"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."
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.
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.
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.