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"Here is Mademoiselle, Agatha, come to see us at last,"said Marie in her cheery tone.AdrienneChapter 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."
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.
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.
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.