contracted, his brows knit, and his lips compressed like steel.
Then he very deliberately and slowly got to his feet.
"Pierre, I'll have my mare at once," he said to the old man who stood
waiting at the door.
"What is it? Business again?" asked the Countess indifferently.
He did not reply, but strode to the door.
"Don't wait dinner for me to-night. I shan't be able to come in again.
I'll say good night to both of you."
He was gone; and Adrienne cried out impulsively:
"He looks as if someone has challenged him to fight a duel. I hope I
shall never encounter one of those looks from him."
"Are you talking of Guy? Duels are not much in his line," said
her aunt; "I always think he is too easy in his dealing with his
fellow-creatures. Certainly with the peasants he is, and he is
strangely unsociable over here. Never makes friends with his father's
acquaintances. Dear Philippe made a great mistake by letting him be
educated in America. He was always with his mother's people. No, I
don't think he is likely to be called out by any French dueller. But
he is too reserved. Why could he not have told us frankly what was in
that note? I am not inquisitive, but in this dull hole everything is of
interest."
"I never can understand whether you like or dislike this Château," said
Adrienne.
"And I don't understand myself," said the Countess. "When the Bouveries
press me, and hint that they mean to take possession, I would give my
soul to remain here; but when the dull days come, and the monotony
depresses me, I long to run away from it, and never see it again."
"It would save you a lot of worry and care if you did that," said
Adrienne carelessly.
Then the Countess almost stormed at her, she was so angry. And having
worked herself up into a state of emotion and heroics over her darling
husband's ancestral home with all its past historic stories, she
dissolved into tears, and Adrienne had the greatest difficulty in the
world to calm her and comfort her.
Punctually at seven o'clock the next morning, Guy was waiting with the
horses.
"I wondered if you would remember," said Adrienne, when she had joined
him and they were walking their horses through the cool green glades in
the wood.
"I am not given to fail," he said shortly.
"No, but you left us in a very perturbed state of mind last night, and
I was afraid that your business might interfere with our pleasure this
morning."
He made no reply to this. He was unusually abstracted and distrait, and
after some minutes of silence, Adrienne said gaily:
"Really, Cousin Guy, if your soul is going to be miles away from me, it
will be a very dull ride with only your body for company."
He turned and looked at her.
"Perhaps you would prefer to ride alone?"
"I should prefer you to respond to me a little. Am I very demanding?"
He still did not speak, and they rode on in silence through the wood.
Then as they came out in the open, he said with a little effort:
"That artist up the hill died last night. I want you to ride with me
now to a Protestant parson who lives about eight miles away. I told his
sister I would send him to her."
"Oh, I am sorry," murmured Adrienne, not knowing quite what to say;
"I am glad you are helping her, poor thing, and I am thankful I
wrote to her when I did. She replied so kindly, but she told me that
complications had followed her brother's wound, and I heard from little
Agatha that he was practically dying. When did you hear of it?"
"He sent for me."
Adrienne understood then that the note he had received the night before
was the summons.
After a moment's silence, Guy spoke again:
"I was mistaken—he had wronged me—but he was innocent of the worst
wrong I accredited him with. He has been his own worst enemy all his
life, but he has gone now to his account. We need not judge him. You
can go and see his sister if you like. I am very thankful you can stay
on with your aunt, for I shall have to go over to America, and I may be
there for a longish time."
Adrienne felt dismay seize her.
"I am always nervous when you are away," she said. "I never know what
Mr. Bouverie may do. He haunts the Château in your absence—and Aunt
Cecily gets more and more depressed and miserable."
"I don't think her moods improve with my presence here," said Guy
gravely; "Bouverie is nearly at the end of his tether. It would be
better for all of us, if he took his last step."
"What do you mean? You don't expect him to turn her out of the Château,
do you? You would prevent that?"
"Why should I? I have given, and given and given, and money in your
aunt's hands is the same as putting it into a sieve! It runs through as
soon as it gets there."
"I don't understand either of you," Adrienne murmured.
Then she left that subject.
"Who is this Protestant parson?" she asked. "I have been longing to get
to an English—or Protestant service, and Aunt Cecily said there was
none within reach of us."
"There is a Protestant family—descendants of the historian, D'Aubignay,
who live about ten miles off. When they are here for the summer, they
engage a chaplain to come out, and have service in a small chapel in
their grounds. They have only just come into residence, or I would have
told you of it. You may like to go over on Sundays."
"I should very much. Are they nice people? Aunt Cecily has never
mentioned them to me."
"They are not her sort, but they would be delighted to have you at
their services. There are no young people. Three elderly women and
their brother. One is a widow, and it is she who has the money."
They rode on through the country lanes, and then along a straight white
road lined with poplars.
It was Adrienne's turn to be silent now; she felt that with her uncles
in Norway, and Guy in America, life might be difficult, and she had a
haunting presentiment of evil to come.
They came at length to a small village, in which Guy found the
chaplain. He was a short, pleasant-faced man, who spoke English with
the greatest ease.
Guy dismounted, but did his business on the doorstep.
Adrienne rode through the village and noted on the outskirts a Château,
standing amongst old trees. Then she came across an old lady, in a big
mushroom hat, who was talking to one of the peasants. She wondered at
seeing her out at that early hour, but from her face and voice she knew
she must come from the Château. As Adrienne passed her, she stood still
and regarded her with quiet interest. On the impulse of the moment
Adrienne spoke in her best French:
"Excuse me, Madame, but I am told that there is a Protestant Service
held near here. Should I intrude if I attend?"
"But certainly not," the old lady responded with a gracious little bow;
"our Service is open to all. We have two, every Sunday, at ten o'clock
and five."
"I should like to come to the ten o'clock one if I may. I am staying
with my aunt, Madame de Beaudessert."
"Why, of course! I saw the Count the other day, and he mentioned your
name to us. I should have called, but your aunt does not care for our
visits. I felt it my duty to leave her a little tract on the sin of
card-playing and gambling, and she resented it."
"I am sure she would," said Adrienne, smiling.
She bowed and rode back to her cousin.
He had just finished his talk with the chaplain, Mr. Marline.
As they were on their way home, Adrienne told him of her meeting with
the old lady.
"That would be Miss D'Aubignay. She is given to tract distribution; I
received one on the evils of smoking. Now I wonder what yours will be!"
"On youth and giddiness," said Adrienne, laughing; "but I don't think
giddiness is a perquisite of mine—I am generally thought a frump by
girls nowadays!"
Then she asked him when Mr. Preston's funeral would be.
He told her in two days' time, and that he would be buried in the small
Protestant burial-ground in the village they had just left.
"Could I send Miss Preston a few flowers?" Adrienne asked.
"If you like. Take them to her if you will."
He relapsed into silence, and their ride home was almost a speechless
one.
Adrienne felt she had a lot to think about, and was glad to get to the
quiet of her own room.
It was ridiculous she told herself to feel depressed because her cousin
was going to leave them, but she could not combat it until she was with
her aunt, and then she was her cheerful self again.
CHAPTER XI
A SUMMONS
GUY departed three days later. He was very uncommunicative; to
Adrienne, he seemed like a man walking in a dream. She hardly knew
her energetic cousin. Her aunt complained bitterly of his want of
confidence in her, and upbraided him with it when he came to wish her
good-bye.
"But, ma mère," he said, "this is not my life, my home; I am a bird of
passage. I have been working at the farm for a bit so as to pull it
together, and I pride myself upon having put a bit of work into Jean.
He can go on by himself now. You did not think I was always going to
sit in your pocket, did you?"
"I think you a most inconsiderate and ungrateful stepson," retorted the
Countess. "You know how I am being preyed upon, and how everyone takes
advantage of me because I have no man at my back. If this is not your
home, where is it?"
"I have no home," said Guy gravely; "I am a nomad from circumstances
and choice."
He bade her farewell, and she, as usual, dissolved into tears.
Adrienne went out to the terrace to see him off.
The car was waiting, and then, just as he was getting into it, he
turned and came back to her. There was a strange look upon his face,
half daring, half wistful.
"Little cousin," he said, "if I find I want to settle down, could we
work a home together, do you think?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Adrienne breathlessly.
"Don't you? Think about it whilst I am away. Only a woman makes a home,
and the only woman who could make me a home would be you."
Then the colour rushed into Adrienne's cheeks, and sudden anger seemed
to seize her.
"I am sorry I cannot oblige you," she said stiffly; "the contingency of
your wanting a home may never arise. It sounds from your point of view
very doubtful."
"Have you no personal liking for me?"
He put the question very gravely.
"I think you're a very baffling, mysterious person," Adrienne said,
and there was some resentment in her tone. "You won't take people into
your confidence, and you come and go with your own life locked away
from us all. I don't wonder my aunt gets impatient with you. She is on
the edge of a precipice; her home is being wrested away from her in a
most dishonest fashion, and yet you refuse to let us know whether you
mean to save it for her or not. I hate secrecy and intrigue of any
kind; you make a mystery of everything even of these Prestons. I have
been accustomed to the very reverse of this, and cannot understand you.
No, I would never link my life with one who is so I reserved, and so
complacent in his reticence."
He stood for a moment looking at her, but Adrienne would not meet his
eyes.
"I did not realize you disapproved of me so much," he said slowly; "I
am afraid you still bear me a grudge over that poor miserable Preston.
Well, you have given me my answer. Perhaps I have been foolish in being
so precipitous. Au revoir. You will stay here till I return?"
"I can make no promises," Adrienne replied; but her tone softened. "I
won't desert Aunt Cecily if I can help it, but I cannot stay on with
her interminably, and that she will not understand."
He left her, and she watched the car disappear down the drive and along
the straight white road that led to the station.
Why had she felt so ruffled and indignant? she asked herself.
"It was the way he spoke," she assured herself; "he could not have been
in earnest. Did he mean a proposal of marriage? If so, he was very
indifferent and uncertain about it, as he is about everything. He's so
detached and superior, hardly like a human being. I won't think about
him any more. He is gone, and I know, in spite of his aggravating ways,
we shall miss him intensely. If one was in trouble, how reliable he
would be! And yet what a contradiction he is! He seems to watch Aunt
Cecily's difficulties with perfect indifference. I cannot, cannot
understand him."
The following day Adrienne met Miss Preston in the village. She had
been visiting little Agatha. She was in a white serge gown with black
straw hat and a black scarf about her shoulders. And she looked worn
and weary but strikingly handsome and distinguished.
"It was kind of you to send me those flowers," she said; "though
they're but an emblem, and of no use to the one who is gone—yet one
appreciates the kind thought."
"I have been so sorry for you," said Adrienne; "you must be very
lonely."
"I am strangely bewildered," she said with a very sweet smile; "I am
like a horse without his rider, or a scale without weights. My very
reason for existence gone. I shall take time to adapt myself to life
again, so I'm staying in my retreat quite quietly. Will you come and
see me?"
"Certainly I will. What do you think of little Agatha?"
"She does not bear talking about," was the grave reply; "it is an
effort to get into her environment, and a bigger effort to get out of
it, do you not find it so?"
"I hope I do," said Adrienne slowly; "it is what she would wish, is it
not?"
Then they parted, and in a few days' time Adrienne made her promised
visit.
The cottage on Le Sourge surprised her. One big living-room downstairs
and a small back kitchen, two large bedrooms above, and a smaller one
in the roof. The walls of all were covered with water-colour sketches
of a purity and delicacy that proved the genius of the author of them.
They were mostly landscapes. Sunsets from the hills outside Rome, and
bits of the Mediterranean from Naples and Sicily. Queer little Italian
villages up against the sky in the folds of the hills; peasants with
carts of hay, trucks of fruit, milk-cans on dog-carts, and beautiful
girls, amongst the grapes in vineyards, girls with black hair, with
golden, and with flaming red tresses.
Adrienne caught her breath as she looked at them.
"What an artist your brother must have been!" she said.
"He was," Miss Preston replied quietly.
She was evidently not going to discuss her brother, for she began
to talk of other things. Incidentally Adrienne learnt that she had
relations in Yorkshire. She had an uncle who was Canon in York
Cathedral, and another uncle who was a retired General and lived in the
family place in Westmorland.
It was when Adrienne began to talk about her uncles that she told her
this.
"They are quite the pleasantest relatives to own," she said with
a humorous curl to her lips; "it is their wives who are sometimes
difficult, but you have never experienced that."
"No," Adrienne owned; "though at times I have had scares that way.
Uncle Tom is all right, but Uncle Derrick has two or three women
friends who occasionally sweep down upon us. There is a certain widow
who used to live in Malta, and whom he used to visit when he was at
sea. She's a nice woman, but I believe on her side it's little more
than just old friendship."
"Men ought to marry," Miss Preston said emphatically.
Then they talked of the country they were in, and its customs. Adrienne
came home to her aunt feeling that she had made a friend, and strangely
enough her aunt began to be interested in the stranger.
"Ask her to tea one afternoon. I should like to make her acquaintance
if she's a gentlewoman. I thought she and her brother were a pair of
these Bohemian artists. I've seen them going about in sandals, hatless
and with knapsacks across their backs, the women as tanned and dusty
and unkempt as the men."
So Miss Preston came to tea, and the Countess liked her, and asked her
to come again.
Adrienne went out walks with her, but in all her talks Miss Preston
never mentioned her brother or the Count.
One day, as they were sitting in the woods together, enjoying the cool
shade on a very sunny morning, Adrienne said suddenly to her friend:
"Do you believe that our lives are ordered and planned for us by God?
Little Agatha says they are."
"She thinks there is an original groove or place which we may
circumvent," said Miss Preston. "For a little French peasant girl, she
has a wonderful knowledge of the world and its ways."
"Yes, hasn't she? I think I'm talking to a sage or a philosopher when
I'm with her, but really she's something higher altogether. I think
what she would say is that if we have right relations with God, He
plans for us. It's very puzzling. Practically I am beginning to be torn
into two. I want to go back and take up my life at home again, and yet
I want to stay here. The old Château and the village have crept into my
life. I want to see Aunt Cecily safely through her difficulties. I know
she has told you about them. She tells every one, so I am not betraying
her confidence. I keep wondering what I am to do. And I am not sure
enough of my right relationship to God to know if He will guide me. I
suppose He guides by circumstances?"
Miss Preston smiled at Adrienne's anxious face.
"Don't make me your Father Confessor. I'm an ignoramus like yourself
over religious doctrine and experience. But I'd give all I possess to
have little Agatha's faith and joy. I believe in her, ergo I believe in
her God."
"So do I," Adrienne said thoughtfully; "I've never read my Bible so
much as since I've known her, and it is explaining things to me. But
I'm a long way off yet from where I want to be."
"Tell me when you arrive there," said Miss Preston; "for I've turned
my back like Christian in 'Pilgrim's Progress' on what I used to
think were the best things in life. Whether I shall replace them with
immortal gifts remains to be seen."
They were silent for a time, then resumed conversation upon lighter
topics.
One liking they had in common, and that was attending the little
Protestant Service on Sunday mornings.
Adrienne loved the long walk in the early mornings. She met Miss
Preston halfway. The Miss D'Aubignays and their sister Madame Passilles
were very friendly, and always pressed them to come to the house and
stay to lunch. Adrienne could never do this because of her aunt, but
Miss Preston did it occasionally, and told Adrienne afterwards that
Madame Passilles's talk and tracts drove her as far away from religion
as Agatha's talk brought her near.
"She's well-meaning and earnest, but has no sympathy or tact. She
starts by impressing you that she is safely inside the Holy of Holies
and you are outside—well outside—an outcast and a sinner. That raises
my contradictious ire. I say things that I do not mean on purpose to
annoy her. I mustn't go to lunch with them again. It is bad for one's
temper. She has one, strange to say, and it's quite as hasty as mine."
Adrienne tried to persuade her aunt to attend one of these services,
but nothing would induce her to hear of it, and she saw that she was
only irritating her by pursuing the subject.
And then one morning about six weeks after Guy's departure, Adrienne
received a wire.
"Tom ill. Appendicitis. Want you home. Come at once.—DERRICK."
It was a thunderbolt. Of course, when the Countess was told, there was
a terrible scene.
"You can't leave me. I won't be left alone. If he has an operation, he
will be in a Nursing Home, and you can do no good. I dare say it is a
false alarm. Everyone thinks he ought to have appendicitis in these
days."
"I must go, Aunt Cecily. I shall leave by this afternoon's train.
Nothing would induce me to stay away from either of my uncles if they
are ill. They have been like parents to me. Why don't you come with me?
He is your brother. If you cannot be left alone, come with me."
But this was not to be heard of. The Countess wept and cried, she
coaxed, she implored, she entreated, but Adrienne seemed proof against
her pleadings.
And then, as she was hastily packing her clothes into her portmanteau,
a sudden thought flashed into her mind. She ran off to her aunt's room.
"Aunt Cecily, I am really going. I must. But would you like Bertha
Preston as a visitor till I come back? She likes you, and you like her.
I will ride off to her at once. I have time before déjeuner. I believe
she would come to you."
The Countess was working herself into a fit of hysterics, but she
listened to this suggestion and was pleased to approve of it.
"She will be better than no one, and you must promise me to return,
Adrienne. You said you would stay with me till Guy returned."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, not if he stayed away indefinitely. But we won't talk
about that now. I must go immediately to Bertha Preston. I only hope
she'll come."
Off she rode as quickly as she could to Le Sourge, and fortunately
found Bertha at home.
She was astonished and rather disconcerted at Adrienne's request.
"I hardly know your aunt."
"Oh, do come; I shall be so relieved. She likes you and will soon
forget me when she sits up and talks to you of the past. I know it's
asking a lot, but you did say to me the other day that you were getting
tired of your cottage life, and you would be doing us such a great
kindness. I am bound to go. I must. And Aunt Cecily really is not
fitted to live alone. She depends so much on having someone to talk to,
and someone who can do little things for her."
"Oh, I'll come, if your aunt will put up with an old blasé woman
instead of a bright young girl. We'll try and get on together till you
come back. Don't you worry. Does she expect me this evening?"
"Is it too soon? To-morrow will do. I don't leave till four this
afternoon."
"Then I'll come to-morrow in time for déjeuner tell her; and if we fall
out, I can but return to my cottage. I'll do my best to keep her happy.
But she's a difficult subject. I hope you'll find your uncle through
the worst when you get home."
"I'm in such a bustle that I can hardly think," said poor Adrienne.
"Good-bye and a thousand thanks. Write to me, won't you? I feel
responsible for Aunt Cecily till Cousin Guy comes back."
Then she galloped home. She certainly did not have much time to think,
till the train was taking her towards Paris. She could hardly realize
that her French life was receding behind her.
And what had at one time been her greatest desire now seemed to her a
trouble rather than a joy. She was really anxious about her uncles, and
that anxiety eclipsed all else.
She arrived home late the next day. The car was outside the station
and in it, to her surprise, was the Admiral. He looked ill, and as he
kissed her affectionately, he said:
"I felt bound to meet you myself, my dear; I could not have anyone else
break it to you."
"What!" cried Adrienne with blanched cheeks. "Is it—is it serious?"
"He has gone, dear child."
The shock was great. Adrienne buried her face in her hands.
"I never imagined—I cannot believe it," she sobbed. "Tell me all."
"He was really taken ill in Norway. We hurried home, but the weather
was bad and we got delayed. There was a doctor on board, but you know
how your uncle hated doctors. He would have none of him. We stopped
in London, he was got into a Nursing Home and that very night they
operated, but it was too late, and he sank. I was with him and he sent
his love to you. I could not tell you in the wire. I brought him home
yesterday. The funeral is to-morrow."
"Oh, poor Uncle Derrick! Poor Uncle Derrick!"
Adrienne turned her tear-stained face towards her uncle. She forgot
everything except that he had lost the one being he loved most in the
world.
The Admiral's face quivered.
"Well," he said gently, "he was called away before me, and I always
thought I should go first. It is better so; he never would have managed
alone, a thorough bad business man. Poor Tom!"
They came to the house, and the homely sweetness of it sent another
gush of tears to Adrienne's eyes.
The dog sprang out to welcome her. The hall was filled with flowers.
The front door stood open and the striped sun-blinds were down. Inside
there was darkness and a hush. Drake met her with red eyelids. Adrienne
took his old hand in hers.
"Oh, Drake, what shall we do without him!" she cried.
The old butler choked a little.
"God only knows, Miss Adrienne," he said huskily.
She went into the library.
The Admiral followed, and then sitting down, he began to give her the
details of the last sad week.
"He felt he wouldn't get over the operation; he asked me to leave him
alone for half an hour before they came to take him to the Home. We
were at the Euston Hotel, and he added:
"'To make my peace with God, old chap.' And then he spoke of you—said
he wished you could be in time. Of course I tried to cheer him up, and
told him we all expected him to pull through, but he shook his head."
Adrienne listened with the tears running down her cheeks. She could
hardly believe that she would never hear again the hearty ringing
voice, the chuckling laugh, the boyish steps of her Uncle Tom.
And then a little later she paid a visit to his room, where he lay
quiet and peaceful as if he had just fallen asleep.
It was a sad time. She was so overwhelmed with the blow that she did
not write to her aunt till after the funeral was over.
Her uncle Derrick seemed to depend upon her for everything; the blow
had fallen upon him the most heavily, but he was very quiet, saying
little of his own grief. Adrienne noted that he silently put away the
chessmen and board into a locked drawer, and she knew that he would
never touch the game again. She was glad that there was a certain
amount of business to be done, for it occupied him and kept him from
brooding.
And she found her own time taken up with the many letters of sympathy
which had to be answered and which arrived by every post. She had seen
Godfrey at the funeral, and many other of her old friends; but she was
so busy in the house that she never left it, and when about ten days
after the funeral, Godfrey came to ask her if she would take a ride
with him, her uncle urged her to go.
"You are looking so pale, my dear; it will do you good. You have been
too much confined to the house."
So she went upstairs to get into her habit, her horse was ordered; and
Godfrey went into the library for a smoke with the Admiral, whilst
he waited for her. And Adrienne, whilst she was getting ready, was
thinking of her cousin Guy, and of the morning rides which she used to
take with him. They seemed so long ago!
When Godfrey had first proposed the ride, she was about to refuse, but
he had turned to her appealingly:
"I do want to have a talk with you so much. It is very personal."
And now her thoughts passed from Guy to Godfrey.
"I hope he is not going to bring up the old subject, and yet I almost
feel it would solve my difficulties. I must stay close to Uncle
Derrick now, and if I married Godfrey, it would be all so simple and
straightforward. Godfrey would make an ideal husband; he is so frank,
so true, so kind. Comparing him with Cousin Guy, I see now that he has
just what Guy is lacking in. He is so open and confiding; one feels
there is nothing behind him. Cousin Guy irritates me with his reserve
and silence, Godfrey is as open as the day. I believe if he proposes
again to me to-day, I shall say yes, and then I shall write to Aunt
Cecily and she will see that I cannot return to her."
Planning out such a future for herself, she was surprised that she
did not feel more jubilant over it. Could it be possible, she asked
herself, that the old Château in its quiet village had crept into her
heart to stay there? She tried to put it from her, and ran lightly
downstairs equipped for her ride.
CHAPTER XII
AT HOME AGAIN
GODFREY took her up to the moor. They talked first about her aunt in
France.
"I thought we should never get you back," he said; "you have seemed to
be taking root there."
"It has been very difficult," she responded.
And she tried to give him some idea of her life in the old Château.
He was a good listener, but somehow she did not fancy to-day that he
was quite so wrapped up in her life as he used to be, and presently she
paused:
"Now tell me about yourself and all the village. I have seen no one—not
even Phemie. I almost thought she would have been round."
"Well, she was waiting, she did not like to intrude. I want to tell you
about Phemie—and myself."
In a flash Adrienne saw what was coming. It struck her like a blow.
Godfrey was speaking in his frank, pleasant way.
"I know you will be glad. When you sent me away from you the last time,
I felt I must take it like a man, and not pester you again. And somehow
or other Phemie has been coming to see Mother, and we've taken a few
rides together. And gradually our friendship has deepened, and I've
come to know her better than I've ever done before. I always liked her
as a friend, but she's more than that now. I had a little trouble with
Mother. I suppose all mothers are the same; they like their sons to
marry money, high birth, etc.; but she's really too fond of me to hold
out against my wishes, and she has become quite attached to Phemie!"
"Oh, Godfrey, I'm so glad. Dear Phemie! She deserves to be made happy.
She has been so plucky over the farm, and it has been uncongenial work.
What does her mother say?"
"She doesn't seem over-pleased. I'm afraid she will miss her, but she
works her like a galley slave. And I'm stopping a good bit of that. I
insist upon her coming out with me. You don't know how pretty she's
getting. She's losing all that worn, weary look about her eyes. She
wanted you to know, so I told her I would tell you to-day."
"She'll make you the dearest wife! My best congrats, Godfrey. I'm very,
very glad."
She listened whilst he went on to talk about his fiancée's perfections,
and when their ride was over, and Adrienne reached home again, she felt
as if all her world were falling to pieces.
She knew she had not wanted Godfrey when he had wanted her; but in
spite of that, there was a little hurt feeling in her heart that he had
forgotten her so entirely, and was so completely satisfied with this
second choice of his.
"I have only been away about three months," she told herself—"it is
barely that; yet he has put someone in my place with the greatest ease.
I always felt that he did not really and truly love me. I often told
him so, but he would not have it. I wonder what he would have said if
I had told him that I had become engaged to Cousin Guy. I might have,
if I'd taken him at his word. I almost believe that, if Godfrey had
not always been flitting through my background, I might have given Guy
a different answer. At all events I would not have snubbed him off
so promptly. And now I've lost them both, and I believe that I shall
be a single woman all my days! After all, there is nothing so very
attractive or fetching about me. I shan't have an unlimited number of
admirers haunting my steps."
And then she shed a few tears, and tried to think they were for her
uncle Tom, and for the blank he had left behind him; but in reality she
knew that they were for herself, and she grew angry at the thought of
it, for she had so despised her Aunt Cecily's continual self-pity.
She took up her old life again, yet her thoughts were continually
straying to the French village. The Admiral heard from his sister, who
was of course distressed at the loss of her brother.
"I am quite sure you will send Adrienne back as soon as you can," she
wrote. "Miss Preston, who is with me, does her best; but Adrienne knew
my ways, and she is my niece, and has duties towards me. Why don't you
sell your house and come out here? Dear Tom was too boisterous for my
nerves, but I could give you the library here for your sanctum and you
could help me in my business matters, which seem in sad disorder. I
shall be glad to hear the conditions of Tom's will. I hope he did not
forget his only sister, who is left to struggle on with insufficient
means to keep her head above water."
But the Countess was doomed to disappointment. General Chesterton and
his brother had mutually agreed to leave all they had to Adrienne. She
was almost entirely dependent on them, as her father, like his sister
Cecily, had spent more than he had saved. They considered that their
sister, who had received equal shares with them at their father's
death, was not as much in need of money as Adrienne. Meanwhile Adrienne
heard from Bertha Preston.
"MY DEAR ADRIENNE,—
"I want to report myself to you, as I am afraid I am not a great
success. Your capabilities and perfections are recounted to me day by
day. I strive to emulate you. I run round and do errands, and garden
and arrange flowers, and dust everything that I can lay my hands upon.
We take perambulations about the garden and wood. When I can, I sneak
off on my own, and visit little Agatha or call at my cottage. I am a
great walker, and am always happy in the open air. Your friend the
notary is closeted with your aunt continually. I fancy things are
coming to a climax. He tells her he must foreclose the mortgage. This
has been held over her head so long as a threat, that I think she does
not believe he will do it. But there's a nasty look in his eye which
means business. He evidently thinks the Count an ineffectual doll. He
said as much to me the other day, which rather amused me, as I have
seen him in quite another light. I asked your aunt what she would do
when the time came for her to leave the Château. She looked quite
scared, but evidently has been thinking the matter over, for she told
me this morning that she would go straight to her flat in Orleans until
her stepson bought it back for her. She has little idea of the tenacity
and purpose of the village notary. Did you know she has mortgaged the
furniture of the Château as well as the pictures? I told her that Van
Dyck's portrait was worth a fortune. It seems a pity that it should
go out of the family. Well—I must close. I hope you are well. We talk
about you continually and I have many inquiries after you from the
villagers.
"Yours affectionately,
"BERTHA PRESTON."
Adrienne felt very uneasy after receiving this letter. She showed it to
her uncle, who calmly said that the sooner his sister got rid of the
Château the better.
"It has always been a white elephant to her. She will be much happier
in Orleans. We begged her long ago to get rid of it. In every way she
will be better off in Orleans; she will be away from this scheming
lawyer of hers."
"But, Uncle Derrick, I can't bear to think of the Château in his hands,
and all its possessions. It is iniquitous! Oh if you knew it as I do,
you would feel differently! I have learnt to love it. It is so mellow,
so ancient; it seems to smile serenely in its decay. There's such a
sense of peace and rest in it. There's a favourite seat of mine in the
woods above it, where I sit and look down upon it, and think of all
that has happened in it in the past. Cousin Guy told me one day that
in their family records there was no deed of cruelty or of violence
that had ever been committed inside its walls, and the atmosphere feels
full of peace. I can't bear to think of it falling into the Bouveries'
hands."
"My dear child," said her uncle, rather surprised at this outburst, "I
had no idea that it had got such possession of you. We can do nothing
to help your aunt, I fear. Tom and I were continually sending her money
after her husband's death, but at last we stopped, for we judged it was
no real help to her."
"I have money now," said Adrienne thoughtfully; "I wonder—"
"No, it's not to be thought of. I am getting an old man, and you
will have yourself to provide for; you must not spend your money on
bolstering up a ruin."
"Oh, but it isn't a ruin, that's what makes it so sad. It only wants
decorating and painting. The walls and roof and all the rooms are sound
and good. But I couldn't buy it. Mr. Bouverie wants it for himself and
he would ask a fabulous price for it. What I am really concerned about
is Van Dyck's picture. Cousin Guy told Aunt Cecily he would not let
that go out of the family."
"Then let him come back and get it. Where is he?"
"I don't know. He gave me his banker's address in New York, in case of
anything urgent. I will write to them to-day. I think I will enclose
him Bertha's letter. I am so thankful she is there. I should be
miserable if Aunt Cecily were alone."
"Do you want to go back to her?" her uncle asked her in his quiet voice.
Adrienne laid her hand upon his arm.
"Uncle Derrick, do you think I would or could leave you? I did wonder
whether you would like to accept Aunt Cecily's invitation and go there
for a visit. I should love you to see it all."
"I'm afraid I shouldn't care to do that," said the Admiral slowly. "Tom
paid her a visit once, and it was a dead failure. No, my dear, I feel
that Cecily and I like each other best at a distance. But if you feel
you would like to go over again for a bit, you mustn't mind me. I can
get on very well alone."
"That's your unselfish outlook. I'm not going to leave you at present.
I couldn't."
She wrote to her cousin Guy that same day, enclosed Bertha Preston's
letter, and told him that at present she was tied to her uncle.
"He feels Uncle Tom's death intensely," she wrote; "and I cannot leave
him alone. He has more claim upon me than Aunt Cecily, but somehow or
other I feel torn in two; and I do want you to save the darling Château
from the Bouveries if you can. Surely his rope is long enough now to
hang him? I can't help hoping that you will save the situation. It is
critical now, and that is why I am writing to you."
She was relieved when this letter went.
One day, when the Admiral was away on business, Adrienne rode over to
see Phemie. She had had a note from her telling her of her happiness,
but saying it was harvest time and consequently a very busy time at the
farm.
She found her baking bread in the delightful kitchen. Mrs. Moray
was in the cornfields, and so was Dick. The girls kissed each other
affectionately.
"Why, Phemie, I don't know you! You look at least ten years younger."
"I wish I could return the compliment. Nothing would take away your
good looks, or your happy eyes, but you are thin and a little worn. I
am afraid you have had a sad home-coming."
"It is sad," said Adrienne, sitting down on the low window-seat, and
removing her hat, letting the breeze from the open window fan her
heated temples. "The house is a different place without Uncle Tom. It
seems so silent and grave! Uncle Derrick is very quiet, and I feel
getting very old and quiet too."
"But you mustn't!" said Phemie energetically. "It's all wrong. You
have your life before you, and you're young, younger than I. Oh,
Adrienne, I cannot sometimes believe that my happiness is real! I have
always looked upon Godfrey as an ideal modern knight; he is so good,
so generous, so courteous to all, and the poorer and humbler a person
is, the more he goes out of his way to befriend them. I used to look
upon him as your particular property, and when I found you did not care
about him, I felt angry with you; I was indignant because you could not
appreciate him. And then, when you went away, we were thrown together,
and I still thought it was only his kindness of heart towards one who
was in a very monotonous and unpalatable groove. It was almost too much
for me, when he came to close quarters and asked me to be his wife.
"At first I was terrified of his mother. I know it was an awful blow
to her, and I must say she has been most wonderfully forbearing and
kind. And if she was taken aback by it, you can imagine what Mother was
like. We had an awful scene. She said the farm would have to be given
up, and that if I deserted her, she would wash her hands of the whole
concern. Do you know, I didn't think Dick had it in him. He showed up
most wonderfully. Told Mother that my future prospects came before the
farm, that he did not intend to give it up if she did, and that he was
thankful that my life of toil was going to cease. He told Mother there
were plenty of land girls and labourers' daughters or wives who could
take my place, and that the farm was doing so well that hired labour
was now a possible thing.
"Mother calmed down then, and had a wonderful talk with me afterwards.
She owned up that she had driven us both, but that she was so afraid we
would take after our father, who drifted through life without any idea
of steady application or work! She always makes me angry when she talks
about Father; but my own happiness has made me more sympathetic, I
think, and I tried to see her side. She said that Dick was turning out
as she had hoped for, and that if he could see his way through without
my help, she would be willing to spare me, and would get some land girl
or woman to help her.
"She made me laugh; she said, 'I'll take care not to get one of these
pretty flighty girls who will be setting their caps at Dick. I'll
pick out the plainest and homeliest that I can find. Strength and
cleanliness are the chief things I want in them.'"
Phemie paused, then in a different tone she said:
"Oh, Adrienne, when I think that I shall have leisure time! Time for
the best part of me to be refreshed. When I shall be able to paint, to
read, to be able to enjoy some of the beauty in the world which I had
put behind me! Well, I just can't believe it. I'm so terribly afraid I
may wake up and find it a dream!"
"Dear Phemie, I'm so thankful, so glad!"
And in her heart Adrienne was; she told herself that the life unfolding
before Phemie was so gloriously full for her, that she was only
thankful that she had not marred it in any way.
Yet before she left Phemie, she plucked up courage and said to her:
"You'll forgive me, if I ask you whether Godfrey is more to you than
the life of ease and comfort which he offers you. Would you go to him
if you both had to work hard for your living?"
Phemie flashed an indignant look at her friend.
"I'm not demonstrative by nature, Adrienne, I take after Mother in
that; but do you think me so despicably mean as to take from Godfrey
all his good things, and not give him my heart, my life, my all? He has
always been my secret king and hero. But I naturally kept such feelings
to myself."
"Phemie dear, it was impertinent of me, but Godfrey and I have grown
up together, and he does deserve a wife who will do what I cannot do,
love and adore him. I can't tell you how happy I shall be. Two of my
greatest friends coming together like this!"
She rode home assuring herself that she was deeply content, and yet in
the bottom of her heart there was rather a lonely deserted feeling,
as if all her friends were leaving her—that she would no longer be
necessary to them.
"Well, I have Uncle Derrick, nothing will touch our love," she said to
herself, and she went back to him with sunshine in her eyes and smile.
Two or three weeks passed. Adrienne devoted herself to her uncle;
she got out her old songs and sang them to him in the evenings, the
time of day in which they most missed the General; she rode out with
him, and brought her work into the library when he was poring over
his books and pedigrees. And all the time her thoughts were in the
little French village, wondering if Bertha were getting tired of the
incessant demands made upon her time, whether Agatha and she held long
conversations together, whether Gaspard was keeping the rose-beds
weeded, whether the small vineyards on the sloping hill were showing
signs of a good vintage, and whether the Bouveries were really making
preparation for taking possession Of the Château.
At last she heard from Bertha that her aunt was going to make her usual
autumn move into her Orleans flat.
"She is playing a kind of game with herself and everyone else," wrote
Bertha, "by insisting that this is her usual move, and that she will be
returning in the spring, but I happen to know that Monsieur Bouverie
has promised her to wait to take possession till she has gone, and
that he means to move in directly she has done so. She is writing to
you to implore you to come back and help her with the move. She will
not trust me as she trusts you. Do you not think you could come for a
week or two? You need not go to Orleans with her. I believe she will be
happy there. And I really cannot stay much longer. I have heard from an
invalid cousin of mine who wants me to go to the Riviera with her the
end of September. If I do so, I shall have to be shutting up my cottage
and getting rid of my bits of furniture. I do not care to live there
now. But I must justify my existence by being of some use to someone,
so think my cousin's proposal fits in."
The following day Adrienne had the usual hysterical effusion from
her aunt, and after reading over both these letters to her uncle, he
advised her to go over for a week or two.
"And don't be miserable, my dear child, over that old Château, but be
thankful that your aunt will no longer have such an incubus."
"Oh, Uncle Derrick," said Adrienne with a laugh and a sigh, "you don't
know its charms. It will be a hard wrench to me to say good-bye to it.
I am still hoping it may be saved. I have been calculating the time. If
Cousin Guy received my letter, he might be on the way home."
"I believe he went away to make it easy for your aunt. I know he thinks
she is mistaken in living on there; and when he is at hand, she bleeds
him, and convinces herself that he will not see her turned out."
So in a very few days' time, Adrienne crossed the Channel once more.
She could leave her uncle with an easy mind for a week or two. He was a
man who was always occupied, and he told her that he had a good deal of
business to see to in town, connected with his brother's estate.
The glories of an early autumn were tinting the trees and hedges, and
wrapping the woods and distant hills in a golden haze, when Adrienne
arrived at her destination.
She had an unpleasant moment or two at the station, for Monsieur and
Madame Bouverie were seeing friends off in the train for Orleans.
Madame Bouverie affected not to see Adrienne at first and called out in
her shrill French voice:
"Au revoir, Nancie; next time you visit us, you will find us
comfortably installed in the Château, I hope. Ah! What a work is before
us, bringing that mouldy old place up to date, but we shall do it.
Inside and out you will be astonished at the metamorphosis!" Then with
a triumphant smile she turned and nodded affably to Adrienne.
"You have returned to help your aunt pack up. So glad to see you."
Adrienne felt her bow was stiff; she passed out to where the car was
waiting for her with hot indignation in her heart. But as she passed
along the familiar lanes, and noted the tiny green shuttered houses,
the purple bloom of the grapes on the sloping hills, and heard once
more the melodious bells of the oxen passing along with their loads,
she said to herself with a little glow within her:
"This has become my second home. How I love it all!"
It was a lovely afternoon; she glided up the old avenue, and noted the
golden tints on the trees, and then came upon the old Château mellow
and stately still. Tea was on the terrace and her aunt and Bertha
Preston were both waiting to welcome her.
Nothing marred the warmth of that welcome. Adrienne felt that her aunt
was really attached to her, and old Pierre hovered about with a pleased
smile on his withered face. He had gathered a dish of golden plums in
honour of her return and she turned to thank him with her bright smile,
but was rather taken aback to see his old eyes fill with tears. He
hobbled off, furtively brushing the sleeve of his coat across his eyes.
To Adrienne it seemed impossible that the old Château was going to pass
away from the de Beaudesserts, and certainly her aunt seemed strangely
unaware of the fact. She was all smiles and graciousness, telling
Adrienne bits of local news, and asking with a little sympathy in her
tone after her brother.
"It does not do to be bound up so entirely in one another as he and Tom
were," she said with a sigh; "they were two inseparables! Of course
Derrick must miss Tom tremendously."
"Yes, I could not bear to leave him; but he will be in London for a
week or two over business matters, and I shall soon be back again."
The Countess shook her head at her:
"I am going to introduce you to Orleans society, and shall not let you
go in a hurry. I have told Miss Preston of some plans I have in my
head."
"When are you going?" Adrienne asked.
"As soon as you can get me packed. I don't like autumn in the country,
and the fall of the leaf is not healthy."
"Have you heard from Cousin Guy?"
"Not for weeks. He is always a bad correspondent. It is most
inconsiderate of him staying away at this juncture, when I specially
want him. I do not know where he is, or what he is doing. I have only
his banker's address."
After tea, Adrienne went up to her room and Bertha accompanied her.
She settled herself down in a big easy-chair by the window for a
good talk. The Countess had gone to her room to turn out some of her
wardrobes ready for Adrienne's inspection. Annette went with her to
help her.
"My dear Adrienne, your aunt is a marvel. She can turn from
disagreeables and forget all about them within ten minutes. We had
awful scenes this morning with Pierre and his family. It appears that
Monsieur Bouverie has been interviewing them and asking them if the
Countess has given them notice to leave. He told them he would not
require their services, and he hoped to take possession of the Château
on the fifteenth of next month. That will be barely three weeks from
to-day. They all arrived up in your aunt's room in tears. She got very
agitated, and alarmed, dissolved into tears herself and then waved them
all away.
"' The Count will be back. He'll put things all right. You need not be
afraid. I leave you as usual to take care of the Château in my absence.
Monsieur Bouverie is trying to frighten you. You really must not come
and upset me like this. My heart won't stand it. The sooner I am in
Orleans the better. Mademoiselle is coming to take me there."
"She then cheered up, and has been extra cheerful all day. Can you
understand her? Monsieur Bouverie is absolutely determined, and within
his rights, he tells me, to take the Château on the fifteenth of
October."
"It's all perfectly dreadful," said Adrienne; "I can understand Aunt
Cecily's mind a little. She has always been under dread of this time
coming, but she has slipped through so many of her troubles that
she expects to slip through this. And even I don't believe Monsieur
Bouverie will be successful in wresting the property from us. I somehow
think that Cousin Guy will prevent it."
"Has your cousin been playing a game?" Bertha asked. "Because the
Bouveries talk of him and think of him as an indolent dreamy fool, a
good farmer, but with no love for his old house, and with no intention
of saving it. I should call him a masterful, keen-witted man, who would
let nobody get the better of him in business matters!"
"Yes," said Adrienne; "that is him. And I rely upon him to return
in time to circumvent the Bouveries. I am not going to make myself
miserable before it is necessary. Let us enjoy these lovely days,
Bertha."
"My dear, I must be off to-morrow. But I shall be at Le Sourge for a
week or two yet. I have to pack up too. We shall see each other, I
hope, several times before you leave."
The rest of the evening passed quietly. The Countess talked much of
Orleans and of her flat, and from hints she let drop, and from a little
confidence on Bertha's part, Adrienne was made aware that her aunt
intended to make a match for her with a certain young Baron in Orleans.
CHAPTER XIII
WHY THE COUNT WENT AWAY
THE days that followed were like a calm before a storm. Adrienne went
to see her village friends. They all told her how glad they were to see
her back. Strangely enough, with all their love of gossip they none of
them referred to what was well known in the village, the transfer of
the Château to Monsieur Bouverie. One or two of them asked Adrienne a
little anxiously:
"And when will the Comte be back?"
She only shook her head.
"We don't know. It is uncertain."
She paid little Agatha a visit very soon.
The sick girl took hold of her hands in her earnest, demonstrative way:
"Ah, dear Mademoiselle, how we have missed you! And you have been
through sorrow. But you are learning Who can comfort."
"How do you know I am, Agatha?"
"By your eyes. They are not only joyously happy, that they have always
been, but a deep contented rest has crept into your soul, and it shows
itself."
"Yes, Agatha," said Adrienne in a low voice, "I have I think, very
feebly linked myself on to the One you know and love."
"Or shall we say He has very strongly linked you on Himself," said
Agatha with her serene smile.
"Yes, that is better. That is what He has done. He has drawn me to His
Feet and forgiven me there, and made me one of His sheep."
"And you have only to hear His Voice and follow now—Mademoiselle, I
rejoice so much in your joy."
"It has come so gradually," said Adrienne; "I can't tell you when
or how, only after many prayers I have stopped doubting, and now am
trusting. Oh, Agatha, if only—only my Aunt could realize it, how happy
she might be!"
"Give to her, as you have been given to," said Agatha; "it is so easy
to enter the Kingdom, if you'll take the Bon Seigneur at His Word."
Adrienne came away from her feeling in tune with the whole world; she
was serenely conscious of a new joy and a new purpose in her life.
Her aunt sighed as she heard her singing about the Château.
"Ah, if only I were young and gay again!"
The packing up progressed steadily, but the Countess still persisted in
thinking that she would return to the Château again. Secretly Adrienne
began to empty drawers and wardrobes and stow the contents away into
travelling trunks, and meanwhile every post was watched for anxiously.
Madame Bouverie haunted the place; she would push herself in on the
merest pretext, and begin measuring furtively rooms and windows.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," she said to Adrienne one day, "it will be a relief
to your dear aunt to have the care of such a big place no longer.
When one has not the money it is heartrending. We shall have to spend
thousands on this place to make it habitable—thousands!"
Adrienne had difficulty in giving a polite response. She knew it was of
no use to argue with her, and pride forbade her to plead.
At last things were in train for the Countess to leave for Orleans.
And then one afternoon about three o'clock, Adrienne, who had been out
in the garden gathering a few late roses, came into the Château to hear
voices in the corridor upstairs.
Pierre came forward with a troubled look upon his face:
"It is Monsieur Bouverie with some gentleman from Paris. I think it is
a foreign gentleman who wants to buy our Van Dyck."
When Pierre was agitated, he would associate himself with the family he
loved and served.
The flush mounted into Adrienne's cheeks and fire into her eyes.
Without a word, she sprang upstairs, and confronted a little group
gathered round the famous picture.
"May I ask what you are doing, Monsieur Bouverie?"
She stood like a young queen before them, her voice haughty and cold,
her eyes sparkling dangerously.
"I have just brought a gentleman to see this picture," said Monsieur
Bouverie, a little defiantly.
[Illustration: She stood like a young queen before them, her voice
haughty and cold.
_Adrienne]_ _[Chapter XIII]_
"With the Countess's permission?" asked Adrienne.
"Well, really, Mademoiselle, I told Pierre not to trouble her. It is
not worth it. Mr. Bullivant from New York was only able to come to-day,
otherwise I should not have brought him till next Tuesday."
"This picture is not for sale, so I do not know why he should be
brought here."
Adrienne's tone was hard and cold.
"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Bouverie, an ugly gleam coming
into his eyes, "this picture will be in my possession in two days'
time; and as I intend to sell it, I am letting a possible purchaser see
it now."
"This picture will never be in your possession. It belongs to the Count
de Beaudessert, and he is, as you know, at present away from home."
There was a dead silence.
Then the American said a little anxiously turning towards the notary:
"Is there some misapprehension somewhere?"
"Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Bouverie, beginning to get excited. "You
take too much upon yourself; you are creating false impressions. The
Countess has sold me this picture with the Château. I have taken all
the pictures and furniture with it. The Château itself is nearly a
ruin. It is its contents which I value. I have it all here in writing
with her signature. I am not likely to do anything illegal."
But Adrienne stood firm:
"The Countess had no power to sell this picture or mortgage it, for it
is not hers. You cannot give away another's property."
Then, as Monsieur Bouverie began to splutter and storm, Adrienne called
out suddenly and sharply to Pierre:
"Pierre, show these gentlemen out, and remember that we intend now to
admit no one into the Château whilst we are in it."
Then she gave a little bow to the American, and said to him in English:
"I am sorry that you have been misinformed, sir, about this picture. It
does not belong to Monsieur Bouverie, and the Count my cousin does not
intend to sell it. He has told me so. I will wish you good afternoon."
She walked away from them, then stood at the top of the staircase
watching them go down and out of the front door.
Monsieur Bouverie was shaking with rage, and volubly explaining, and
denouncing Adrienne's interference.
Then Adrienne issued her commands to Pierre:
"Lock and bolt all the outside doors. We intend to see no one except
perhaps Miss Preston or the Curé. We must keep a closed door till we
go."
She said nothing to her aunt of what she had done. She felt ashamed and
indignant that the Countess had weakly deceived her stepson and had
tried to part with the one possession he prized. And she did not want
to upset her in these last days. The Countess was sleeping badly, and
at last was beginning to realize that this move would be different to
the usual autumnal flitting. But Adrienne realized that she had made
an open enemy of the notary. It was war to the knife between them now,
and she was beginning to be frightened of the responsibility lying upon
her shoulders. She did not know how to remove the picture and where to
take it. It was a very large one, and would require a frame and a van
to transfer it to her aunt's flat. She thought of the farm, but feared
that Monsieur Bouverie would forcibly remove it from there.
Half an hour later, she was standing in the hall talking to Pierre
about it. It was nearly time for her aunt to appear for tea, which they
were having in the salon now, as it was getting too cold to sit out of
doors.
Pierre was delighted at the unceremonious way in which Monsieur
Bouverie had received his exit. And when they suddenly heard a violent
ring and a still more violent knocking at the door, both he and
Adrienne thought it might be Monsieur Bouverie returning to the attack,
with his legal papers all in form.
"Let him knock a bit, Mademoiselle; it will cool his blood," said
Pierre, almost dancing with excitement on the tips of his old toes.
But through one of the hall windows Adrienne caught sight of a tall
figure and she knew it was not the little notary.
"Open immediately, Pierre. I believe, oh I believe it is the Count."
It was, and, as Guy strode in, he looked puzzled and perplexed.
"Are you in a state of siege here?" he asked. "I have never known this
front door locked and barred before five o'clock at this time of year."
Adrienne sprang forward and seized hold of his hand:
"Oh, Cousin Guy, how glad I am to see you! I might have known you would
not be too late, but you have driven it very close."
"I started directly I got your letter, but our boat was delayed, and
I have had other difficulties to overcome. How are you all? I hoped
to see you here, but was not certain. I was sorry to hear about the
General."
"Yes," said Adrienne, drawing a long breath; "a lot has happened since
you went; but oh, I can think of nothing but of your return. Everything
will be all right now; why did I doubt it?"
They had no further talk together, for the Countess suddenly appeared.
She was as glad and relieved as Adrienne was, but in her own way she
did not let him know it.
"Why have you stayed away so long? Everything has gone from bad to
worse. And now Monsieur Bouverie is turning me out of this, and says he
is coming to live here himself. Imagine Madame Bouverie in this salon
dispensing hospitality. What am I to do? Not a penny to spend. What are
you going to do?"
"Nothing to-night, ma mère. To-morrow we'll have a good talk and see if
we can't right things."
His eyes were on Adrienne as he spoke. She looked in her black gown
very fair and sweet. With a pretty grace she was presiding over the
tea-tray. Happiness shone in her grey eyes, but she noted that there
were weary lines upon her cousin's face, and though he leant back
easily in his chair and began to talk of trifles, there was grim
determination in the set of his lips, as if he were anticipating an
unpleasant struggle with his stepmother's lawyer.
"Where have you been all this time?" demanded the Countess.
He smiled at her. "I've been scouring British Columbia and a good bit
of Canada for something I wanted. And I found it at last."
"Some new machines for farming, I suppose," said his stepmother.
She expressed no further interest in his doings, but asked him if he
were putting up at the farm.
"Yes; I have only just come up to report myself to you. I must not dine
here to-night. I want to see Grougan, and have an appointment with him
at six."
"That's your lawyer from Orleans? If he had been my lawyer instead of
Bouverie, we should not have come to such a pass."
"But," said Guy with raised eyebrows, "I begged you to have him three
years ago, and you would not."
"How could I when Monsieur Bouverie held everything of mine in his
hands and understood it all so well?"
Guy relapsed into silence. Then when he had finished his tea, he said
to Adrienne:
"Will you walk to the farm with me? Have you had a walk to-day? Will ma
mère spare you?"
"Oh yes, go," said the Countess a little impatiently to Adrienne. "And
make him see my side of things, Adrienne. If he values his father's
home at all, he will make some effort to keep it."
When a little later Adrienne set out down the drive with Guy, she felt
tongue-tied. She had so much to say that she hardly knew where to begin.
Guy was silent for the first few minutes himself, but he soon spoke:
"Well, little cousin, my time has come. To-morrow afternoon the tug of
war will begin; my lawyer versus Bouverie. But to-morrow morning, I
must have a very plain talk with ma mère. We must have no repetition of
these mortgages if we once get clear of them."
"Oh, Cousin Guy, take the Château over yourself. You must. It is the
only way. If you can only afford it, do keep it yourself."
"That is precisely what I have always meant to do, but ma mère would
not have relinquished it until she was driven to the last extremity.
You will hear my plans to-morrow."
"Now I must tell you about your picture," said Adrienne. "I have not
told Aunt Cecily, and I don't know if I took too much upon myself.
Listen!"
She recounted to him the events of the afternoon.
Guy listened with his imperturbable face, and when she had finished
said:
"Thank you, little cousin. I think you showed great pluck and presence
of mind. Best not talk to ma mère about it. She looks very frail."
"Yes, I have really been anxious about her. Any great shock would be
disastrous, I believe, to her. I needn't ask you to be patient with
her, because you always are. In some ways you're a marvel!"
"She mustn't have a shock, eh?"
Guy stopped in his long strides. They had come to the gate of the farm,
and he pointed to the house.
"In there I have something that may be a surprise to her. I hardly
think it could be a shock. My experience of your aunt is that she is
so detached from every one but herself, that other people's lives and
fortunes do not interest her or affect her."
"I think you are right there," said Adrienne slowly. Then her eyes
wandered to the farm.
Guy followed her gaze.
"It is what I went to find," he said. "Come along, and you will be
enlightened."
Adrienne followed him up the narrow path. It was an unpretentious,
small farmhouse, with whitewashed walls and blue slate roof, but it
looked very sweet in the autumn sunshine. There was a minute grass
plot, in front of which a small boy and a big dog were disporting
themselves.
As they came up the boy sprang to his feet, then planted himself a
little defiantly, his back against the door, upon the doorstep. He was
a pretty child with a shock of dark curls upon his head, and a small
pointed face. For a moment Adrienne thought he must be some belonging
of the farmer's, and then, as she looked again, his whole bearing and
dress did not betoken a peasant child.
"This is my small son," said Guy gravely. "Shake hands, Alain, with
this lady."
The child's large frank eyes met Adrienne's, and his face softened as
he saw her smile.
With a little foreign bow, he raised her hand gently to his lips and
kissed it.
Adrienne stood still and gazed at him. She could find no words to say.
"I should have been back sooner," said Guy in his imperturbable voice,
"if it had not been for this small person. I had a tremendous job in
finding him, and a difficult job in bringing him away. The people he
was with were quite willing to part with him, but he was not willing to
come, and I had to spend several days with him before I could inspire
him with the necessary confidence to come with me happily. Even now he
looks upon me with suspicion; he is not quite sure whether I have not a
rod in pickle for him up my sleeve."
Adrienne drew the child to her.
"Why, there is nothing of you, Alain," she said tenderly; "you will get
fat and jolly now that you are with your Daddy." She was looking at his
tiny arms and legs, which were like sticks, and the boy looked down at
himself and up at her.
"Aunt Susy always said I ran too much to get fat. Who are you? I like
you."
"I'm your cousin—Cousin Adrienne."
She sat down in the little porch, and he climbed upon her knee and
began fingering her white ivory beads.
"Is this your rosary? I have a rosary in a little box which once
belonged to a mother of mine. Did you know I had a mother? When I was a
baby I had. And she gave me to Aunt Susy before she went to heaven and
Aunt Susy said she'd always wanted a little boy like me. But I never
knew I had any father except the Bon Dieu in Heaven."
Here he stole a glance at the Count, who was leaning against an old
apple tree and watching them.
"You have an awfully nice father, Alain," said Adrienne under her
breath.
"I shall get to know him soon," said Alain wistfully; "but he's very
tall and strong and strange to me. Aunt Susy's husband was a little fat
man, always laughing. He and I played in the hay together."
"Well," said Guy, coming forward, "will he be a shock to your aunt, do
you think?"
"Does she know that you are married?"
"That I was, you mean," said Guy, and a little bitter smile crossed his
lips. "No, she does not; it was but a ten months' interlude, a sudden
venture, a swift regret. Frankly I had no idea that this small person
existed. I had been told that he had died as a baby. The woman who
took him from his mother coveted him and kept him, and wrote giving me
particulars of his death. Now she's at the point of death herself, and
glad to relinquish the care of him."
"And you heard about him, and went off to America to hunt for him?"
said Adrienne. "Why did not you tell us?"
"Because I was not sure of my facts. I suppose Miss Preston has been
discreet and told you nothing? She could give you particulars, for it
was through her brother that I learnt of the existence of my son. I
had reason to believe that my wife left me to run off with him; but I
discovered that it was to his great friend she went."
"And is she dead?" Adrienne asked in a dazed sort of way.
"She died eight years ago, three months after she left me. Caught a
chill in Florence, and the boy spent two years of his life there with
his foster-mother, who returned to America with him later. That is his
history. His foster-mother was a superior woman, had been nurse to his
mother before, and so has trained him in manners and morals. He misses
her, of course, and old Henriette here doesn't understand children."
"But you won't keep him here? He must come to the Château," said
Adrienne quickly.
"My plans are not made yet," replied Guy gravely.
Adrienne got up from her seat, and gently put the child off her lap.
"I must go now. I hear the little chapel bell ringing in the village
and Aunt Cecily will be wondering where I am. May I congratulate you,
Cousin Guy, upon having someone of your own to love and care for? We
shall see you to-morrow morning."
"Yes. If you like to prepare your aunt for my news, you can do so. If
not, I will break it to her when I come."
As she sped away homewards her thoughts were in confusion. Never had
she imagined her cousin to be a married man—a widower! And she resented
his reserve on this point. When he had spoken to her, before leaving
for America, was it this sudden bit of news, this knowledge that he had
a small child somewhere, which made him do it? Did he suddenly feel he
must have a home and a woman to take care of it and of the child?
"He seems so cold, so passionless, as if he has no love left in him,
and yet I suppose his unhappy experience has embittered him. Cousin Guy
with a child! Well, it is an astounding state of things. What on earth
will he do with the poor little soul? I'm afraid Aunt Cecily won't
welcome him."
With such thoughts as these, she wended her way homewards.
CHAPTER XIV
THE NOTARY'S DEFEAT
"AUNT CECILY, did you know that Cousin Guy was married?"
The Countess looked her astonishment as Adrienne put this question to
her after dinner.
"No; but I should never be surprised at anything he did," she said,
recovering her equanimity very quickly. "He is very reserved and
secretive. Who has been talking to you?"
"He has. I think he will tell you about it himself to-morrow. I don't
know the rights of it, but it evidently was not a happy marriage, as
she left him very soon, and died a few months later."
"I believe," the Countess said thoughtfully, "that dear Philippe
must have known it. I dare say he did not care to trouble me with
the details. I never cared for Guy or for his concerns. But dear
Philippe said to me when he lay dying: 'My dearest, if we ever have
grandchildren, I should like them to know this home of theirs!' I did
not pay much attention then; but really Guy may have a dozen children
for all I know."
"He has not a dozen," said Adrienne very quietly; "but he has one. He
thought the child was dead, then heard he was not, and went off to
America to look for him."
"And has he found it? Is it a boy or a girl?"
The Countess was sitting up in her chair now and looking interested.
"A boy. He is at the farm. I saw him this evening. Cousin Guy said I
could tell you. You will be able to hear about it all to-morrow."
"A boy!"
The Countess repeated it to herself, then subsided upon her cushions
again.
"I really don't see that his family has anything to do with us,
Adrienne. He must board him out somewhere if he is small. French
children generally have foster-mothers, you know. It doesn't concern
us. I cannot imagine Guy with a child to look after. But it is treating
me very strangely to withhold this information from me. I always say he
is a most unnatural stepson. I ought to have been told before."
Adrienne tried to soothe her ruffled feelings. She was relieved to
find that Guy was right in his conjectures; that his stepmother would
not be disturbed by his news. The child itself was of no interest to
her. She did not even ask Adrienne for a description of him, and in a
few moments she was full of her Orleans friends, and she kept up an
animated conversation with Adrienne till bedtime over the possible
gaieties when she had settled in her flat.
The next morning Guy arrived over for his business talk. But the
Countess would not discuss any business before déjeuner. At twelve
o'clock they adjourned to the library and then Guy plunged into the
matter in hand. He told his stepmother that his lawyer held many proofs
of Monsieur Bouverie's dishonesty, that he meant to have the matter
cleared up, and that at three o'clock that afternoon both lawyers were
coming to have an interview with him at the Château.
"There is no doubt," said Guy gravely, "that I shall be able to prevent
him taking possession here next Tuesday, but the question is, ma mère,
about yourself. What are your wishes about continuing to live here?
Do you not prefer Orleans? In the winter I know you do; and I should
suggest your making no alteration in your plans, but go there on the
date you have settled. But would you like to return next summer?"
"I may not be alive then," said the Countess, feeling for her
handkerchief. "Of course I do not wish to be turned out of my dear
husband's home. Is it likely that I should? It is the dreadful penury
in which I live which is my greatest trial."
"Well—now listen to me, ma mère. I am hoping I shall be able to square
things up, and we'll make a fresh start, but with this difference: that
I take over the Château as well as the farm and run it on my own. You
have tried to do it and have failed. Now I'll have a try and hope I
may succeed. I have changed in my views somewhat—lately. I'm tired of
a roving life and I mean to settle down. If I go away at all, it will
be for a couple of months in the winter. I want to relieve you of the
whole care and responsibility of this place. If buy it back, or get
it back from your little notary, it must be for myself, but with the
understanding that, for as long as you live, you can consider it as
your home. I will pay for all repairs, all wages; I will run the house
on my own lines, and I see that I shall have to spend a good sum on
outside decoration as well as the inside. I shall welcome you every
summer as my guest—in fact, at any time of the year you like to come;
but as far as money goes, you will have your own marriage settlement,
which has not been touched by this scoundrel, and I think I shall be
able to afford you from the estate an extra two hundred a year. Will
this suit you? I think you will enjoy the freedom of all care and
anxiety. And you ought to be able to live comfortably on your income in
your Orleans flat."
The Countess listened to her stepson rather more quietly than he had
expected; she appeared to be weighing it in her mind, for she was
absolutely silent for a few minutes. Then she said:
"And how will you, a man, be able to run this big house satisfactorily?
I little thought that, after promising me I could have this for my
life, you would now be turning me out."
"No, ma mère, Monsieur Bouverie has turned you out. You have sold the
Château to him. Your possession comes to an end. If I buy it back, I
buy it back for myself. But you can still look upon it as your home.
Your rooms will be always ready for you. Everything in them that you
have always had."
"Beggars can't be choosers," said the Countess bitterly; "I must agree,
of course. How can I do otherwise?"
Then she changed her tone, and spoke with flashing eyes.
"It's a pity that you try to deceive yourself and me by saying you
have changed your views, and after giving me to understand all these
years that you had no affection for the place, now intend to settle
down here. There is one detail you have omitted to mention in your
change of plans, and this is your new-found child. He is the cause of
all this change of views. You would not buy back the Château for your
father's wife, it is for your boy. May I ask who his mother was? Why
have you kept this marriage so dark? It is really he who is to supplant
me, and before I leave the home in which I have been mistress for so
many years, I would like to make sure that this child is all that your
father would desire for a successor. I expect, as my right, that you
give me all details of this marriage."
Adrienne had been growing more and more uncomfortable. She was ashamed
of her aunt, ashamed that she showed no gratitude or appreciation
for what her stepson was doing for her. And now she silently slipped
out of the room. She had no fear that Guy would lose his temper, or
retaliate in any degree to his stepmother's unjust charges. He had
infinite patience, infinite self-control; she knew that he would remain
absolutely calm and unmoved, but she felt that he would be—that he must
be—hurt in his soul, by her aunt's unkindness and suspicion.
She went into the garden, and there, lifting her head to the clear
blue sky beyond, tried to get above earth's difficulties and
misunderstandings.
It was not long before Guy joined her, and he drew a long breath before
he spoke.
"There!" he said. "That's one effort over. I knew she would take it
hardly, but it will be for her happiness. She has tried and struggled
and failed to keep a home over her head, and now I must do it for her.
I suppose she will never believe that I planned this out before I had
any knowledge that I possessed an heir. But that does not matter. I
shall go straight forward now. You had better go to her and get her
mind off my iniquity and deception if you can. She'll soon forget it,
and be happy when she gets into her flat. I really don't know what she
will do without you when you go home!"
"Poor Aunt Cecily!" said Adrienne.
And then she turned to look at Guy with very tender eyes.
"And poor Cousin Guy!" she said softly. "No one understands or feels
for his difficulties, and this addition of responsibility that has just
come to him!"
Then she added quickly:
"But he'll be a joy and a treasure! What a darling little boy he is!
When will you let Aunt Cecily see him?"
"Not till I've polished off Bouverie," said Guy with a grave smile.
Adrienne flitted away from him, and, as so often before, he watched her
figure till it disappeared into the house. But this time from a flash
of interest and admiration, the light in his eyes glowed with deep
passion, and he murmured between set lips:
"Shall I ever win her, and see her as mistress here?"
At three o'clock, Monsieur Bouverie arrived up at the Château. Guy and
Monsieur Grougan, his lawyer, were awaiting him in the big library.
Adrienne kept out of his way, but Pierre told her that he looked very
white, though he blustered more than usually.
"I have very little time to give the Count," he said; "I am
particularly busy to-day."
The interview went on and on. Four o'clock came, five o'clock, six
o'clock, and still the three were talking together. The Countess had
forgotten her anger against Guy. Now she was most excited.
"Do you think Guy will get the better of him? If he has robbed me all
these years, will I get my money back? I think I ought to be there with
them, and yet I would rather not. I am afraid of angry men."
"Cousin Guy will never get angry," said Adrienne.
"No, so much the worse for Monsieur Bouverie," said her aunt shrewdly;
"the cold, implacable man is to be feared rather than the angry one. My
dear Adrienne, when Guy looks at me so straightly, I squirm. I'm afraid
of him."
At six o'clock the library door opened. Monsieur Bouverie was the first
one to leave.
Adrienne could not help glancing through the salon windows at him as
he strode down the avenue. His shoulders were hunched up. He looked,
Adrienne told her aunt, crushed and defeated.
Guy and his lawyer still remained in the library.
When seven o'clock came Guy came out of the room, pushing his hair back
with one hand.
"Phew!" he said as he came across Adrienne in the hall. "We have had
warm work in there, and tough too, but thank God it is over."
"Is he routed?" Adrienne asked.
"He either fulfils our terms, or he stands committed to trial in
Orleans."
Adrienne softly clapped her hands.
"The villain is unmasked and defeated," she said; "and what about the
Château?"
"It's mine," said Guy laconically.
They were standing by the open door as they talked. Guy said he wanted
air.
Then with happy eyes Adrienne leant against the massive oak door.
Putting her lips against it she kissed it.
"Darling old Château," she said, "you've been rescued! I'm so thankful.
I believe you'd have broken my heart if you'd gone out of the family."
"Why, Adrienne, do you love it so?"
Guy's tone was almost impetuous for him.
Adrienne laughed up at him.
"I'm so glad and happy that I could dance a jig here and now!" she said
recklessly. "Who wouldn't love the darling old place? It always seems
to wear a smile for me. Come outside and have a good look at it."
She pulled him by the sleeve. Together they stood out upon the terrace
gazing up at the old building. Its roof was getting golden with moss
and lichen. Red Virginia creeper was climbing up its walls. The woods
above it, the gardens and bit of park round it were all tinted with
russet brown and gold. The smell of wood fires came out of its old
chimneys, for now the evenings were chilly, the Countess had fires
burning in her rooms.
Guy looked up at it, and then at the girl by his side. He gave a short
sharp sigh, and said:
"Yes, it might be a very happy home."
Then with alacrity, he moved into the house.
"I want to tell ma mére, and get her to have Grougan to dinner. We
shall still have business to do afterwards."
Adrienne followed him into the salon, where the Countess sat in state.
"Have you had success?" she asked.
"It is not absolutely certain whether he will fight us or not. He will
let us know his answer to-morrow. But he knows he hasn't a leg to stand
upon. One or two flagrant bits of dishonesty would be quite enough to
condemn him. I've offered to let him off prosecution if he will pay up
for his frauds. One doesn't want to hound the fellow to death, and I do
not think you, ma mére, could stand cross-examination in a French Hall
of Justice."
"No, no, indeed," the Countess said nervously. "I am not strong enough
for any fatigue or excitement. But if he pays up, I hope I shall get
some of my money back."
"You must not forget," said Guy in his cool, level tone, "that from
time to time you have borrowed considerable sums of money from him.
There must be justice on both sides. It remains to be seen, when both
sides have discharged their debts, who will be the richer. I do not
think, ma mére, it will be us. If I discharge the mortgage, it will
take every bit of ready money I possess. His debts will alone enable
me to do it at all. I fear nothing will be over for you, or for the
estate, so do not build on false hopes."
Blank dismay took the place of eager expectancy in the Countess's face.
"Do you mean to say that I shall not get that diamond watch back?" she
asked after a moment's thought.
Guy smiled.
"That item was mentioned to him. I had clear proof that he cheated you
over that. We shall get it back, I hope. Now shall we postpone further
talk, and have some food, and will you let Monsieur Grougan dine with
us, for we still have a lot of business to transact before he leaves?"
"Oh, certainly, let him stay, though I hardly feel inclined for food
after all the shocks of to-day."
Yet with her usual inconsistency, the Countess brightened up and made
herself quite agreeable to the lawyer.
Adrienne did not talk much. Somehow her thoughts were on the small
boy. What would become of him? Who would look after him? She could not
picture her cousin in the role of a father to a child who was hardly
out of the nursery.
She and her aunt discussed the situation again when dinner was over,
and the two men had retired to the library; and Adrienne tried to
impress her aunt with the reasonableness and generosity of her
stepson's plans.
"The Château does want a master, Aunt Cecily. You have told me over and
over again that it did. You will have all the joy of it without the
anxiety. Aren't you thankful beyond words that the Bouveries are not
going to walk in and take possession next Tuesday? I suppose I ought
not to be ill-natured, but I should like to know how Madame Bouverie is
feeling this evening after all her boastful bragging and impertinence!"
"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you about her; but I cannot help feeling
hurt about this child being so suddenly sprung upon us. I only hope he
is genuine, and that the marriage was so, too."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, how can you doubt Cousin Guy's word? He's the soul of
honour."
"I dare say he may be, but it's a strange coincidence that, directly
the boy appears, Guy should buy up the Château and turn me out."
"That's very unfair, Aunt Cecily."
Adrienne flared up quite angrily.
"He has always meant to save the Château at the last moment. He told me
so—but he waited, as he said, till Monsieur Bouverie had a long enough
rope to hang himself! And I think he is quite right to think of his
son, and to wish to give him a home."
"Oh, of course, and then he'll give him a stepmother, and where shall I
be?"
Her aunt's supreme selfishness had generally the effect of silencing
Adrienne. She felt perfectly hopeless now and wisely let the subject
drop.
The next day was Sunday. Adrienne went off to her Protestant Service,
where she met Bertha Preston. They walked back together, and Adrienne
told her all that had happened.
"I know you are discreet, and you know more about the child than I do.
If it had not been for your brother, he would never have been found."
"That is true, but my brother knew more than I did. It was all very
sad. As you have guessed, my poor brother was loose in his morals and
not abstemious. Nine or ten years ago, he met Carlotta Luigi in Rome.
Her father was a very clever physician there. She was a great beauty
and a great flirt. My brother and a dozen other men were infatuated
with her. Then the Count came along. She fell headlong in love with
him, and people said proposed to him. Anyhow they married when they had
only known each other six weeks, and he carried her off to America with
him.
"It was not long before she commenced a passionate correspondence
with my brother, asking him to rescue her from a cold Puritan of a
husband, who had renounced both his title and his Château and wanted
her to live in a country farmhouse in Virginia. My brother, I am sorry
to say, encouraged her, though he had not the remotest idea of either
marrying or living with her. I suppose your cousin got hold of some of
his letters, and drew his own conclusions. Then she made a bolt, but
brought her six weeks' old baby with her. I am afraid it was a bit of
spite against her husband. She would leave him nothing.
"She arrived in Rome, and the very night she arrived, my brother calmly
departed, and sent word to her that he was ill, and could not see her.
Another lover of hers, a young Austrian, came forward, and she went off
with him. She gave her baby into the charge of a German friend of hers,
and it was she who reported the child's death to its father. I think
Carlotta felt reckless, and took no care of herself. She contracted
a chill very soon, and fell into a rapid decline, but up to the last
she refused to write to her husband. I visited her when she was left
neglected and forlorn, and I wrote to her husband, but he never
answered me; he thought that my brother was wholly responsible for her
flight from him."
"Were you living with your brother at the time?"
"No, oh, no. I came out to him with the idea of reforming him and
making a home for him, but he would have none of me then. It was
afterwards, when he knew he was ill of an incurable disease, that I
came to him, and finally persuaded him to come away from the cities and
live quietly in the country. It was strange that we should have pitched
our quarters near the Count. I never knew that this was his part of the
world or that he was over here. I heard it accidentally through the
village girl who came to work for us."
"And your brother knew that the child was alive?"
"Yes. It appears that, when she was dying, Carlotta wrote to him; she
taxed him with having made her leave her husband, and then deceived
her. And she said in her letter:
"'Not only did you make me lose a good husband, but also my child,
for an old friend has taken him back to America and forgotten to give me
her address. I am dying alone now, without a soul belonging to me near
me.'
"In justice to my brother she was not quite fair, for she began the
correspondence. He wished to forget all about her."
"It's a sad story," said Adrienne musingly.
"Yes, but thanks to little Agatha, I was able to tell my poor brother
when dying that there was a chance for him. And it was his own wish
that the Count should come and see him and hear about his child. I had
a bad quarter of an hour with the Count before he saw him. And yet,
under his apparent hardness, I believe there's great feeling."
"Oh, Bertha, what a life you have had!" exclaimed Adrienne. "How could
you give up all your friends, because of your brother!"
"He and I were chums as children," she said; "he wasted his life in
riotous living like the prodigal, and yet in intervals produced such
good work! His temptations were women, and—wine. After all, it was
but natural that I should try to reclaim him. If I did not entirely
succeed, his last year was one of respectability and peace."
Then she said:
"How do parent and child get on? It's rather hard for the Count to be
saddled so suddenly with a small child."
"I hope they'll get on," said Adrienne doubtfully; "but they're very
shy of each other at present. He wants some woman to look after him,
Bertha."
"Yes, he will have to have a nurse or governess," said Bertha. "How
does your aunt take it? She is too absorbed in her own troubles, I
expect, to think about him."
"Yes, she seems entirely indifferent to him. Sometimes I wonder if she
can be the sister of my uncles. They are so utterly different—of course
poor Uncle Tom has gone now, he always used to say that she was spoiled
as a child. I can do nothing with her; no one could change her outlook,
it would be a human impossibility!"
"What does Agatha say?"
"Oh, she says that nothing is impossible with God, and that I must
pass on to her what I myself receive. But it's very, very difficult.
She has given up all religion, except that she keeps a Bible on her
dressing-table; but I've never seen her use it."
They parted soon afterwards, and Adrienne again wondered how things
would work out under a new regime. The old servants were devoted to her
cousin; she could fancy with what joy they would hear the news, but how
they would welcome the child was doubtful.
"Well," she told herself resolutely, "I shan't worry myself about it.
As soon as I have settled Aunt Cecily in Orleans, I must get back to
Uncle Derrick, and Cousin Guy must get on as best he can."
CHAPTER XV
ILLNESS AT THE CHÂTEAU
IT was nearly three weeks later. The Countess would not hurry her
departure for Orleans. She continually postponed the date. The
Bouveries without a word suddenly disappeared from the village.
Their furniture was removed from their house to Paris, after they
had themselves departed. The village and neighbourhood regarded
their disappearance with great composure. They were not popular, and
relief was uppermost in most people's minds. It was all managed very
quietly. Guy appeared satisfied, for his lawyer had promptly settled
up everything, and Adrienne declared that their exodus was like a bad
taste gone from her mouth.
She was beginning to be a little restive about her Aunt's
procrastination. She felt uneasy about her uncle. She hardly ever heard
from him, and he was generally a very good correspondent. Guy's little
son had attached himself to her in a very marked way. He had been
brought up to the Château by his father and introduced to the Countess.
She was pleased to approve of his manners, as he kissed her hand in the
same pretty way as he had kissed Adrienne's; but he was absolutely dumb
before her, and in pity, Adrienne took him away into the garden, where
he suddenly overwhelmed her with a torrent of words:
"I love you. I don't want anybody else. The old lady is my grand-mère,
is she not? I do not want to be near her. She looks at me, and I don't
like her eyes. May I come and play in this garden often? I don't
like the farm. They jabber words I don't understand. And Dad says I
must learn French, so as to speak to them. But Ray the dog there, he
understands me when I speak English. Am I an English boy or a French
boy? I don't want to be two boys. Can you play cricket?"
Adrienne produced out of her pocket a ball, bought in the village that
morning, and with the addition of a flat piece of wood found in the
tool-house, she and Alain were soon playing a game on the lawn.
He was loath to part with her when the Countess sent for her, and began
to cry in a quiet hopeless fashion. His father found him in tears
behind a big shrub and asked him if he had hurt himself.
"No, but just when I begin to be happy, it stops," he sobbed.
"That's the way with most of us," said his father cheerfully; "but only
babies and fools cry."
He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears away from Alain's face.
"Now we must have no more tears, Sonnie, not one. And you will find
that if you can't be happy in one way, you can try another. If you like
to come with me, I'll show you where I used to fish when I was a little
boy."
"I wish I could live here always," said Alain, trotting after his
father obediently. "I should like to live with Cousin Adrienne."
"I'm afraid you and I will have to get on without her. She lives in
England and will be going there soon."
"I'll ask her to take me with her."
"I think you'd better wait. By and by you'll be going to school in
England."
"Shall I?"
"Yes; I want you to be more English than French. But you'll be coming
to live here very soon. Do you like it here?"
They were crossing a bit of the Park and making for a round pond under
some trees.
Alain raised a smiling face.
"Yes, I like it very much. But I don't like the farm."
"Then you don't take after me."
He cut a stick off a tree, produced a string out of his pocket and with
the help of a bent pin left Alain radiantly happy trying to fish for
minnows.
Then he went back to the house, where he discussed the alternative of a
nurse or governess.
"He wants a little of both," said Adrienne; "he's very small and timid."
"A good French bonne is what he wants," said the Countess. "I'll ask
Fanchette. She knows everyone round here."
And in the end Pierre and Fanchette between them evolved out of a
country village close by a very nice motherly woman who was quite
content to go to the farm and look after Alain till the Château was
ready to receive him. Guy was already arranging for an army of paperers
and painters to take possession, and then suddenly everything came to
a standstill. One morning about seven o'clock, Annette came rushing
excitedly to Adrienne:
"Mademoiselle. Vite! La Comtesse, ah, quel horreur!"
For a moment Adrienne thought her aunt was dead. Then slipping into her
room, she found her lying back in bed breathing very stertorously, her
mouth slightly twisted. Nothing would rouse her. Adrienne knew it was a
seizure, and sent Gaston riding off post-haste for the doctor. He came
promptly, but could do very little. He told Adrienne he had been afraid
of this for some time. She had appeared unusually well and happy the
night before, so that there was no special cause for such an attack.
All day Adrienne sat in the sick-room, and towards the evening the
Countess seemed to regain consciousness, and recognized Adrienne,
speaking to her in a thick husky voice. Guy came into the room, and
insisted upon Adrienne's going to bed.
"I'll sit by her for an hour or two, and Fanchette will be here. This
may mean a long illness. You must have rest and sleep, otherwise we
shall have you ill too."
So Adrienne did as he desired, but did not get much sleep. She had only
written to her uncle that day telling him she hoped to be home very
soon. And now how impossible it would be to leave her aunt!
The next day they got a nurse from Orleans, but though the strain of
nursing was taken off Adrienne, her aunt was never happy unless she was
in her room.
In a few days she recovered in a certain measure, but lay quietly in
bed and never wished to move. She recovered her speech, but used wrong
words, and only Adrienne seemed to understand her. The girl had adapted
herself instantly to the sick-room's requirements. She was always
bright and smiling in her aunt's presence; always gentle and tender
with her. The workmen were sent away, for their noise fretted the
invalid; but as she grew stronger, life resumed its normal state, and
before very long everyone became accustomed to her condition. Orleans
was not to be thought of. Adrienne unpacked the many trunks she had
packed, and rather sadly rearranged her aunt's room, putting out many
of her pretty treasures which had been packed to go away with her.
The Count continued to stay at the farm with his small boy, but he was
up at the Château every day.
One day, he insisted upon Adrienne riding out with him.
"You must have more exercise. It is good for you," he said.
And when Adrienne came out into the fresh air which was slightly
touched with frost, and cantered along the lanes, the pink flush came
into her cheeks and the light into her eyes.
"It is delicious," she said.
"How long are we going on like this?" Guy asked her. "It is not right
that you should spend your days in a sick-room. The doctor says she may
be many months in this state."
"How can I leave her?" Adrienne asked.
"What does your uncle say?"
"He wanted to come over, but Dr. Caillot advises not. He says she ought
to be kept as quiet as possible and to see no fresh people. Uncle
Derrick is willing that I should stay on for the present."
"And what do you feel about it?"
"Do you want to get rid of me?" Adrienne asked him laughingly. "I feel
that at present I cannot leave Aunt Cecily. I don't believe she'd get
well at all, if she worried; and she worries whenever I am long away
from her."
"Do you think the child about the house would disturb her?"
"How could he—the darling! The patter of his feet up and down the
stairs and his laugh and chatter would be music in our ears. I hope you
and he will come soon. It is your home, not ours, remember! I could
take Aunt Cecily into Orleans when she gets better."
"She will never be turned out by me," said Guy with emphasis.
"Well, can't we live together, one happy family?" said Adrienne
lightly. "I will stay a few weeks longer. Aunt Cecily will be up and
about by then, I hope."
But Guy knew better. He said nothing, for he would not damp her hopes.
And in a few days' time he and his small boy took possession of the
Château.
Alain and his nurse were put into two cheerful rooms at the end of
the long corridor away from the Countess, so that she should not be
disturbed.
And Adrienne had one delightful morning in Orleans, choosing nursery
furniture and bright pictures for the nursery. Guy was with her. There
was one awkward moment, when Adrienne was addressed as "Madame" and
something was suggested for her "little son."
Guy was so silent and imperturbable that, though the crimson blood
rushed into her cheeks, she felt sure that he had not heard the words.
And a wild desire tugged at her heart, that she might be a mother of a
boy like that.
It was the second evening after their arrival that Guy went to the
organ and very softly began to play. Adrienne was sitting with her
aunt. Hearing the music, she asked her aunt if she would like to
listen. Receiving assent, she put open the bedroom door.
But they were not the only listeners. Alain on his way to bed broke
away from the care of his bonne. With flaming eyes, he darted down
to the hall and hid behind a heavy carved oaken seat by the organ.
There he sat on the floor with clasped hands round his knees listening
entranced whilst his bonne, missing him, searched the terrace outside.
Guy did not play for long. He was improvising softly, and the strain
of his music was sad and wistfully sweet. When at last he dropped his
hands from the keys, and sat with bowed head and sorrowful memories,
two tiny arms suddenly reached up and clutched him round the neck.
"I love you, Daddy! I love you! Make more music."
The soft cheek that was pressed against his was tear-stained.
Guy turned round and lifted the child on his knee. It was the first
expression of affection that he had received from him.
"Why, Sonnie, have you a bit of your father in you, after all? If you
have, I'll have you taught music before you learn to read. There is
nothing like music for a weary, disappointed man's soul. It restores
his courage, and bucks him up to defy failure."
Alain naturally did not understand this.
"Play again, Daddy, play again!" he entreated.
But Lucie, the bonne, had found him, and she carried him off most
unwillingly to bed.
All the next day Alain talked to Adrienne of his father's music.
And in the afternoon, when her aunt was asleep, she took him into the
salon and opened the piano.
"Now, Alain, you shall learn to play. Daddy says so, and I will teach
you."
Alain shivered from head to foot with excitement when he touched the
notes of the piano with one tiny finger. He would not leave it when the
lesson was over, but sat on the high music-stool, striking one note
after another, first with one hand, then with the other. And hearing
his delicate certain touch, Adrienne told his father afterwards that
music oozed out of his fingers.
Every evening now, half an hour before bedtime, Alain would curl
himself up by the organ stool, and listen to his father's music.
Guy and his little son had found a bond of interest at last.
One afternoon Adrienne slipped away to see little Agatha. Bertha
Preston had left the neighbourhood, and she missed her friendship.
But Agatha was always a tower of strength to her, and whenever she
felt unusually tired or depressed she would visit her, and come away
refreshed.
"Agatha," she said as she sat down by the couch, and laid her hand
caressingly on Agatha's small white one, "I want to talk to Aunt Cecily
about good things, and I feel tongue-tied. I don't know how to begin.
Help me! It is so terribly pathetic to see her lying there day after
day with her brain clear, but her body almost lifeless, and her speech
difficult and uncertain. I wonder sometimes what she is thinking about.
She was always so restless before this illness, always moving about her
room, having her clothes altered, playing Bridge, looking at fashion
magazines. She can do none of these things now."
"No," said Agatha, smiling; "but she can do much better, she can lie
in the Arms of the Bon Dieu and listen to His Comforting Voice. It's
a great step upwards, Mademoiselle, to lie still and listen. A hush
has been sent into her life, so that she can do it. It was too noisy
before."
"That sounds beautiful, but to her it will be incomprehensible. I want
to help her. I have wanted to help her for a long time. I shall soon be
going away, and I shan't have done it."
"Then begin to-morrow, dear Mademoiselle."
"What can I say?"
"Read to her some of our Lord's words; you won't want many of your own."
Adrienne thought over this, with the result that that very same evening
she took up her aunt's Bible, which lay on her dressing-table, and
approached her, rather timidly, with it.
"Aunt Cecily, shall I read you a few verses out of this before you go
to sleep—just to think over, and sleep upon?"
The Countess stared at her and at the Bible, then she shut her eyes
wearily.
Adrienne took this to mean assent, as her aunt was capable of a
negative shake of her head.
So she turned to the third chapter of St. John, and read about the
nightly interview between the ruler and His King. She did not read many
verses, and that night made no comment on them. The next evening she
continued the chapter, and still said nothing. It was some evenings
before she summoned up her courage to say, after reading the end of the
fifth chapter of St. John:
"You know, Aunt Cecily, it is only since I came here that I have
learnt to love my Bible, and I think you will find comfort in it.
Little Agatha has taught me so much. She seems to live so close to God
herself, that she draws everyone nearer to Him too. And she says you
are now lying in God's Arms for rest and happiness."
The Countess shook her head, but Adrienne saw a tear trickle down her
cheek.
"And," went on Adrienne slowly, "if we do come into God's Arms,
it is to be forgiven, and loved, and blessed. He wants us, and is
disappointed if we keep away. As He says in this chapter:
"'Ye will not come to me that ye might have life.'"
She said no more, but as time went on found it easier to speak about
the things she had learnt to love.
And her aunt lay and listened, but never said a word.
One afternoon, Guy came in from the farm, where he still spent part of
his days, and asked Pierre for Adrienne.
"Mademoiselle has gone out for a short walk."
"Do you know where she went?"
Pierre did not know.
As he had a message to give her from Madame Nicholas whom he had
chanced to meet, Guy went in search of her. It was a strange life that
he was leading now, he reflected—strange for him and strange for her.
Virtually they were running the house together, much as husband and
wife would do; and yet there was always a deep barrier between them,
and of which they were both acutely conscious. There was no happy
intimate talk, only grave conversation about local interests, the
condition of the invalid, and the doings and sayings of the child.
He certainly brought life and happiness into the old Château. His
pattering feet up and down the stairs, his chatter and laughter, his
friendliness with the old servants, and with all the animals which he
could approach delighted and amused both Adrienne and his father.
Sometimes in the dusky twilight, as Adrienne sat opposite Guy at
dinner, in her white gown with the candles lighting up her fair sunny
face and hair, a throb of pain would rise in his throat and an ache
in his heart. Yet never again, he assured himself, would he lay bare
the love that had crept into his soul, and deepened and grown till
he could hardly contain himself. She had told him she would never
link her life to his because of his unfriendly reserve. She did not
like his ways, his manners, himself. And he was a strange mixture of
assurance and diffidence. He was convinced that he was not attractive
to any woman. He had lost a young wife because, three weeks after
marriage, she had told him she was tired of him, and wished she had
not married him. And Adrienne, with her sunny gracefulness, her sweet
temper and unselfishness, had told him very bluntly that there was
nothing attractive in his personality. He believed it now. His pride
forbade him from incurring again such a snub. Yet he marvelled that
circumstances had for a time decreed that they should share a home
together. He dreaded a change, yet he felt that inevitably it must come.
Madame Nicholas wanted Adrienne to take Alain the next day to her
house. She had a little grandchild staying with her, and was having a
children's party.
Guy now betook himself to the woods. He knew most of Adrienne's
favourite haunts by this time, and was not surprised when he caught
sight of her figure in the distance. But what was she doing? Was she
hurt or ill? He quickened his steps. She was lying face downwards
amongst the brown pine-needles between a group of pine trees, and as he
came near the heaving of her shoulders told him that it was either a
storm of passion or of weeping.
Like a flash, he reviewed the morning. He had seen her at déjeuner,
and she was light-hearted and gay chattering with Alain as if she had
been a child herself. What could have happened since? The post! The
letters came in at one o'clock, and he had not seen her since. She must
have had bad news. Then he felt that he must make his presence known;
she would not like him to see her like this, so he whistled, and in a
second Adrienne had got to her feet. There was a seat a little farther
down, and she made her way to this.
Here he found her. It was impossible for him to ignore her trouble, as
her swollen eyelids and tear-stained face could not be misunderstood.
For a moment he said nothing, then he sat down beside her.
"Little cousin, you are in trouble. Can I help you?"
"Oh, why did you find me? I wanted to be alone." Adrienne's tone was
desperate, but Guy was too anxious over her to be easily repulsed.
"I am sorry," he said in his quiet level tone; "but I had a message for
you and came out to find you. And I'm glad I came, for perhaps two may
be better than one in the present circumstances."
"Oh, you can't help me."
Adrienne's self-possession and dignity had left her. Tears were rushing
back to her eyes.
Then pulling a letter out of her pocket, she handed it to him.
"Read it. It's my own fault. I've stayed away from him; I've failed him
in his loneliness. He waited and waited and waited for me, and then
thought I did not want or care to come back to him. And oh, how hard
I've tried to leave Aunt Cecily, and how impossible it has been for me
to do so!"
CHAPTER XVI
LOVERS
THIS was the letter that Adrienne had received that day.
"MY DEAREST ADRIENNE,—
"I am sitting down to break a bit of news to you. It may astonish you,
it has astonished me myself, but it has just seemed to happen in some
inexplicable fashion. I am going to marry Florence Winter. We have been
old friends for many a long day, as you know. I think if it had not
been for Tom, it might have happened ten years ago, but she did not
like him, and he did not like her, and I would never have left him to
set up a separate establishment. When I was up in town a short while
ago, I saw a good bit of her, but I never intended anything more than
to strengthen our friendship.
"Then I went home, and the house was I confess it unbearably lonely.
I felt that I could not urge you to come back when your aunt needed you
so much, and, as time slipped on, I began to think that it might be a
happier life for you over in France than with one old man in a small
country village. Your aunt wrote saying she was going to Orleans, where
she could give you a good time. This her illness has stopped for the
present. I longed to come over and have a good talk with you, but you
wrote, saying it was best not. And then I was restless awaiting your
return, and I went up to town again, and the long and short of it is we
settled it up.
"I hope you may be glad, for it will leave you free to live the life
you like the best. Only remember a home with me is always waiting
for you. I know you like Florence, and she's ready to mother you if
necessary—in any case to welcome you always. We are such old folk that
we mean to walk in quietly to a London church one day very soon and
come out man and wife. Write to me, dear, and let me know what you
think of—
"Your devoted old Uncle
"DERRICK.
"Tell me how your aunt is, and when you go to Orleans. I am so thankful
that the responsibility of the Château will no longer be hers."
Guy read this through, folded it up slowly and thoughtfully and then
handed it back to Adrienne. "You have been between two fires," he said.
"Each of them wanting you badly. Poor little woman!"
His sympathetic tone brought the tears again with a rush.
"I can't explain it to you, but everything, everyone seems to be swept
away from me. I was so happy, so content before I came over here! And
now—now my two best friends have married, or are just going to marry
each other, and neither of them will be the same to me again. Uncle
Derrick I adored! And now he, and my home will not be mine any longer.
Mrs. Winter is nice, but she's a London Society woman, and I hate town
and town ways. It's just pure selfishness on my part, for I believe
she'll make Uncle Derrick very happy. They've always been fond of each
other. Well, I have failed him, and made him feel lonely and forlorn,
and now it's my turn, and I can't complain!"
There was a moment's pause. Adrienne felt ashamed of her outburst, and
was pulling herself together when Guy deliberately put his arm round
her and drew her towards himself.
"You shall not be either lonely or forlorn," he said, strong passion
vibrating in his voice. "I want you as never man wanted a woman before.
And I'll undertake to keep you from tears if you give yourself to me.
I've been snubbed off, I know, but I'm not going to be snubbed off
now. I know this, that if love and devotion can make you happy, you'll
have it in me. Give me a chance to show you what I can do. I'm tired
of restraining and curbing my feelings. I want to tell you what you've
been to me since that first happy day when your little feet entered my
home. Don't fret over your uncle! If you knew how desolate a man's life
can be when he's shut into himself and grey memories, without any hope
to look forward to, you would be glad that he's solved his problem.
In any case, he wouldn't have wished to keep you single all your life
just to attend on him. Adrienne sweet, dearest, let me kiss those
tear-stained eyes. I must. I long to comfort you so!"
Utterly unable to withstand him, Adrienne let her head sink on his
shoulder. It was broad enough and strong enough to bear all her life's
burdens, she knew. She was a little dazed and bewildered by his
impetuosity, and then remembered that this was more like the cousin
who had come down to her uncles and insisted that she should come to
the aid of her aunt. It was only lately that he had been so grave and
self-contained.
And Guy had no single thought now but of kissing away his loved one's
tears, of seeing the light gradually creep into her soft grey eyes, and
the sunshiny smile return to her quivering lips.
This Adrienne, lonely, forlorn and dejected, disappointed and
disillusioned in her childhood's home, was a different girl to the
dignified stately young lady who had accused him of being all that
she disliked, mysterious, reserved and complacent in his reticence.
That accusation had hurt him; he had no room in his heart for hurts
or injuries now, it was all taken up with his overflowing love and
passion for her. If Adrienne had wished to free herself from his strong
protective hold, she could not. But she lay passive in his arms, and
when his lips touched hers, she could only turn her face a little, and
hide it on his shoulder.
"You—you haven't allowed me time or breath to speak," she at last
managed to say.
"My darling, I'm waiting to hear you. But I'm not afraid. If I haven't
inspired you with feelings of love or confidence in myself, I know
that I've the power in me to do it. It has come to me now that you and
I are meant for each other, that God above has drawn us together, and
has been slowly but surely demolishing all the barriers that might have
loomed up between us."
Then he added:
"I asked you before to join me in making a home. I had that vision
perpetually before my eyes—but now it isn't the home I think about, it
is you yourself, and only yourself that I want to win."
And then Adrienne looked up at him, and the light shone in her eyes and
smile.
"And that is what I want to hear," she whispered; "and I only want in
the whole wide world, just you."
It was winter time, but the pines whispered and rustled their tops
together above them, and the golden sun that was already nearing the
horizon sent its shafts of glory across the wood to greet the pair of
lovers. The golden rays hovered on the two heads so close together, the
cheerful chattering of the birds preparing their beds for the night
gradually ceased, and a sudden hush fell upon the woodlands round them.
Adrienne roused herself with a little quivering laugh:
"You certainly know how to dry tears, Guy. I wonder if dear Uncle
Derrick and Mrs. Winter are as happy as we are? I could not tell you
just now, but deep down in my heart I was crying for you. I did want
you so badly. Ever since I sent you to America with such hasty words
as I used, I have been consumed with shame and remorse. And I felt you
had given up caring about me, that you were expecting me to leave the
Château as soon as I could. When Uncle Derrick's letter came, and I
felt that he didn't want me, I wondered where on earth I could go, to
get away from you both!"
Then she stood up. Even in this golden moment of happiness, her duty in
life came before her.
"I must go back to Aunt Cecily. Nurse will be wanting her tea."
"Ah!" said Guy, getting up and stretching himself. "Now I see freedom
before me! I dared not make a move before, because of frightening you
away. Now the first thing that I shall do will be to get another good
nurse, and relieve you of this constant attendance in a sick-room."
"But," said Adrienne in her usual cheery tone, "I am not going to
forsake Aunt Cecily. I am too fond of her for that."
"We'll discuss the subject later."
They walked back to the Château together, Adrienne feeling as if she
were in a dream.
Was it the level-headed, rather aloof Guy now speaking to her with such
passionate earnestness?
"I fell in love with you at first sight," he was telling her; "I used
to shut my eyes often and see you in that English drawing-room of yours
at the piano singing that song about giving. The windows were open, and
I can smell the sweet jasmine now that was climbing up outside. I was
desperately afraid you would not come over, and when you did, I was
afraid you would not stay. I have so many pictures of you, Adrienne.
I took them all away to America with me, and looked at them again and
again. Do you remember when I first came upon you in the wood? The sun
was on your hair, and if I hadn't had plenty of self-control, I could
have taken you up and kissed you there and then."
"You had consummate self-control," said Adrienne, looking up at him
with her sunny smile. "You seemed above and beyond me altogether; and
when you did ask me to make a home for you, I felt it was the home you
were thinking about, and not me."
"I was crude in expression. I've never had a home all my life—home is
where love blossoms and ripens and stays. I never had anyone to care
for me. Even my mother was bored with me. She hated children and she
died when I was five. I wasn't French enough for my father. We were
good friends—nothing more. And when my stepmother came into my father's
life, I was in America, a grown man."
"Did you never know Mathilde? I thought her rather nice, though she
lived, I think, entirely for amusement."
"We met occasionally. The Château was not a happy home. It is only
since I have watched your love for it that I began to think I might
come to care for it too."
"You do love it, don't you?"
"I think it's a good setting for the light of my eyes and the centre of
my life. I have been remote and unfriendly, sweetest, but I dared not
be anything else. And it was a great shock when I heard about my little
son. It seemed to place you at a greater distance from me. I thought
you might object to that former bit of my life. When you took him to
your heart, I thanked God and took courage. And lately hope sprang up.
You seemed content and happy here. I can't express what your presence
in the Château has been. Pierre told me that you were the sunny angel
of the house. You flit about singing your little songs, and turning a
shining face to everyone. We all brighten up when you pass by. I don't
wonder ma mère is frantic at the idea of losing you."
"Oh, Guy, don't flatter so. But seriously, I must go home to Uncle
Derrick. He is all I have of my own. You know what I mean, and—and I
want to tell him about ourselves."
"Of course you shall. I know you will come back to me, so will spare
you willingly. I have been feeling for some time that you ought to
go, but I frankly confess I was afraid of losing you. I've always had
jealous fears about that young squire so close to you."
"Oh, Godfrey! Why, Guy, I refused him before I came out here, and now
he's going to marry my best girl friend."
"Then we'll find another good nurse as soon as we can, so that you can
leave your aunt without a qualm. And I think you'd better let me come
over and fetch you back. I'm sure you'd like to be married from your
uncle's house."
"You take my breath away."
"Think it over, darling. There's nothing to wait for."
Adrienne was silent, then they came to the end of the wood from where
they had a view of the old house and gardens.
Adrienne's eyes glowed as she looked upon it.
"Darling old Château!" she said. "I little thought you were going to
be my home, when you crept inside me, and snuggled so close up in my
heart!"
Guy threw back his head and laughed. Adrienne had always felt the charm
of his laugh.
She turned to him and clasped his arm with both her hands.
"I mean to make you laugh often and often till you chase your wrinkles
away," she said; "I love you when you do it. Oh, Guy, the cares of this
life are rolling off my shoulders. I can't even feel sorry for Aunt
Cecily. All her anxieties are over; she will never be plunging into
debt and borrowing money any more, and we shall have no anxiety over
her. She seems so peaceful and happy! When she gets stronger she will
come downstairs, a peaceful, contented old lady. You see if she does
not! Her whole nature seems to be altering."
But Guy looked grave.
"We'll make her last years happy if we can," he said; "I feel that you
are beginning married life with two responsibilities, my darling. It's
hardly fair on you, but your aunt and the small boy must look upon this
as their home."
"I should rather think so. You will be my only responsibility, Guy;
they're just happy incidents, but you,—"
She paused, shook her head and gave it up.
And then they came indoors, and Guy, in the overflowing joy of his
heart, said to Pierre as he came forward in the hall:
"Mademoiselle is never going to leave us, Pierre. Wish me joy. She will
be your mistress."
Pierre, like an excitable Frenchman, began to wave his hands.
"Ah, bon, bon!" he ejaculated. And then he began to invoke so many
blessings on Adrienne's head that she ran away from him crying:
"I shall suffer from a swollen head very soon."
She stopped at her aunt's door.
Her first impulse had been to tell her of her happiness, and then she
began to wonder whether her aunt would consider it good news or not.
She might not like the idea of Adrienne becoming mistress of the
Château. If she were in normal health and strength, Adrienne was sure
that the idea of being superseded would not please her. She finally
decided not to tell her. So she went in and relieved the nurse in her
usual way.
Later on she had another talk with Guy, and before she went to bed that
night had written to her uncle telling him of her engagement and saying
that she hoped to be home in a few days' time. She also congratulated
him very warmly on his own contemplated marriage.
"We will not be married together on the same day," she wrote; "for
I want you to give me away. But I want my wedding to be very quiet,
and Guy agrees with me. I am longing to see you and talk to you. If
you only knew how I have longed for you, and how lonely I have been
feeling, you wouldn't imagine that I had forgotten you. It was when
Guy found me crying my eyes out that he promptly said he meant to take
care of me for the future. He's an adept at comforting. He's stiff and
matter of fact outside, but at heart is the tenderest, most feeling
person in the world."
Very few people were told of Adrienne's engagement. But she made a
point of telling little Agatha herself.
Agatha wisely smiled.
"I knew it would come, Mademoiselle. The good God lets me know things,
because my life is so quiet. And the Count will settle down amongst us
at last. It will be good for us all—very good. See how God has arranged
for you, and for the poor Countess. She will die happily in her old
home, and you will take her place, and be held tightly in the hearts of
us all."
"Oh, Agatha, do you think my aunt is going to die? I wonder and think
so much of her. I long that she should get into touch with the unseen
land before she goes there, but she speaks so seldom now, and with so
much difficulty. I wish I knew about her."
"Dear Mademoiselle, the Lord has found her and is keeping her safely in
His Arms."
"How do you know?"
Agatha laughed in her gentle, joyous way.
"I do know. I haven't a fear now. I talked about her much, and now I
have been assured. Keep on reading to her, Mademoiselle, and talk to
her as you do when you visit the little Alain in his bed."
"I think you are a wizard, Agatha. I never told you how I talk to
Alain."
But when she was reading to her aunt that evening, she felt as if
Agatha's words were true. The Countess listened as if she liked to
listen, and smiled more than once as if she were comforted and pleased.
Coming out of the bedroom, Adrienne went downstairs into the salon,
where a blazing wood fire was burning. She piled some cushions together
on the hearthrug and sank down into them. As a little child she had
always loved making pictures in the fire. Guy was busy writing letters
in the library, but she loved the solitude of the old Château and never
felt lonely in it. She did not hear Guy's step, so deep was she in her
dreams, until a soft touch on her hair made her look round.
"All alone, sweetheart?"
"Sit down by me and let us be children together. Only one more evening
and then the ocean will be between us. Have you written to Mathilde?"
"I came to tell you that this evening's post has brought a letter from
her. She is on her way here. She is not surprised at her mother's
illness. She tells me she had a very slight seizure once before."
"I am glad she's coming. I shall not be missed."
"No? It will be only losing our light and hope and sunshine. But we
shall weather through."
"You will be very happy, and so shall I, looking forward to our next
meeting."
Guy would not sit down: he was standing with his back to the fire,
looking down upon her.
"Sometimes," he said, "I can't believe in my luck. And I am wondering
if, when you get back to your old environment, it will take possession
of you again, and you will feel you cannot give it all up for a very
mundane middle-aged widower. You will be beginning your married life,
poor child, with ready-made cares, a restless little stepson and a
sick aunt, to say nothing of a husband who intends to monopolize you
entirely whenever he gets a chance."
Adrienne looked up at him with radiant eyes.
"What good times we shall have! And if—if I come back by Christmas,
what a lovely Christmas with a child to enjoy it, and all the villagers
to surprise and please with gifts. We'll give the old Château a good
time, too. It has been so very dull and sedate for so many years."
"I believe the Château comes first sometimes with you."
"Are you jealous of it?"
Then Adrienne rose and put her slender arms round his neck, drawing his
head down to her.
"Oh, Guy, Guy, how you've made me love you! Do you think that any old
environment of mine could wean me away from all I have here? And could
the Château itself compare with you! I shall be counting the days to
when you come over to claim me."
"Yes," said Guy with emphatic assurance in his tone, "I am living for
that day too. I don't think anything in this whole wide world would
make me forgo my claim. But I shall want you to myself. Will you come
over to America with me for a few weeks? I should like to show you my
mother's old home in Virginia. One of her aunts, an old lady of eighty
years, is living there in old-fashioned state. We will get Mathilde to
stay on here till we return."
"I will go anywhere with you," Adrienne whispered.
And then Pierre came in to extinguish the candelabra, and she said good
night in a very matter of fact way and went off to bed.
CHAPTER XVII
WED
"WELL, Uncle Derrick, here I am, and how well you are looking. Quite
ten years younger!"
Adrienne had arrived at her country station, and, as usual, her uncle
was there to meet her. He had violets in his buttonhole, and his whole
appearance was alert and smart.
"I have only been home for a few days," he said, as he drew her hand
into his arm and walked her out of the station into the road to the car
which was waiting. He was driving himself; and when they were once off,
he turned to her in a kind of shamefaced way.
"We couldn't wait. I didn't tell you, as it might have hurried you back
before you were ready to come, but we've had a quiet week in the New
Forest together, and now I've brought her home."
Adrienne drew a long breath, then she said:
"I'm so glad. You're such a dear that I love to think that you're going
to have a little happiness on your own at last."
But for a moment blank dismay filled her heart. She had so counted on
having a cosy time alone with her uncle before her marriage.
Resolutely she packed her disappointment away out of sight.
"Were you surprised at my news?" she asked him.
"Rather. You started off with a dislike to him. I am not sure that I
think him good enough for you. Not a patch on Godfrey."
"Oh, oh! I must protest! Godfrey is a dear, but he's always the same,
always serene and good and straight, and never perturbed or excited. He
always would assent to everything I suggested, and we should have lived
a placid level life, knowing each other through and through and never
discovering anything more of each other. Now Guy is different. He is
masterful, and reserved and passionately tender at times, and at other
times impervious to coaxing or persuasion, and sternly obdurate. He has
more in him than ever he lets escape, and I'm always discovering fresh
traits in his character."
"I think," said the Admiral slowly, "that I would rather know anyone
through and through, than be in ignorance of how they might act on
certain occasions."
"Oh, but he would be always right. I know he would."
"He is perfect in your eyes. That makes a good beginning. I want to
have a talk with him about the future. Has he enough income to keep you
comfortably in that old Château?"
"Don't speak disrespectfully of my darling Château. I wish you could
have come over before I left. Yes—he was telling me the other day that
he has money and property from his own mother. He has done a great deal
for Aunt Cecily. I am almost ashamed to think how much."
"She ought to have got rid of that old house long ago."
"She was deep in debts and misery, but it seemed quite hopeless to help
her. And then it all came to a crisis as I wrote and told you, and now
everything is fair and square—except her health. I can't bear to say
it, but she is so gentle and quiet now that it makes everything easy.
Poor Aunt Cecily! She will never play Bridge again. That was her great
temptation. She always played for money. And never minded how high the
stakes were—so of course she lost a good deal. She was not a brilliant
player, so I was told. Now give me the village news."
They talked on till they reached home. Adrienne wondered how she
would have felt had she been coming back to take up her old home life
again. As she entered the hall, she had a strange forlorn feeling that
her place had been filled, and she was wanted no longer. Yet when
she entered the drawing-room and met her uncle's wife, her grace and
beauty and affectionate interest in her overcame the awkwardness of the
meeting. Mrs. Chesterton was no longer young, she did not disguise her
grey hair; she had naturally a good complexion, beautiful dark eyes,
and a very charming smile. Tall and slight, she held herself with great
dignity and composure. As she kissed Adrienne, she said:
"Your uncle has been longing to see you. His happiness will be complete
now. Dear Adrienne, I hope you will soon be as happy yourself as we
are. You have youth and a long life in front of you. We have old
age creeping on and life mostly behind us. But it is so good, so
satisfying, to be together at last."
"You have waited a long time," said Adrienne as she returned the kiss
warmly. "I wonder now, why you waited so."
"Just thirty years," said Mrs. Chesterton. She said no more, but as
Adrienne caught her radiant smile of welcome to her uncle, who had
followed her in, she felt content and glad that the long waiting for
them was over.
Those first few days were rather difficult. It seemed so unnatural
to Adrienne to take a back seat in the home over which she had been
mistress ever since she had left school. But she was very thorough in
her abnegation, and more than once Mrs. Chesterton remonstrated with
her.
"Let us do things together, dear, as much as possible. Don't be always
trying to retire and push me forward. And let me help you all I can
with your trousseau. I have always been a busy woman with many irons in
the fire; and just at first after town, this country life seems rather
quiet and empty."
"You won't move Uncle Derrick up to town?" Adrienne begged her. "He
does so love the country, and all his councils and committees in our
small town."
"You need not be afraid; I am too fond of him to take him away from all
his work. I mean to adapt myself to the country and not try to adapt
him to the town."
Adrienne's relief of mind was great.
The big event now locally was Godfrey's marriage, and the whole
neighbourhood was most excited about it. Adrienne had many hours with
Phemie, who was sewing for herself in her bedroom at the farm and
making good resolutions for the future.
Her mother no longer harried and bustled her about. She wisely left her
alone, and had already a land girl in her place. Adrienne was amused
when she heard she was a parson's daughter in a neighbouring parish;
and was certainly neither old nor plain in looks. She wondered if Dick
would be susceptible; but when she said something of this kind to
Phemie, she scoffed at it.
"Don't you know that Dick has always secretly worshipped you? It sounds
ridiculous, of course; but he'll take a long time in adjusting his
affections in a fresh direction."
"I never thought—I never knew—" faltered Adrienne.
"No; with Godfrey's open and undisguised admiration, Dick knew he had
no chance. I believe faint hopes were stirred when I told him about
myself and Godfrey. But I felt that over in that Château, you and that
stepcousin would naturally come together. I hope he's really all you
wish, Adrienne dear. Godfrey can't understand it. He says you told him
that you wanted a lover who would thrill you through and through and
carry you off your feet, one whom you could follow to the death."
"I talked a lot of nonsense to Godfrey," said Adrienne with rising
colour.
She felt hurt that he should discuss her so openly with Phemie, but
would not let herself be affected by it.
"I do think I could follow Guy anywhere," she said quietly. "Don't you
feel that with Godfrey?"
"Of course I do. I adore him."
The two girls sewed and talked together.
Then Adrienne went up to town with Mrs. Chesterton, and a busy
fortnight of shopping followed. Her uncle would not accompany them.
When she returned, it was to be present at the young squire's wedding.
Lady Sutherland was the only one who could not and would not rejoice.
Phemie told Adrienne in confidence that it needed all her pluck and
courage to go through with it. But the anticipation of a honeymoon
spent in Florence, Rome, and Venice was sufficient compensation for
what she suffered beforehand.
It was a very quiet wedding; Adrienne felt as if she were in a dream,
wondering all the time how she should feel when her turn came.
The villagers did their best to show their approval. Bells were rung,
flowers strewn on the pathway, and small flags and bunting flying on
every house in the village.
They knew Phemie, and liked her, but considered that she was not quite
up to Sir Godfrey. They all loved him, and wished him well. The general
opinion was that it was time he married and settled down!
When it was all over, and the happy pair had gone off to Rome, Lady
Sutherland asked Adrienne to come and stay a few days with her. And
out of pity Adrienne went. She felt sorry for the old lady, who talked
about going to a small dower house about four miles away, but evidently
thought she ought not to be obliged to do it. She confided in Adrienne:
"Of course Godfrey wishes me to stay; he says I can help Phemie so
much, but she is not a girl who will like to be helped. It is the
bitterest time in a woman's life when she has to give up her home, the
reins of authority and her son to a stranger. Ah, my dear, I should not
feel it so much were you my daughter-in-law."
"I believe you would," said Adrienne, trying to laugh. "In some ways
Phemie is more capable than I am. I am very fond of her, and you will
be too when you've learnt to know her. She has had a hard girlhood,
has she not? And I think that prosperity will soften her. She adores
Godfrey, and he deserves to be adored."
Adrienne had a way with her of lightening people's burdens. When she
left Lady Sutherland, that good lady was resigned to her circumstances,
and determined to make the best of them.
"You're a dear girl," the old lady said, as she kissed her on parting.
"I know you've had your own troubles, but you're fortunate in having
a fresh home waiting for you. I know how you felt the loss of your
Uncle Tom. It was a blow to all of us, and now this marriage of the
Admiral's!—I only hope it will turn out well for them both."
Adrienne had no doubt upon that point. Day by day she saw how
increasingly happy her uncle became. It was quite pathetic to note how
his eyes followed his wife, as she moved about, with both dignity and
grace.
With all her home interests, Adrienne never failed to write and to hear
from Guy. They had fixed their wedding for the 15th of November.
His last letter before he came over was as follows:
"MY DEAREST,—
"This is to be followed by me myself. How the days have dragged since
you left us! But I have been busy, and have tried vainly to distract my
thoughts from your little figure and personality. I was playing on the
organ yesterday evening—just letting my thoughts run on—you need not
be told the subject of them—and suddenly a small voice piped up from
behind me:
"'I think, Daddy, you're making up about Cousin Adie when she sings.'
That was rather cute, wasn't it? He's making giant strides in his
music. I don't want him to be a prodigy, but I'm convinced he'll be a
musician. Yesterday he came an awful cropper off his pony and cut his
head badly. It happened close to little Agatha's cottage and I took him
straight in. He was howling horribly, but in an instant she calmed him.
She put her hands upon his head, and he looked up at her and smiled:
"'Why the pain is all gone!' he said. Then Marie bathed and bound the
cut up, and he's never had any more pain in it since. I do believe she
has healing power in her fingers, the village firmly declares she has.
"Your aunt is about the same, no better, no worse—Mathilde is feeling
very dull, but has generously promised to stick to her post till we
come back from our trip abroad. She and I garden sometimes together,
and she's helping me to smarten up bits of the house for my bride. This
is enough about our household here. My tongue is tied when I come to my
heart's centre. I can neither write nor speak of what I feel, but you
know always and utterly my life is yours, with all its imperfections
and crudity and roughness.
"I pray God continually to keep my darling safe and happy, until I am
able to undertake the care of her. For that moment I impatiently wait.
"Ever and entirely yours,
"GUY."
And the day after she received this, Guy arrived. His train was late,
and it was seven o'clock when he reached the station. One swift look
around, and then he saw Adrienne, standing slim and straight in her
long fur coat, the one lamp in the little station shining on her eager,
smiling face. Without a thought of onlookers, he drew her out of the
lamplight and into his arms.
But his words were few:
"I hardly expected you to meet me."
"Uncle was coming, but he has a slight cold, and it was raining, so we
persuaded him to stay at home."
In the car Adrienne was given all the news of the Château. Alain had
wanted to accompany his father, but though he had been invited, Guy
would not bring him.
"He is best where he is, and he is company for Mathilde, who is getting
restive. She finds it deplorably dull."
"It is winter and the gloomiest month in the year," said Adrienne by
way of apology for her.
"It beats me how any sane, intelligent person can be affected by
weather."
"That's just like a man! You go out all weathers. Many women do not.
And they are really physically affected by atmospheric changes. I'm
sure you've been very kind to Mathilde."
Guy looked at her, and there was a little sparkle in his eye.
"I compare her every hour of the day with my little girl, and wonder
how one Creator fashioned such different souls. We won't talk of
Mathilde any more."
They reached the house, and Adrienne took him straight into the
drawing-room.
There was a blazing fire; the Admiral and his wife greeted Guy very
kindly. To Guy, fresh from the spacious, mellowed old salon in the
Château, English rooms were too full of luxuries and of knickknacks
for comfort. But he had not much thought for anything but Adrienne.
His eyes hardly ever left her face. Yet before others they were both
absolutely undemonstrative and matter of fact.
Adrienne discussed all the details of the eventful day, and informed
Guy that they were to be in the church by eleven o'clock.
"Then we will come back, have some lunch, and catch the three o'clock
train to town. I think waiting about all the afternoon is so tiring for
everyone."
After dinner Guy retired into the library with the Admiral, and
Adrienne sat with her aunt till the gentlemen returned to the
drawing-room.
"You do like him?" she inquired anxiously of Mrs. Chesterton.
"He is a man," she responded. "Yes, I do, but I should be afraid myself
that he might prove somewhat hard and obstinate at times."
"Perhaps," said Adrienne slowly; "but still I would rather live with a
strong man than with a weak one. And if one loves very much, one can
trust, and—and yield."
"Not on every point," said her aunt decidedly; "keep your
individuality, my dear child, and remember that to only God above are
you responsible for the actions of your soul."
Adrienne smiled. But she had no fears for the future; only the sense
of utter rest and happiness that she would have Guy to lean upon when
difficulties arrived.
One whole day they had together, and then the wedding day dawned.
Adrienne wore a soft ivory satin gown, and looked perfectly charming.
But she had no bridesmaids; a few girl friends clustered round her. The
service was very quiet and only a few old friends were present, Lady
Sutherland amongst them.
Adrienne was rather glad that Godfrey and Phemie were still away. Dick
and his mother, of course, were there. And a friend of Guy's, a Colonel
Skipwith, an American come down from town to be his best man. He was a
smart soldierly man, who had very amusing reminiscences of himself and
Guy as youngsters out in the Colonies.
"I remember," he said, "when we first heard that a young Frenchy was
coming out to try his hand at farming. We were all learning together,
and there were a couple of us who meant to get some fun out of the new
arrival. But it didn't take us many days to discover that we'd met our
match in Froggy, as we called him. His fists and muscles belonged to a
Hercules. We went down under them, and his tongue was as scathing as
his fists."
"Not a very attractive picture of me, eh, Adrienne?" laughed Guy.
"But you must remember I was one against four in that farm, and I had
to show them that French parentage does not always mean softness and
imbecility."
And so in the little village church Adrienne and Guy pledged their
troth. It was a clear frosty day, and when they drove to the station
the sun was giving them his blessing.
Adrienne's last words with her uncle had been tearful ones.
"I shall look forward to seeing you and Aunt Grace out with us one
day," she said. "When the spring comes I shall expect you. And oh, dear
Uncle Derrick, let me feel always that this is my English home."
"Why, naturally, my dearest child. God bless and keep you, and grant
that you may be the sunshine of your old Château as you have been over
here."
They were gone.
Adrienne turned and met her husband's tender eyes with perfect
confidence. "And now," she said to him, as she slipped her hand into
his, "I am yours utterly, and entirely, and for evermore."
Guy could make no answer at first; he only drew her closer to him, but
after a moment murmured:
"May I be worthy of such a gift."
And the car glided on, and the journey together through life commenced.
CHAPTER XVIII
HUSBAND AND WIFE
SNOW was upon the old Château, obliterating all paths and flower beds,
showing only a wide expanse of pure white around it. The afternoon
was already drawing in, lights were twinkling in the village and in
the windows of the Château. Inside, there were blazing wood fires
everywhere. The passages and floors were like mirrors with much
polishing, and Alain was improving the occasion by sliding up and down
them.
There was a sense of bustle and expectancy in the house. But upstairs,
Mathilde and two nurses were in the Countess's room. Only that morning
when she had seemed so much better, and had received the news of the
bride and bridegroom's return with such pleasure, a sudden seizure had
occurred, and she now lay unconscious, breathing with more and more
difficulty as time went on. The doctor had been in and out all day, and
had tried to give her oxygen, but it only seemed to distress her, and
he told her daughter that nothing could save her now. Mathilde heard
the car arrive, and swiftly went downstairs.
"It's a sad home-coming," she said. "Mother is dying and knows no one.
Will you come up, and see if she recognizes you?"
Adrienne slipped off her fur coat in the hall and ran upstairs
without a word. She was looking radiantly pretty, but now the shock
of Mathilde's news paled her cheek and brought sadness to her face.
Her husband followed her. In a moment or two, they stood by the large
four-post bed, looking down at the fragile little figure in it, so
close to the shores of eternity. Adrienne bent over her and took her
hand.
"Aunt Cecily," she said in her clear voice, "do you know me?"
There was a flicker of the closed eyelids, and then they lifted. The
Countess's eyes looked dark and blue, but quite intelligent.
She looked at Adrienne, then at her stepson, stretched out her hands
to them with a smile, and then with rather a happy sigh lapsed into
unconsciousness again. She passed away peacefully about an hour later.
Adrienne wept bitterly in her husband's arms.
"I did want her to have a short time of happiness with us, if only we
could have had her a little longer!"
Mathilde retired to bed. She had had an anxious day and was quite done
up by the strain of it. It was indeed a strange and sad home-coming.
Adrienne wired to her uncle, and he arrived at the Château the
following evening.
Four days later they laid her to rest in the family vault in the little
churchyard at the top of the hill.
Admiral Chesterton stayed on at his niece's request for another week.
She took him out to some of her favourite haunts, and talked to him a
good deal about her aunt.
"I feel comforted about her. Guy never left off reading to her at
night till my wedding. And she seemed to like it and understand it.
But since we have been away, I am afraid no one has continued it. Of
course I feel that God could speak to her Himself and comfort her, but
we do miss having a Protestant clergyman over here. Of course she would
never have the Curé near her, though I believe he would have come. And
he is such a really good little man that I'm sure he could have done
her no harm. Guy says he means to take me into Orleans where there is
a Protestant Service on Sundays. It seems so sad her being left quite
alone the last week of her life with only Mathilde, who never seemed
very fond of her mother."
"Ah well," said the Admiral reassuringly, "you must think of God's
mercy and love surrounding her. We can trust her to Him."
He pleased Adrienne by saying that the Château was more comfortable and
homelike than he had ever thought it could be. And when he left, he
felt assured and relieved about her future.
Mathilde outstayed him. She was collecting a good many of her mother's
private possessions to take back to America with her. She was not at
all pleased to find that her mother's money, which came to her by will,
had virtually disappeared, been frittered away by the Countess, who was
continually drawing on her capital for her needs, and she spoke rather
angrily to Guy about it.
"I thought you had made over the Château to my mother, yet I find you
established in it before her death. It needs explanation."
"That I can give you," said Guy quietly.
He marched her off to the library, bade her be seated, and gave her a
full and detailed account of her mother's debts and losses, and of the
mortgage of the Château, which he had redeemed.
She came out of that room a wiser and a sadder woman.
But Adrienne felt hotly incensed at her imputations of Guy's honesty
and fair dealing, and protested accordingly.
"Guy gave Aunt Cecily money again and again; he was always paying her
debts and putting her straight. You haven't given him a word of thanks
or of gratitude for all he has done. Don't you realize that it is
owing to him that Aunt Cecily was permitted to die in her own home.
Her lawyer was turning her out of it and taking possession, when Guy
arrived in the nick of time to prevent him."
"I only know that I, as her daughter, ought to have some share in this
property," said Mathilde.
"You can only have that by sponging upon Guy. I should think you would
have too much pride to ask him for what is legally his inheritance.
It was his when he let Aunt Cecily live in it for her lifetime. It is
doubly his, now he has paid up the mortgage for it."
Mathilde was silenced.
"You are a little spitfire," she said. "Of course you're in love with
Guy now; but wait a year or two, then you'll find him a merciless
despot. I know him as you don't. My mother always feared him."
"Oh, Mathilde, don't be so disagreeable! You are going away. Let us
part friends. You never loved this place, you told me you always hated
it. You would be miserable if it were your home. Don't grudge it to me.
I love every stick and stone of it."
Adrienne refused to quarrel with her and they parted amicably, but she
was glad when Mathilde had gone.
She stood outside on the terrace waving to her, and when the car had
disappeared she turned to her husband:
"And now, Guy, we are alone together. Our life has begun, what are we
going to make of it?"
With his hand on her shoulder, he turned her back into the hall. It
was a cold bleak afternoon; the wind was howling in the old chimneys,
but the wood crackled merrily on the hearth. He pulled forward a big
easy-chair close to the fire for her and took another for himself.
"We're first of all going to shut out the cold and the grey
dreariness," he said in a tone of content; "and then, when we're
thoroughly warm and comfortable, we shall be in a better position to
discuss life with all its possibilities and failures."
"Oh," said Adrienne with a happy laugh as she tilted her head back on
the cushion behind it, and looked at Guy with glowing, dreamy eyes,
"isn't it good to be alone at last? There has been so much to think of,
so much to do since we came home, and it has been such a sad time all
round, that we've had no time to think of ourselves. Talk to me now.
You and I have had no proper talk since we arrived here."
"What is proper talk?"
"Edifying, satisfying. How are we going to spend our days?"
"I shall still run the farm. I can't keep my fingers off it, and
there's a lot to do in the woods this winter. Timber to be felled,
young trees planted. We must settle down to a year's domesticity, but
we have had a very pleasant time together in Virginia, eh?"
"How I loved it!" said Adrienne in a rapt tone. "I used to think there
were no beautiful old houses to be compared with ours in England—but
travel widens one's mind. If I shut my eyes, I can see your aunts
quaint rambling old house with the maple trees in their autumn glory,
and the deep wide verandahs running round it, and the beautiful woods
surrounding it. I suppose it will come to you, Guy, when she dies? She
told me as much. Alain will have two beautiful inheritances."
"He won't have both," said Guy.
They were silent. Adrienne was wondering with wistful eyes if she would
be given sons of her own.
"Where would you rather live?" Guy asked her suddenly. "Virginia or
here, or—England."
"We'll end our days in England," said Adrienne playfully; "spend our
old age there; but at present my heart is here."
"And so, I believe, is mine," said Guy. "My wife has made me love my
father's home."
"Well," said Adrienne with her radiant smile, "then I must content
myself with running this old Château in a proper manner, and see that
my lord is comfortable and well fed. That is my present duty in life,
is it not? Only we must not forget the peasants. I do want to give them
a Happy Christmas, Guy. Tell me what we can do?"
Husband and wife discussed that subject for some time together. Coals
and food were chosen as the most suitable gifts, with some warm
garments for the old people and children. Adrienne suggested a big
Christmas Tree in the Hall for everyone.
"Alain will love it so."
"Ah," said Guy, "I wondered if he would enter into our talk."
"He's always in my thoughts. He must be doing lessons now. Who can
teach him?"
"Possibly the Curé. He is a very able man."
As if in answer to their thoughts, a door banged in the distance, and
Alain darted into the hall; his hands and face were floury; he carried
two doughy-looking buns.
"They're just baked," he cried joyfully, holding them out to Adrienne;
"and I've made them myself for you and Daddy. They're for your tea.
Fanchette and me have been baking. It's jolly warm in the kitchen."
The grown-ups accepted the gifts gratefully.
"Come and sit down and talk to us," said Adrienne, putting her arm
round him. "Have you ever had a Christmas Tree, Alain?"
The child nodded.
"My Aunt Susy came from Germany where the Christmas Trees grow. Are we
going to have one?"
"We're thinking of it."
"And are we going to have Christmas presents? Real ones?"
"Perhaps."
"I wish you'd tell Father Christmas that I'd like a big organ of my
own, like Daddy's."
"A big order," said his father, laughing.
Alain looked at him soberly.
"Are we poor, Daddy? Would it cost too much?"
"I'm very, very rich," said his father; "but I haven't money to spare."
"But rich people always have heaps of money," Alain argued.
"No. I've known some rich people who've had next to none; they've had
other better things."
"What kind?"
Guy looked at Adrienne, then at his little son.
"They've got love, my boy, and belongings and a home, down here; and a
loving God looking after them and keeping all His best gifts for them
when they go above to be with Him."
"That's how Agatha talks," said the boy.
His bonne appeared to take him off and make him tidy for tea.
When he had disappeared, Adrienne said:
"He is very fond of Agatha. She teaches him a lot. But I must tell you
what he said this morning. He had been rude to Mathilde. She always
rubbed him up the wrong way; he wouldn't say he was sorry, so he was
made to stand in the corner till he did. And then he lifted up his eyes
as he stood there and prayed:
"'Oh, God, I do wish you'd try harder to make me a good boy, for Jesus
Christ's sake, Amen.'
"What do you think of that for a prayer?"
Guy smiled:
"It shows he was aware of his utter badness, etc.? That making him good
was a superhuman task."
And then Adrienne said softly:
"I needn't be afraid I shall have no work to do, when we have a little
immortal soul to train."
Guy said nothing. Watching the soft flushed face of his young wife, he
wondered if children of her own would be given to her to complete the
crown of her womanhood.
He had no fears about the training of them. He knew that he would be
able to echo the words of the wise man of old:
"Her children arise up and call her blessed."
And so Adrienne settled down to her life as mistress of the Château.
She had gained the love and confidence of the village when she had been
"Our Mademoiselle."
Now, as "Madame," she was always sure of a welcome from any and
all. When Christmas came there was much rejoicing. Alain had his
big Christmas Tree in the hall, and all the village were invited to
it. Those who could not, owing to age or infirmity, be present, had
presents taken to them. It was a cold winter, and blankets and grocery
tickets were freely distributed. Then, when the festive season was
over, Alain's education was once more discussed.
One snowy afternoon Guy came in rather late from a visit to Orleans.
He found Adrienne writing letters in her boudoir. She was seated in
an easy-chair by a blazing fire, with her writing-pad in her lap. She
looked up with a happy smile as he appeared at the door.
"Have you had a cold drive? You took the car, did you not?"
"Yes, and it's bitter."
He came in and stood back to the fire, warming his hands behind him.
"I've engaged a tutor for Alain. Tumbled across him to-day. He's a
Russian—a young Count, I believe—without relations or home, has been
making his living since he left the country by teaching, and is out of
a job."
Adrienne looked dubious.
"I would almost rather it were a woman," she said. "And a foreigner,
Guy, and a stranger? I suppose you haven't taken him without good
recommendations?"
"Excellent testimonials. He is little more than a boy, but you know how
clever Russians are. We don't want him in the house, but André Gaugy
has rooms, and his wife would be glad of a lodger. I've arranged that
he shall come up here and give up his mornings for lessons; and in the
afternoon I thought he could take the boy for rides or walks and keep
him out of mischief."
"You've arranged everything very quickly. I wish you would let me have
a say sometimes in your arrangements."
Adrienne spoke impulsively. She added:
"Alain is a very small boy, and very easily impressed for good or bad.
I should not like him to be spoiled by unwise influence. Is this young
Russian sound in religion and principles?"
Guy looked down upon her with rather rueful eyes:
"My dear little wife, perhaps I have been rash. But I felt awfully
sorry for the young fellow, he looked half-starved, and it is my way
to act quickly. I really have been so accustomed to arrange and do
things on my own that I sometimes forget my better half at home. I've
told this young Russian to come out and see you and his future charge
to-morrow. I think you will like him. I did. He is Greek Church, I
believe. But we have the responsibility of Alain's religious training.
He will only teach him his lessons."
Adrienne said no more, and the next afternoon Monsieur Dragominsk
arrived.
He was a slight, nervous-looking man, with very dark and rather
restless-looking eyes. His face was pinched and sallow, his smile
lightened rather a gloomy face. But he spoke both English and French
like a native, and was, he said, very fond of music.
"I have taught in small boys' schools, both French and music. Also
European history. And I will give your little boy a thorough grounding
in Latin."
He spoke to Adrienne; something in her bearing told him that she was
more critical than her husband.
"Alain is a very small boy. We want his lessons to be made pleasant to
him. Have you had experience with small children? They want a lot of
patience."
"Madame, my patience is infinite. I know boys. I understand them—I like
them."
Then Alain was summoned, and he regarded his future tutor with big
searching eyes.
"You've put your tie through a ring," he remarked suddenly. "What is on
the ring? An—an animal?"
"Come and see it. It is our crest."
"Thanks, I won't come too close, till I know you better." Alain shrank
away from the encircling arm.
But in a few minutes, he was talking eagerly to the stranger, and
before the interview was over, it was arranged that Monsieur Dragominsk
should start his teaching the following week.
When he had gone Guy turned to his wife: "Well, little woman, why so
sober?"
"I don't know. I don't quite like him, Guy, and yet I can't tell you
why."
"You think I was too impulsive in offering him the job?"
"I think you are so determined to help everyone in need that perhaps
their needs come first with you. But he may be all right. His
references are good, and if he's a genuine refugee, I'm very sorry for
him."
"We can but try him. Your sharp ears and eyes will soon discover if
anything is wrong."
Adrienne laughed.
"Woman's instinct is sometimes ahead of man's decisions," she said, and
then they dropped the subject.
CHAPTER XIX
ALAIN'S TUTOR
IT was three months later.
Life in the little French village to Adrienne was entirely delightful.
She was a good housewife, and though since her aunt's time the
household had been augmented by more maids and one extra outdoor man,
she still found plenty to employ her time. She rode with her husband
very often, helped him in his farming, superintended the Château
gardens, and looked well after the needs of the peasants in the
village. She never neglected Agatha, and would always come away from a
visit and talk with her, the stronger in her faith and love in her Lord
and Master. She had a certain amount of social obligations, for the
neighbourhood had a great liking and respect for her husband, and they
were friendly with all. But neither of them cared for Bridge-playing,
and there were only quiet dinner parties, or garden parties in the
summer by way of entertainment.
Monsieur Dragominsk had quite made himself at home, and he and Alain
seemed always happy together.
Alain was strangely reticent about his lessons. Sometimes Adrienne
tried to discover what tutor and pupil talked about when they were out,
walking or riding together.
Alain would say:
"Oh, we talk. He tells me about Russia, and lots of stories."
And Adrienne had to leave it at that.
Monsieur Dragominsk was very sociably inclined. He soon knew all the
peasants and farmers round and would spend his evenings at the village
inn discussing world-wide topics of interest. He had the power of
impressing and interesting all who listened to him. The only one who
did not seem to fall under his sway was Agatha. They only had one
interview, and that was a short one. Monsieur Dragominsk would never go
near her again.
"A patient little invalid," he would say, "but full of hysterical
fancies and nerves. She looks upon herself as a saint, and tries to
live up to the pose. But there's an artificiality about her to my mind."
He said this in the village inn. The speech was much resented, but
no one seemed able to be angry with the young man, he was so full of
smiles and warning persuasion.
When Adrienne questioned Agatha about his visit, she was silent for
quite five minutes. The happy light died out of her face. Then she
looked at Adrienne with grave steady eyes.
"I wish sometimes I did not see so far into people's souls, Madame."
"But you always seem to find a lot of good in them, Agatha, don't you,
even in our village scapegraces?"
Agatha did not smile.
"Madame, time will show. He is a stranger in thought, as well as
nationality."
"What does he think?" said Adrienne. "I wish I knew, he always agrees
instantly with what the Count and I say, but sometimes there is a look
in his eyes that belies his words."
Agatha was silent. She would say no more. Adrienne had never heard her
say an unkind word of anyone. She always seemed to find good traits in
all. So that her silent attitude towards the young Russian brought back
Adrienne's first feelings of disquietude.
But when she went back to the Château, and met him again, his pleasant
manners and smiling face reassured her. Children were good judges, she
told herself, of a person's sincerity and truth, and Alain seemed happy
and content when with him.
Monsieur Dragominsk spent his off time in Orleans. He had a
motor-cycle, and would often spend his evenings there, returning very
late at night. Adrienne tried hard to be friendly towards him, but he
seemed to her never entirely at ease in her company.
One evening she asked him to dine with them, and after dinner, as they
sat in the hall over the big fire, they began talking a little about
Russia.
"It is extraordinary to me," Guy was saying, "how quickly and deeply
and widely this Bolshevism has taken root. Up till quite lately this
part of France has been particularly free of all Bolshevism and
revolutionary talk. But now it is creeping over the provinces as well
as in the towns. I suppose you, Monsieur Dragominsk, have nothing to
fear from Lenin's tools, but of course you are aware that there is a
great deal of Bolshevist propaganda in Orleans?"
"I believe there is," said the tutor with a serious face; "but I take
good care to steer clear of them. They can do nothing to me. They have
killed all my relatives and taken our lands and possessions. They want
no more from me."
"I suppose," said Guy slowly, "that the peasants get contaminated with
it when they go into the towns. We have been a very contented village
here for many years; but lately discontent seems rife. I have had to
discharge four farm-hands this week. And I came across some pernicious
leaflets in the forge the other day. I taxed your landlord with the
distribution of them. He is a great talker. Tailors generally are. He
was handing them round as I came up, so I asked if I might have some,
and he could not refuse me."
"I have noticed," said Adrienne, "that some of our people are getting
sullen and unfriendly. I wonder why?"
"They seem all under your control," said Monsieur Dragominsk;
"wonderfully so. These French country villages are as ours used to be,
very old-fashioned and feudal."
"Excuse me," said Guy quickly, "we are republican in theory, only
sometimes it is difficult to carry it out in practice. And our peasants
cannot be compared with yours as regards intelligence. They are shrewd
and wide awake and never can be driven by force—only won by persuasion."
"Oh, I know our peasants are little better than the beasts of the
earth," responded the tutor; "but they seem to be waking up now with a
vengeance. And the next generation will produce a new race of men in
Russia."
When Monsieur Dragominsk had taken leave of them, Guy said to Adrienne:
"I don't want to think too much of it, but there's a lot going on in
the village that I don't understand. Pierre says that the men gather
together with shut doors in the inn. I suppose what is going on in
Orleans is affecting them. Two factories there are on strike, and the
gendarmes had to come out last night, I hear. I have never had trouble
with the farm-hands before, and they have been utterly unmanageable
these past few weeks."
Adrienne looked troubled.
The next day she went to see Agatha. She heard from her that the Curé
had gone away for his yearly holiday.
"I wish he were here, Madame; he is generally about the village and
knows all that is going on. There is something evil in our village.
It wants to be discovered and rooted out. I am not one to meddle in
politics, but these Bolshevists are against our Lord, and I wonder the
Christian world does not rise up and exterminate them."
"Why, Agatha, I have never heard you speak so scathingly before."
Agatha's sweet face looked sad and stern.
"I lie here and think, Madame. I know the good God permits evil for
His purposes, but it is His will that we should fight it. I have many
friends in the village and they come and talk to me. Lately some
of them have left off coming. And those that still come have black
thoughts in their hearts. I can read them, and I tell them what I see
through their eyes. They look ashamed, and some slink away, and some
argue. But the tares are springing up amongst the wheat and they are
choking it. I weep at night over what is going on."
"We must try and stop it," said Adrienne firmly.
She went home and talked to her husband.
Guy listened, but said little.
Adrienne playfully shook him by the shoulders.
"Say something, do something! I am beginning to feel again as I did
when Monsieur Bouverie was in the village. As if we are surrounded
by treachery! Several men to-day passed me with no recognition; they
turned their heads the other way and made no response to my greeting.
You are so silent, Guy. I am your wife. Let me into your thoughts."
Guy put his arm round his wife, and drew her to him.
"I never forget, thank God, that you are my wife. Trust me, dearest. I
shall ferret out this poison and get rid of it. But I want to track it
to its source. And I have to move warily."
"Oh, you're very much of a man," laughed Adrienne, tilting her head
back on his shoulder; "you have an overwhelming confidence in your own
discretion, and a very poor opinion of your wife's. But I will not be
depressed. We have weathered through a bad time here, and we'll weather
through again. And I know that you are strong in your decisions, and
that though you move slowly, you move surely."
The next day Guy took his little son out for a ride.
Monsieur Dragominsk had business in Orleans. Guy was often content
to ride along the lanes in silence, letting his boy do most of the
talking, but he did not do this now. He talked to him about the life
that was before him, of the English school he wished to send him to.
And then it was that Alain surprised him:
"Don't you think, Daddy, that as I'm going to be a French Count it
would be better for me to go to French school? England is not so nice
as France, is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's got a king."
"I suppose that is not right?"
"No, it isn't, is it? America and France are bigger and better
countries than England, and they're Republics."
"You're learning a lot, my boy. Now can you tell why kings and queens
are a mistake?"
"Because nobody ought to be on top of us, and make us bow down to them."
"Then you certainly must never be a Count. That is quite wrong!"
"I suppose it is," Alain said reluctantly; "and in Russia you know, the
Counts used to beat their servants to death. It is only now the poor
people that are happy."
"I sometimes think," said Guy slowly, "that it's a mistake us having
such a big house, when the peasants have such small ones."
"Yes," chimed in Alain eagerly, "and in Russia the poor people live in
castles and the nobles in huts. It's been a turn-about; it's right that
everyone should have a turn."
"Upon my word you're learning fast. Tell me more."
Alain lifted his handsome little head proudly. He was pleased to think
his father admired his cleverness. "Daddy," he said suddenly, "how soon
will I be big enough to leave off saying my prayers with Mother?"
"How big do you think you ought to be?"
"Well, I'm growing fast, and I want to do like men do."
"Don't men believe in God?"
"Not now, do they? We can't believe in what we can't see. It's only
pretending all the time. I don't like to say so to Mother, but you
understand, don't you?"
"I'm afraid I understand only too well, my boy. And is the Bible not to
be believed?"
"It's only a history book about the Jews, isn't it? Nobody thinks
anything of it now."
Guy's face was as calm and still, as if no surge of passion was rushing
through his veins.
"Go on, Alain, talk away I like to hear you. Later on I'll talk too.
Tell me more about Russia. Is it a happy country now?"
"It's getting happier every day, isn't it, Daddy? And one day it's
going to get all the other countries into it, and make them happy too."
"How is it going to do that?"
"I think it's by teaching all the people the right kind of things. I
don't quite know how—Oh, Daddy, do look at that kingfisher?"
Alain had had enough of serious talk, he could not be inveigled into it
again.
Guy brought him home, and sent him up to his bonne; then he went into
the library, and, sitting down in his chair before the fire, gave
himself up to deep thought.
But he said nothing of his thoughts to Adrienne that night. Only he
absented himself after dinner, and spent his evening down at the inn,
where he was considerably enlightened on more points than one.
The next morning, when Monsieur Dragominsk arrived up to teach Alain,
Guy met him in the hall and asked him to come into the library.
Adrienne had been told that Alain was to have a holiday, and at his
request she and he went into the woods together for a morning ramble.
When they came home, Guy met her in the hall. There was that in his set
face that made her see at once that something was amiss.
"Well," he said as he drew her into the library, "I have had somewhat
of a scene here; but I've cleared him out and given him only four
hours' grace. He's like a raving maniac at present, but I think he'll
calm down. I often wonder how it is that I've grown up without an ounce
of French excitability in my brains. I think if I had been a Frenchman,
we should have come to blows. As it was, I yearned to give him a good
thrashing. But he knows he'll have it if he outstays his time."
"Of course you're alluding to Monsieur Dragominsk. I knew you would
find him out. I have never trusted him. What have you discovered?"
"That for once the Soviet has made a mistake in its tool. He is a
bungler and a fool."
"You mean that he is a fraud? No Count at all?"
"He's the son of a schoolmaster. I've been collecting facts about him
for a few weeks past. He's over in France in employed pay of the Soviet
for propaganda. I could have forgiven him if he had not torn down a
child's faith and trust."
"Oh, Guy!—Alain! How horrible! How can we have been so blind and
stupid? But he must have sealed the child's lips. He has been so
unusually silent to me lately."
And then Guy told her of his conversation with his boy.
"I took him for a ride on purpose to pump him. I led him on, and he
fell into the trap and divulged the teaching he has been getting. I
blame myself. You were right, sweetheart; I was too hasty in my choice.
Thank God he is out of this house, and I'll see to it that he leaves
the village to-morrow."
"Is he very angry at being discovered?"
"He threatened and boasted a good deal. Said such places as this ought
not to exist, and that they were out for exterminating them. He made
no attempt to deny his real position, boasted of his success in the
village, and said that he and his sort were going to sweep through the
world making bonfires of the so-called upper classes—and such-like
trash! But imagine him thinking he would live on with us as a tutor
whilst he was turning the village upside-down and flooding it with his
red propaganda! I fancy there's a screw loose; he got almost maniacal
before he left. A very little more will land him in a lunatic asylum."
Adrienne shuddered.
"And we have trusted Alain to him. How awful!"
"It seems to be my rôle in life to unmask villains," said Guy with a
dry smile. "I don't like the job, but I mean to do this thoroughly."
"I hope he won't be revengeful before he goes. He might kidnap Alain.
Every child to them is a future asset for their achievement, I know."
"Keep him with you as much as possible, but Dragominsk is out for more
than Alain."
"And it is he who has been stirring up the peasants. I think we ought
to have discovered him before; but when I talked to him, he pretended
to be entirely against the Soviet. What a traitor he is! Is he sleeping
at the Gaugy's to-night?"
"I can't tell you. I only know that I shall have the police out from
Orleans to-morrow if he doesn't go. I think he'll clear out."
Adrienne was uneasy all the next day. She learnt that Dragominsk had
gone back to Orleans; but as she walked through the village there were
sullen averted faces, and she was glad to get back to the Château. Guy
took the bull by the horns, and in the parlour of the inn held forth
to about seven or eight men on the subject of property and ownership.
Alain was very puzzled at his tutors' sudden disappearance.
His father spoke frankly to him about it.
"I have sent him away, my boy, because he was not a good man, and as I
want you to grow up a Christian gentleman, I want your tutor to set you
a good example. You must try to forget a lot of what he taught you. And
remember, we are all put into this world to serve and please God, and
keep His commandments."
Alain was silent.
When he was saying his prayers that evening, he looked up into
Adrienne's face earnestly:
"Is God a real person, Mother? Does He really see me and want me to
love Him?"
"Yes, Alain, He loves you. He sent you into the world, and He will take
you out of it. There are a lot of people who won't serve God or love
Him, and they pretend to themselves that there is no God. The Bible
calls those people fools, and they are."
Alain seemed impressed. When she had said good night to him, Adrienne
came down into the hall where her husband was seated reading.
She went over to him, and, sitting on a low stool, rested her head
against his knee.
"Do you think God will forgive and overrule our mistake?" she asked.
"Why, of course! It would be a bad look-out for us if He did not. Don't
worry over Alain. He is small and impressionable, and I'm sure your
teaching and training will soon remove the nonsense which Dragominsk
has been filling his head with."
Then he stooped and kissed the little curls against her forehead. He
was very undemonstrative as a rule, but he had his moments of emotion.
"My little wife," he murmured, "what should I do without you? We'll
weather through this. Our peasants are like a flock of sheep. When the
Curé comes back, he'll bring them to their senses. Don't go into the
village for the next few days. Let them quiet down."
Then he added with his whimsical smile:
"And I have learnt my lesson; never to act again without the counsel
and permission of my wife."
CHAPTER XX
AGATHA'S WARNING
THAT night Adrienne could not sleep. She lay very still, not wishing
to disturb her husband; and she took herself to task for imagining she
heard strange noises round the old Château. It was a still, dark night.
No moon: owls were hooting at intervals—once she heard the dogs in the
stable barking, but she knew that the movements of the cattle sometimes
made them do that.
She heard the clocks striking two, then suddenly with no uncertain
sound the church bell began to ring. She knew that when that bell rang
out, it was a signal of alarm or danger. If there was fire anywhere, or
any sudden calamity, the village was roused by the church bell.
She put her hand out, and laid it on her husband's shoulder. He was
awake in a moment.
Both of them sprang out of bed and hurriedly got into their clothes.
Adrienne made her way across to one of the unshuttered windows to
lean out and see if anyone was about. And then Guy heard her give an
exclamation, and joined her at her post.
"What is it?"
"Agatha!" gasped Adrienne. "I have seen her standing there before me on
the lawn quite distinctly,—standing, Guy! What does it mean? And she
looked up at me and pointed to the corner of the house over there."
"Stay here," her husband said; "no, I won't have you come with me. You
are to stay indoors. I hear the servants moving."
He was gone. Listening eagerly, Adrienne heard the heavy door open,
then leaning out she saw in the east wing of the house smoke coming out
of a window, and she smelt the unmistakable scent of fire.
Nothing would keep her indoors then. She found her way to Alain's room,
had him out of bed and dressed him, trying to soothe and allay his
rising excitement. He thought it great fun. Then with the servants, who
were thoroughly roused, she took Alain out on the terrace.
Gaston, running towards the house for buckets, told her that great
bundles of straw soaked with paraffin had been laid against the wooden
doors and window frames of the Château. They had only just discovered
them in time, for they had all been fired. One lower window had been
broken, and a lighted bundle of straw had been pushed through into a
room which was a lumber room. This bundle of straw Guy had with extreme
difficulty drawn out with a pitchfork, and the room was being soused
with water, for it was well alight. Adrienne immediately sent the maids
to help. She was no longer afraid of the house burning, for only one
room was alight, and that was being deluged with hose and buckets. She
stayed out on the terrace with her little stepson for a considerable
time; then, as light began to dawn in the sky, and the maids returned
one by one saying that all danger was over, she sent Alain back to bed
with his bonne, and went across the lawn to find her husband.
He came to meet her with blackened face and hands. "Thank God, our
home is saved," he said; "I am leaving the men to watch it, and I will
wire for the police in the morning. Come along in. How about a cup of
coffee? We'll get Pierre to make us one."
They approached the Château together. Suddenly from the thick shrubbery
at their side a man darted out and levelled his pistol straight at
Guy's heart. In a second Adrienne had flung herself in front of him.
She had recognized Dragominsk. He looked dishevelled and wild, but his
pistol went off, and Adrienne swayed and fell at her husband's feet. In
agony of mind, Guy lifted her up, and bore her into the house.
Dragominsk made off, but all Guy's thoughts were on his unconscious
wife. One of the men rode off for the doctor.
The wound was in her shoulder and it was bleeding profusely. With firm,
deft hands Guy bandaged it up and stopped the flow of blood. It seemed
years to him before the doctor arrived.
After a brief examination, he allayed his worst fears.
"The bullet has escaped the lung. I must get it out. But it isn't in a
vital part. We will have her well again. Cheer up!"
In an hour's time the bullet had been extracted, and Adrienne's wound
dressed. She had recovered consciousness, but was at first too dazed
and confused to remember things. Then, as the morning wore on, she
began to ask questions. Guy would not leave her side.
He felt as if nothing in the world mattered now but his wife.
By and by urgent messages reached him, and he was forced to leave her.
When he returned, there was a sad look in his eyes; but fearing to
agitate Adrienne, he kept his own counsel, and did not enlighten her as
to the cause of his distress.
She had fever for a few days, and had to be kept very quiet. It was
a revelation to her to see what a good nurse her husband was. Quiet,
tender and deft in every movement, he waited upon her hand and foot,
and would hardly allow her maid or Alain's bonne to come near her.
And then one bright May morning, when Adrienne was really convalescent,
he broke to her the sad news:
"Our dear little Agatha has been taken from us."
Adrienne burst into tears.
"Oh, how dreadful for us! But lovely for her. Tell me all about it,
Guy. What has happened? What shall we do without her?"
"She saved our lives at the cost of her own. Who do you think sounded
the alarm bell?"
"Not Agatha!"
"Yes, Agatha; the village consider it a miracle, her sister an amazing
and astounding feat. She was found, poor little thing, dead at the foot
of the belfry stairs. Her delicate little hands were marked, almost
lacerated by the rope."
"How could Marie let her! How could she! Oh, I can't believe it! She
was paralysed from her waist downwards."
"Marie had been called out to a case of sudden illness. Wouldn't you
like her to come up to you and tell you more than I can?"
"Yes, let her come at once. I must hear all I can. How did Agatha know
we were in danger? Oh, Guy, do you remember? I saw her distinctly on
the lawn, showing us where the fire was. Was it really her?"
"It could not have been. You must remember, they live close to the
Church on the top of the hill. We are nearly a mile away."
"Then it was her spirit. I saw her distinctly. Poor, brave little
Agatha! Oh, Guy, are our lives worth saving at such a cost? She is a
loss to the whole village. What do they feel about it?"
"They are absolutely dumbfounded! And in a way it has pulled us all
together again, and produced better feeling all round. We are mourning
together for her. There was quite a scene at her funeral; the men broke
down, and sobbed as broken-heartedly as the women. I'll get Marie to
come up and see you this afternoon."
Marie came. She looked quite old and stricken, and at first she and
Adrienne could only mingle their tears together. Then Marie began to
relate the events of that evening.
"My darling had been very troubled for some time, Madame, about the
'evil' in the village. That was what she called it. I know in her heart
she associated it with Monsieur Dragominsk, but she will never let
herself speak evil of anyone. Ah, Madame! I cannot remember that she is
gone, that I must speak of her in the past! She said to me about five
o'clock that evening:
"'Marie, I am overpressed with the weight of danger and evil. What does
it mean?'
"'You worry too much,' I said to her.
"'But,' she said, 'that is not my way; evils never lie heavily on
me, for what my Father allows, I bend my head to. He knows best. But
to-day I keep having the Count and the dear Countess before me. And our
Château is threatened in some way. I know it is. And I have a feeling
that I am called to save it.'
"Then I tried to soothe her, and I told her the way to keep you from
evil was to pray for you. Whilst we were talking, I got an urgent
summons from Tournet Farm the other side of the village. The woman
was expecting her seventh child, and she was taken before her time.
They often send for me, as you know, Madame, and I could not but go.
Oh, if I only had stayed, I should have had my darling alive to-day!
But I went. She wanted me to. She said she would be quite safe and
comfortable till I returned. And she looked up at me and smiled in her
happy way:
"'You know, my Marie,' she said; 'if I sleep, I shall not miss you, and
if I lie wakeful, I shall have happy talks with my Father. He is so
very, very close to me in the still hours of darkness. Go and do not
give me another thought.'
"We kissed each other. I placed a glass of milk by her bedside, and the
lamp, and made her comfortable for the night. How little I thought I
had taken a last farewell of her!"
Sobs choked her voice.
"Did anyone run in and tell her that they were going to burn the
Château?"
"Nobody went near her. No one told her, except the good Lord Himself.
Doubtless He sent an angel to tell her. Doubtless the angel helped her
to the belfry and gave her strength to sound the alarm. She could not
have done it otherwise. She was given the power of walking, which for
fifteen years has been withheld from her. God knew how we need you,
Madame, and it was His will to draw up my darling into Heaven after
she had saved you. I try to be resigned. But oh, if only I could have
sounded the alarm and not her."
"And yet, Marie," said Adrienne slowly, "perhaps you would have refused
to do it. You would have thought it was her sick fancy; you would not
have liked to take such an extreme step without more proof of it being
really necessary. And now let me tell you. Just as the bell ceased
tolling, when we were all aroused, I looked out of the window and saw
Agatha distinctly upon the lawn. She was warning me and pointing to the
room where the fire had commenced to take hold."
"Did you see her, Madame? Then it must have been as she was dying that
she came. How did she look? Oh, if only I had seen her!"
"Just as she always looks—sweet and serene."
"Oh, she was so fond of you! The Count and you were always in her
thoughts and prayers."
"We both owe the happiness of our souls to her," said Adrienne, wiping
away her tears. "Marie, we won't be so selfish as to keep on mourning
for her. Think of her joy and gladness! She will never suffer any more,
never have nights of pain and weary sleepless days. We must rejoice for
her, if we can't for ourselves."
Then Marie began to talk about the village.
The four dismissed farm labourers and Monsieur Dragominsk were
considered responsible for the fire, but they had all disappeared, and
the police could not trace them.
"My little Agatha has not died in vain," Marie said. "Our village was
getting red hot with revolt and revolution. And now they seem softened
and repentant. I asked André Gaugy, who had been imbibing all Monsieur
Dragominsk's poisonous words, how the poor would get on without our
family at the Château, who would look after us and tide us over our
bad times, and I asked him if he thought a clever thinking man would
have knocked under to a Russian ne'er-do-well, who was befriended
out of charity by our merciful Count, and after eating of his salt
and receiving kindness from his wife and himself, returned their
benevolence by setting fire to their house and shooting the Countess.
"Andre hadn't a word to say except: 'Oh, he had a persuasive tongue,
that man; but I never thought he was murderous, never! And he has
killed our little Saint! May Heaven keep him off my path! For I dare
not trust myself with him!'
"That's Andre now, and a few weeks ago he was thundering against all in
the class above him! I cannot tell you, Madame, how all of them have
spoken to me of Agatha. They almost looked upon her as a ladder to
Heaven, and say that now she is gone, they have none to care for their
souls. I tell them the good Curé is still with us, and they say,—
"'Yes, he is our priest; but she was our friend, our little sister, she
knew us and loved us. We can have another priest when the Curé goes to
his rest, but we can never have another Agatha.'"
"They're right there," said Adrienne.
When Marie had gone. Adrienne and Guy talked over matters together. She
was very anxious to put up a marble cross over Agatha's grave, and Guy
told her that it could be done later on.
"She has died for us," said Adrienne sorrowfully.
"And you," said Guy, looking at her tenderly, "almost gave your life
for me. Did you think of what you were doing?"
"No, I never thought. It was a natural instinct, and Guy, if I hadn't
done it, the bullet which went into my shoulder would have gone into
your heart. You are just that much taller than I. We were standing
together. Oh, don't let us talk about it! It seems like some black,
ugly dream. God has preserved us. I like to think that He wants us here
on the earth to do His work and fulfil His purposes."
After the storm came the calm. The little village subsided into its
normal state; the peasants no longer shrank away when Adrienne passed
by. They showed the greatest solicitation over her wounded shoulder,
and were continually making inquiries after her health. Adrienne found
a young French Protestant girl to teach Alain; she played with him out
of lesson hours, and gradually the individuality of Monsieur Dragominsk
faded from the boy's memory. He, childlike, lived in the present, and
was perfectly happy and content with his new teacher.
When the summer came, Admiral Chesterton invited them over for a
month's stay with him. Guy could not go, for business affairs again
called him to America; but Adrienne took Alain and thoroughly enjoyed
life again in her old home. Phemie had just presented Godfrey with a
son and heir. She had adapted herself in a wonderful way to her new
life, and had grown quite pretty. She welcomed Adrienne warmly, and the
young wives had much to say to each other.
"You are really happy making your home out of England?" Phemie
questioned.
"The Château is my home. I love it. I have always done so ever since I
first saw it, and as long as I am with Guy, I don't care what country
contains me."
"How funny it is," said Phemie thoughtfully, "how one kind of man suits
me, and quite another suits you. I think your husband too hard and
strong and dour to make a woman happy."
"He may have a hard shell, but his heart is as tender as a child's,"
said Adrienne emphatically.
Then she looked at the baby in Phemie's arms. "I never thought you
would like being a mother," she said.
"No, when I was single and unattached I talked a lot of nonsense," said
Phemie, flushing; "but motherhood is very wonderful, Adrienne. You will
find it so."
"I'm sure I shall, and if all is well, three months more will bring me
to it. I am hoping it may be a girl, and Guy hopes so too. I know he
will spoil a little daughter if he gets one."
"You must not let him. Godfrey and I talk a lot about our boy. We mean
to bring him up from the beginning in the old-fashioned way. To learn
obedience and self-control first of all. Those virtues are lacking in
the modern race."
So they talked, compared notes together, and parted; each feeling that
their friendship was strengthened and renewed by their time together.
It was in October when Adrienne's little daughter appeared. She was a
tiny creature with big blue eyes and soft little curls over her head.
She hardly ever cried, and gave everyone a smile who came near her.
Her father watched her with adoring eyes. When Adrienne was quite
convalescent, she got her husband to take her one afternoon to the
little churchyard.
A beautiful white marble cross was erected over Agatha's grave, and she
wanted to see the inscription underneath.
It was very simple and plain:
"SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
OUR BELOVED AGATHA
WHO DIED AS SHE LIVED
IN SUCCOURING OTHERS.
"Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou
into the joy of thy Lord."
And then below, Marie had these verses written:
"Her life was lived in Heaven below,
And God was with her here;
She's only gone a step beyond
To clearer, sweeter air.
"Through pain and grief she sang her hymns
Of joyous grateful praise;
In glory now beyond all ills
She sings again her lays.
"The echo of her songs and life
With all of us remain;
And so we follow in her steps,
We know we'll meet again."
"Guy," said Adrienne, looking up at her husband with tears in her eyes,
"there is only one name for our little daughter, and I pray God that He
may give her some of the grace He gave our little Saint."
"Yes," said Guy, in a tone of quiet content, "she shall be called
'Agatha.'"
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