"I hardly know your aunt."
"Oh, do come; I shall be so relieved. She likes you and will soon forget me when she sits up and talks to you of the past. I know it's asking a lot, but you did say to me the other day that you were getting tired of your cottage life, and you would be doing us such a great kindness. I am bound to go. I must. And Aunt Cecily really is not fitted to live alone. She depends so much on having someone to talk to, and someone who can do little things for her."
"Oh, I'll come, if your aunt will put up with an old blasé woman instead of a bright young girl. We'll try and get on together till you come back. Don't you worry. Does she expect me this evening?"
"Is it too soon? To-morrow will do. I don't leave till four this afternoon."
"Then I'll come to-morrow in time for déjeuner tell her; and if we fall out, I can but return to my cottage. I'll do my best to keep her happy. But she's a difficult subject. I hope you'll find your uncle through the worst when you get home."
"I'm in such a bustle that I can hardly think," said poor Adrienne. "Good-bye and a thousand thanks. Write to me, won't you? I feel responsible for Aunt Cecily till Cousin Guy comes back."
Then she galloped home. She certainly did not have much time to think, till the train was taking her towards Paris. She could hardly realize that her French life was receding behind her.
And what had at one time been her greatest desire now seemed to her a trouble rather than a joy. She was really anxious about her uncles, and that anxiety eclipsed all else.
She arrived home late the next day. The car was outside the station and in it, to her surprise, was the Admiral. He looked ill, and as he kissed her affectionately, he said:
"I felt bound to meet you myself, my dear; I could not have anyone else break it to you."
"What!" cried Adrienne with blanched cheeks. "Is it—is it serious?"
"He has gone, dear child."
The shock was great. Adrienne buried her face in her hands.
"I never imagined—I cannot believe it," she sobbed. "Tell me all."
"He was really taken ill in Norway. We hurried home, but the weather was bad and we got delayed. There was a doctor on board, but you know how your uncle hated doctors. He would have none of him. We stopped in London, he was got into a Nursing Home and that very night they operated, but it was too late, and he sank. I was with him and he sent his love to you. I could not tell you in the wire. I brought him home yesterday. The funeral is to-morrow."
"Oh, poor Uncle Derrick! Poor Uncle Derrick!"
Adrienne turned her tear-stained face towards her uncle. She forgot everything except that he had lost the one being he loved most in the world.
The Admiral's face quivered.
"Well," he said gently, "he was called away before me, and I always thought I should go first. It is better so; he never would have managed alone, a thorough bad business man. Poor Tom!"
They came to the house, and the homely sweetness of it sent another gush of tears to Adrienne's eyes.
The dog sprang out to welcome her. The hall was filled with flowers. The front door stood open and the striped sun-blinds were down. Inside there was darkness and a hush. Drake met her with red eyelids. Adrienne took his old hand in hers.
"Oh, Drake, what shall we do without him!" she cried.
The old butler choked a little.
"God only knows, Miss Adrienne," he said huskily.
She went into the library.
The Admiral followed, and then sitting down, he began to give her the details of the last sad week.
"He felt he wouldn't get over the operation; he asked me to leave him alone for half an hour before they came to take him to the Home. We were at the Euston Hotel, and he added:
"'To make my peace with God, old chap.' And then he spoke of you—said he wished you could be in time. Of course I tried to cheer him up, and told him we all expected him to pull through, but he shook his head."
Adrienne listened with the tears running down her cheeks. She could hardly believe that she would never hear again the hearty ringing voice, the chuckling laugh, the boyish steps of her Uncle Tom.
And then a little later she paid a visit to his room, where he lay quiet and peaceful as if he had just fallen asleep.
It was a sad time. She was so overwhelmed with the blow that she did not write to her aunt till after the funeral was over.
Her uncle Derrick seemed to depend upon her for everything; the blow had fallen upon him the most heavily, but he was very quiet, saying little of his own grief. Adrienne noted that he silently put away the chessmen and board into a locked drawer, and she knew that he would never touch the game again. She was glad that there was a certain amount of business to be done, for it occupied him and kept him from brooding.
And she found her own time taken up with the many letters of sympathy which had to be answered and which arrived by every post. She had seen Godfrey at the funeral, and many other of her old friends; but she was so busy in the house that she never left it, and when about ten days after the funeral, Godfrey came to ask her if she would take a ride with him, her uncle urged her to go.
"You are looking so pale, my dear; it will do you good. You have been too much confined to the house."
So she went upstairs to get into her habit, her horse was ordered; and Godfrey went into the library for a smoke with the Admiral, whilst he waited for her. And Adrienne, whilst she was getting ready, was thinking of her cousin Guy, and of the morning rides which she used to take with him. They seemed so long ago!
When Godfrey had first proposed the ride, she was about to refuse, but he had turned to her appealingly:
"I do want to have a talk with you so much. It is very personal."
And now her thoughts passed from Guy to Godfrey.
"I hope he is not going to bring up the old subject, and yet I almost feel it would solve my difficulties. I must stay close to Uncle Derrick now, and if I married Godfrey, it would be all so simple and straightforward. Godfrey would make an ideal husband; he is so frank, so true, so kind. Comparing him with Cousin Guy, I see now that he has just what Guy is lacking in. He is so open and confiding; one feels there is nothing behind him. Cousin Guy irritates me with his reserve and silence, Godfrey is as open as the day. I believe if he proposes again to me to-day, I shall say yes, and then I shall write to Aunt Cecily and she will see that I cannot return to her."
Planning out such a future for herself, she was surprised that she did not feel more jubilant over it. Could it be possible, she asked herself, that the old Château in its quiet village had crept into her heart to stay there? She tried to put it from her, and ran lightly downstairs equipped for her ride.
AT HOME AGAIN
GODFREY took her up to the moor. They talked first about her aunt in France.
"I thought we should never get you back," he said; "you have seemed to be taking root there."
"It has been very difficult," she responded.
And she tried to give him some idea of her life in the old Château.
He was a good listener, but somehow she did not fancy to-day that he was quite so wrapped up in her life as he used to be, and presently she paused:
"Now tell me about yourself and all the village. I have seen no one—not even Phemie. I almost thought she would have been round."
"Well, she was waiting, she did not like to intrude. I want to tell you about Phemie—and myself."
In a flash Adrienne saw what was coming. It struck her like a blow.
Godfrey was speaking in his frank, pleasant way.
"I know you will be glad. When you sent me away from you the last time, I felt I must take it like a man, and not pester you again. And somehow or other Phemie has been coming to see Mother, and we've taken a few rides together. And gradually our friendship has deepened, and I've come to know her better than I've ever done before. I always liked her as a friend, but she's more than that now. I had a little trouble with Mother. I suppose all mothers are the same; they like their sons to marry money, high birth, etc.; but she's really too fond of me to hold out against my wishes, and she has become quite attached to Phemie!"
"Oh, Godfrey, I'm so glad. Dear Phemie! She deserves to be made happy. She has been so plucky over the farm, and it has been uncongenial work. What does her mother say?"
"She doesn't seem over-pleased. I'm afraid she will miss her, but she works her like a galley slave. And I'm stopping a good bit of that. I insist upon her coming out with me. You don't know how pretty she's getting. She's losing all that worn, weary look about her eyes. She wanted you to know, so I told her I would tell you to-day."
"She'll make you the dearest wife! My best congrats, Godfrey. I'm very, very glad."
She listened whilst he went on to talk about his fiancée's perfections, and when their ride was over, and Adrienne reached home again, she felt as if all her world were falling to pieces.
She knew she had not wanted Godfrey when he had wanted her; but in spite of that, there was a little hurt feeling in her heart that he had forgotten her so entirely, and was so completely satisfied with this second choice of his.
"I have only been away about three months," she told herself—"it is barely that; yet he has put someone in my place with the greatest ease. I always felt that he did not really and truly love me. I often told him so, but he would not have it. I wonder what he would have said if I had told him that I had become engaged to Cousin Guy. I might have, if I'd taken him at his word. I almost believe that, if Godfrey had not always been flitting through my background, I might have given Guy a different answer. At all events I would not have snubbed him off so promptly. And now I've lost them both, and I believe that I shall be a single woman all my days! After all, there is nothing so very attractive or fetching about me. I shan't have an unlimited number of admirers haunting my steps."
And then she shed a few tears, and tried to think they were for her uncle Tom, and for the blank he had left behind him; but in reality she knew that they were for herself, and she grew angry at the thought of it, for she had so despised her Aunt Cecily's continual self-pity.
She took up her old life again, yet her thoughts were continually straying to the French village. The Admiral heard from his sister, who was of course distressed at the loss of her brother.
"I am quite sure you will send Adrienne back as soon as you can," she wrote. "Miss Preston, who is with me, does her best; but Adrienne knew my ways, and she is my niece, and has duties towards me. Why don't you sell your house and come out here? Dear Tom was too boisterous for my nerves, but I could give you the library here for your sanctum and you could help me in my business matters, which seem in sad disorder. I shall be glad to hear the conditions of Tom's will. I hope he did not forget his only sister, who is left to struggle on with insufficient means to keep her head above water."
But the Countess was doomed to disappointment. General Chesterton and his brother had mutually agreed to leave all they had to Adrienne. She was almost entirely dependent on them, as her father, like his sister Cecily, had spent more than he had saved. They considered that their sister, who had received equal shares with them at their father's death, was not as much in need of money as Adrienne. Meanwhile Adrienne heard from Bertha Preston.
"MY DEAR ADRIENNE,—"I want to report myself to you, as I am afraid I am not a great success. Your capabilities and perfections are recounted to me day by day. I strive to emulate you. I run round and do errands, and garden and arrange flowers, and dust everything that I can lay my hands upon. We take perambulations about the garden and wood. When I can, I sneak off on my own, and visit little Agatha or call at my cottage. I am a great walker, and am always happy in the open air. Your friend the notary is closeted with your aunt continually. I fancy things are coming to a climax. He tells her he must foreclose the mortgage. This has been held over her head so long as a threat, that I think she does not believe he will do it. But there's a nasty look in his eye which means business. He evidently thinks the Count an ineffectual doll. He said as much to me the other day, which rather amused me, as I have seen him in quite another light. I asked your aunt what she would do when the time came for her to leave the Château. She looked quite scared, but evidently has been thinking the matter over, for she told me this morning that she would go straight to her flat in Orleans until her stepson bought it back for her. She has little idea of the tenacity and purpose of the village notary. Did you know she has mortgaged the furniture of the Château as well as the pictures? I told her that Van Dyck's portrait was worth a fortune. It seems a pity that it should go out of the family. Well—I must close. I hope you are well. We talk about you continually and I have many inquiries after you from the villagers."Yours affectionately,"BERTHA PRESTON."
Adrienne felt very uneasy after receiving this letter. She showed it to her uncle, who calmly said that the sooner his sister got rid of the Château the better.
"It has always been a white elephant to her. She will be much happier in Orleans. We begged her long ago to get rid of it. In every way she will be better off in Orleans; she will be away from this scheming lawyer of hers."
"But, Uncle Derrick, I can't bear to think of the Château in his hands, and all its possessions. It is iniquitous! Oh if you knew it as I do, you would feel differently! I have learnt to love it. It is so mellow, so ancient; it seems to smile serenely in its decay. There's such a sense of peace and rest in it. There's a favourite seat of mine in the woods above it, where I sit and look down upon it, and think of all that has happened in it in the past. Cousin Guy told me one day that in their family records there was no deed of cruelty or of violence that had ever been committed inside its walls, and the atmosphere feels full of peace. I can't bear to think of it falling into the Bouveries' hands."
"My dear child," said her uncle, rather surprised at this outburst, "I had no idea that it had got such possession of you. We can do nothing to help your aunt, I fear. Tom and I were continually sending her money after her husband's death, but at last we stopped, for we judged it was no real help to her."
"I have money now," said Adrienne thoughtfully; "I wonder—"
"No, it's not to be thought of. I am getting an old man, and you will have yourself to provide for; you must not spend your money on bolstering up a ruin."
"Oh, but it isn't a ruin, that's what makes it so sad. It only wants decorating and painting. The walls and roof and all the rooms are sound and good. But I couldn't buy it. Mr. Bouverie wants it for himself and he would ask a fabulous price for it. What I am really concerned about is Van Dyck's picture. Cousin Guy told Aunt Cecily he would not let that go out of the family."
"Then let him come back and get it. Where is he?"
"I don't know. He gave me his banker's address in New York, in case of anything urgent. I will write to them to-day. I think I will enclose him Bertha's letter. I am so thankful she is there. I should be miserable if Aunt Cecily were alone."
"Do you want to go back to her?" her uncle asked her in his quiet voice.
Adrienne laid her hand upon his arm.
"Uncle Derrick, do you think I would or could leave you? I did wonder whether you would like to accept Aunt Cecily's invitation and go there for a visit. I should love you to see it all."
"I'm afraid I shouldn't care to do that," said the Admiral slowly. "Tom paid her a visit once, and it was a dead failure. No, my dear, I feel that Cecily and I like each other best at a distance. But if you feel you would like to go over again for a bit, you mustn't mind me. I can get on very well alone."
"That's your unselfish outlook. I'm not going to leave you at present. I couldn't."
She wrote to her cousin Guy that same day, enclosed Bertha Preston's letter, and told him that at present she was tied to her uncle.
"He feels Uncle Tom's death intensely," she wrote; "and I cannot leave him alone. He has more claim upon me than Aunt Cecily, but somehow or other I feel torn in two; and I do want you to save the darling Château from the Bouveries if you can. Surely his rope is long enough now to hang him? I can't help hoping that you will save the situation. It is critical now, and that is why I am writing to you."
She was relieved when this letter went.
One day, when the Admiral was away on business, Adrienne rode over to see Phemie. She had had a note from her telling her of her happiness, but saying it was harvest time and consequently a very busy time at the farm.
She found her baking bread in the delightful kitchen. Mrs. Moray was in the cornfields, and so was Dick. The girls kissed each other affectionately.
"Why, Phemie, I don't know you! You look at least ten years younger."
"I wish I could return the compliment. Nothing would take away your good looks, or your happy eyes, but you are thin and a little worn. I am afraid you have had a sad home-coming."
"It is sad," said Adrienne, sitting down on the low window-seat, and removing her hat, letting the breeze from the open window fan her heated temples. "The house is a different place without Uncle Tom. It seems so silent and grave! Uncle Derrick is very quiet, and I feel getting very old and quiet too."
"But you mustn't!" said Phemie energetically. "It's all wrong. You have your life before you, and you're young, younger than I. Oh, Adrienne, I cannot sometimes believe that my happiness is real! I have always looked upon Godfrey as an ideal modern knight; he is so good, so generous, so courteous to all, and the poorer and humbler a person is, the more he goes out of his way to befriend them. I used to look upon him as your particular property, and when I found you did not care about him, I felt angry with you; I was indignant because you could not appreciate him. And then, when you went away, we were thrown together, and I still thought it was only his kindness of heart towards one who was in a very monotonous and unpalatable groove. It was almost too much for me, when he came to close quarters and asked me to be his wife.
"At first I was terrified of his mother. I know it was an awful blow to her, and I must say she has been most wonderfully forbearing and kind. And if she was taken aback by it, you can imagine what Mother was like. We had an awful scene. She said the farm would have to be given up, and that if I deserted her, she would wash her hands of the whole concern. Do you know, I didn't think Dick had it in him. He showed up most wonderfully. Told Mother that my future prospects came before the farm, that he did not intend to give it up if she did, and that he was thankful that my life of toil was going to cease. He told Mother there were plenty of land girls and labourers' daughters or wives who could take my place, and that the farm was doing so well that hired labour was now a possible thing.
"Mother calmed down then, and had a wonderful talk with me afterwards. She owned up that she had driven us both, but that she was so afraid we would take after our father, who drifted through life without any idea of steady application or work! She always makes me angry when she talks about Father; but my own happiness has made me more sympathetic, I think, and I tried to see her side. She said that Dick was turning out as she had hoped for, and that if he could see his way through without my help, she would be willing to spare me, and would get some land girl or woman to help her.
"She made me laugh; she said, 'I'll take care not to get one of these pretty flighty girls who will be setting their caps at Dick. I'll pick out the plainest and homeliest that I can find. Strength and cleanliness are the chief things I want in them.'"
Phemie paused, then in a different tone she said:
"Oh, Adrienne, when I think that I shall have leisure time! Time for the best part of me to be refreshed. When I shall be able to paint, to read, to be able to enjoy some of the beauty in the world which I had put behind me! Well, I just can't believe it. I'm so terribly afraid I may wake up and find it a dream!"
"Dear Phemie, I'm so thankful, so glad!"
And in her heart Adrienne was; she told herself that the life unfolding before Phemie was so gloriously full for her, that she was only thankful that she had not marred it in any way.
Yet before she left Phemie, she plucked up courage and said to her:
"You'll forgive me, if I ask you whether Godfrey is more to you than the life of ease and comfort which he offers you. Would you go to him if you both had to work hard for your living?"
Phemie flashed an indignant look at her friend.
"I'm not demonstrative by nature, Adrienne, I take after Mother in that; but do you think me so despicably mean as to take from Godfrey all his good things, and not give him my heart, my life, my all? He has always been my secret king and hero. But I naturally kept such feelings to myself."
"Phemie dear, it was impertinent of me, but Godfrey and I have grown up together, and he does deserve a wife who will do what I cannot do, love and adore him. I can't tell you how happy I shall be. Two of my greatest friends coming together like this!"
She rode home assuring herself that she was deeply content, and yet in the bottom of her heart there was rather a lonely deserted feeling, as if all her friends were leaving her—that she would no longer be necessary to them.
"Well, I have Uncle Derrick, nothing will touch our love," she said to herself, and she went back to him with sunshine in her eyes and smile.
Two or three weeks passed. Adrienne devoted herself to her uncle; she got out her old songs and sang them to him in the evenings, the time of day in which they most missed the General; she rode out with him, and brought her work into the library when he was poring over his books and pedigrees. And all the time her thoughts were in the little French village, wondering if Bertha were getting tired of the incessant demands made upon her time, whether Agatha and she held long conversations together, whether Gaspard was keeping the rose-beds weeded, whether the small vineyards on the sloping hill were showing signs of a good vintage, and whether the Bouveries were really making preparation for taking possession Of the Château.
At last she heard from Bertha that her aunt was going to make her usual autumn move into her Orleans flat.
"She is playing a kind of game with herself and everyone else," wrote Bertha, "by insisting that this is her usual move, and that she will be returning in the spring, but I happen to know that Monsieur Bouverie has promised her to wait to take possession till she has gone, and that he means to move in directly she has done so. She is writing to you to implore you to come back and help her with the move. She will not trust me as she trusts you. Do you not think you could come for a week or two? You need not go to Orleans with her. I believe she will be happy there. And I really cannot stay much longer. I have heard from an invalid cousin of mine who wants me to go to the Riviera with her the end of September. If I do so, I shall have to be shutting up my cottage and getting rid of my bits of furniture. I do not care to live there now. But I must justify my existence by being of some use to someone, so think my cousin's proposal fits in."
The following day Adrienne had the usual hysterical effusion from her aunt, and after reading over both these letters to her uncle, he advised her to go over for a week or two.
"And don't be miserable, my dear child, over that old Château, but be thankful that your aunt will no longer have such an incubus."
"Oh, Uncle Derrick," said Adrienne with a laugh and a sigh, "you don't know its charms. It will be a hard wrench to me to say good-bye to it. I am still hoping it may be saved. I have been calculating the time. If Cousin Guy received my letter, he might be on the way home."
"I believe he went away to make it easy for your aunt. I know he thinks she is mistaken in living on there; and when he is at hand, she bleeds him, and convinces herself that he will not see her turned out."
So in a very few days' time, Adrienne crossed the Channel once more. She could leave her uncle with an easy mind for a week or two. He was a man who was always occupied, and he told her that he had a good deal of business to see to in town, connected with his brother's estate.
The glories of an early autumn were tinting the trees and hedges, and wrapping the woods and distant hills in a golden haze, when Adrienne arrived at her destination.
She had an unpleasant moment or two at the station, for Monsieur and Madame Bouverie were seeing friends off in the train for Orleans.
Madame Bouverie affected not to see Adrienne at first and called out in her shrill French voice:
"Au revoir, Nancie; next time you visit us, you will find us comfortably installed in the Château, I hope. Ah! What a work is before us, bringing that mouldy old place up to date, but we shall do it. Inside and out you will be astonished at the metamorphosis!" Then with a triumphant smile she turned and nodded affably to Adrienne.
"You have returned to help your aunt pack up. So glad to see you."
Adrienne felt her bow was stiff; she passed out to where the car was waiting for her with hot indignation in her heart. But as she passed along the familiar lanes, and noted the tiny green shuttered houses, the purple bloom of the grapes on the sloping hills, and heard once more the melodious bells of the oxen passing along with their loads, she said to herself with a little glow within her:
"This has become my second home. How I love it all!"
It was a lovely afternoon; she glided up the old avenue, and noted the golden tints on the trees, and then came upon the old Château mellow and stately still. Tea was on the terrace and her aunt and Bertha Preston were both waiting to welcome her.
Nothing marred the warmth of that welcome. Adrienne felt that her aunt was really attached to her, and old Pierre hovered about with a pleased smile on his withered face. He had gathered a dish of golden plums in honour of her return and she turned to thank him with her bright smile, but was rather taken aback to see his old eyes fill with tears. He hobbled off, furtively brushing the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. To Adrienne it seemed impossible that the old Château was going to pass away from the de Beaudesserts, and certainly her aunt seemed strangely unaware of the fact. She was all smiles and graciousness, telling Adrienne bits of local news, and asking with a little sympathy in her tone after her brother.
"It does not do to be bound up so entirely in one another as he and Tom were," she said with a sigh; "they were two inseparables! Of course Derrick must miss Tom tremendously."
"Yes, I could not bear to leave him; but he will be in London for a week or two over business matters, and I shall soon be back again."
The Countess shook her head at her:
"I am going to introduce you to Orleans society, and shall not let you go in a hurry. I have told Miss Preston of some plans I have in my head."
"When are you going?" Adrienne asked.
"As soon as you can get me packed. I don't like autumn in the country, and the fall of the leaf is not healthy."
"Have you heard from Cousin Guy?"
"Not for weeks. He is always a bad correspondent. It is most inconsiderate of him staying away at this juncture, when I specially want him. I do not know where he is, or what he is doing. I have only his banker's address."
After tea, Adrienne went up to her room and Bertha accompanied her.
She settled herself down in a big easy-chair by the window for a good talk. The Countess had gone to her room to turn out some of her wardrobes ready for Adrienne's inspection. Annette went with her to help her.
"My dear Adrienne, your aunt is a marvel. She can turn from disagreeables and forget all about them within ten minutes. We had awful scenes this morning with Pierre and his family. It appears that Monsieur Bouverie has been interviewing them and asking them if the Countess has given them notice to leave. He told them he would not require their services, and he hoped to take possession of the Château on the fifteenth of next month. That will be barely three weeks from to-day. They all arrived up in your aunt's room in tears. She got very agitated, and alarmed, dissolved into tears herself and then waved them all away.
"' The Count will be back. He'll put things all right. You need not be afraid. I leave you as usual to take care of the Château in my absence. Monsieur Bouverie is trying to frighten you. You really must not come and upset me like this. My heart won't stand it. The sooner I am in Orleans the better. Mademoiselle is coming to take me there."
"She then cheered up, and has been extra cheerful all day. Can you understand her? Monsieur Bouverie is absolutely determined, and within his rights, he tells me, to take the Château on the fifteenth of October."
"It's all perfectly dreadful," said Adrienne; "I can understand Aunt Cecily's mind a little. She has always been under dread of this time coming, but she has slipped through so many of her troubles that she expects to slip through this. And even I don't believe Monsieur Bouverie will be successful in wresting the property from us. I somehow think that Cousin Guy will prevent it."
"Has your cousin been playing a game?" Bertha asked. "Because the Bouveries talk of him and think of him as an indolent dreamy fool, a good farmer, but with no love for his old house, and with no intention of saving it. I should call him a masterful, keen-witted man, who would let nobody get the better of him in business matters!"
"Yes," said Adrienne; "that is him. And I rely upon him to return in time to circumvent the Bouveries. I am not going to make myself miserable before it is necessary. Let us enjoy these lovely days, Bertha."
"My dear, I must be off to-morrow. But I shall be at Le Sourge for a week or two yet. I have to pack up too. We shall see each other, I hope, several times before you leave."
The rest of the evening passed quietly. The Countess talked much of Orleans and of her flat, and from hints she let drop, and from a little confidence on Bertha's part, Adrienne was made aware that her aunt intended to make a match for her with a certain young Baron in Orleans.
WHY THE COUNT WENT AWAY
THE days that followed were like a calm before a storm. Adrienne went to see her village friends. They all told her how glad they were to see her back. Strangely enough, with all their love of gossip they none of them referred to what was well known in the village, the transfer of the Château to Monsieur Bouverie. One or two of them asked Adrienne a little anxiously:
"And when will the Comte be back?"
She only shook her head.
"We don't know. It is uncertain."
She paid little Agatha a visit very soon.
The sick girl took hold of her hands in her earnest, demonstrative way:
"Ah, dear Mademoiselle, how we have missed you! And you have been through sorrow. But you are learning Who can comfort."
"How do you know I am, Agatha?"
"By your eyes. They are not only joyously happy, that they have always been, but a deep contented rest has crept into your soul, and it shows itself."
"Yes, Agatha," said Adrienne in a low voice, "I have I think, very feebly linked myself on to the One you know and love."
"Or shall we say He has very strongly linked you on Himself," said Agatha with her serene smile.
"Yes, that is better. That is what He has done. He has drawn me to His Feet and forgiven me there, and made me one of His sheep."
"And you have only to hear His Voice and follow now—Mademoiselle, I rejoice so much in your joy."
"It has come so gradually," said Adrienne; "I can't tell you when or how, only after many prayers I have stopped doubting, and now am trusting. Oh, Agatha, if only—only my Aunt could realize it, how happy she might be!"
"Give to her, as you have been given to," said Agatha; "it is so easy to enter the Kingdom, if you'll take the Bon Seigneur at His Word."
Adrienne came away from her feeling in tune with the whole world; she was serenely conscious of a new joy and a new purpose in her life.
Her aunt sighed as she heard her singing about the Château.
"Ah, if only I were young and gay again!"
The packing up progressed steadily, but the Countess still persisted in thinking that she would return to the Château again. Secretly Adrienne began to empty drawers and wardrobes and stow the contents away into travelling trunks, and meanwhile every post was watched for anxiously.
Madame Bouverie haunted the place; she would push herself in on the merest pretext, and begin measuring furtively rooms and windows.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," she said to Adrienne one day, "it will be a relief to your dear aunt to have the care of such a big place no longer. When one has not the money it is heartrending. We shall have to spend thousands on this place to make it habitable—thousands!"
Adrienne had difficulty in giving a polite response. She knew it was of no use to argue with her, and pride forbade her to plead.
At last things were in train for the Countess to leave for Orleans.
And then one afternoon about three o'clock, Adrienne, who had been out in the garden gathering a few late roses, came into the Château to hear voices in the corridor upstairs.
Pierre came forward with a troubled look upon his face:
"It is Monsieur Bouverie with some gentleman from Paris. I think it is a foreign gentleman who wants to buy our Van Dyck."
When Pierre was agitated, he would associate himself with the family he loved and served.
The flush mounted into Adrienne's cheeks and fire into her eyes. Without a word, she sprang upstairs, and confronted a little group gathered round the famous picture.
"May I ask what you are doing, Monsieur Bouverie?"
She stood like a young queen before them, her voice haughty and cold, her eyes sparkling dangerously.
"I have just brought a gentleman to see this picture," said Monsieur Bouverie, a little defiantly.
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She stood like a young queen before them,her voice haughty and cold.AdrienneChapter XIII
"With the Countess's permission?" asked Adrienne.
"Well, really, Mademoiselle, I told Pierre not to trouble her. It is not worth it. Mr. Bullivant from New York was only able to come to-day, otherwise I should not have brought him till next Tuesday."
"This picture is not for sale, so I do not know why he should be brought here."
Adrienne's tone was hard and cold.
"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Bouverie, an ugly gleam coming into his eyes, "this picture will be in my possession in two days' time; and as I intend to sell it, I am letting a possible purchaser see it now."
"This picture will never be in your possession. It belongs to the Count de Beaudessert, and he is, as you know, at present away from home."
There was a dead silence.
Then the American said a little anxiously turning towards the notary:
"Is there some misapprehension somewhere?"
"Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Bouverie, beginning to get excited. "You take too much upon yourself; you are creating false impressions. The Countess has sold me this picture with the Château. I have taken all the pictures and furniture with it. The Château itself is nearly a ruin. It is its contents which I value. I have it all here in writing with her signature. I am not likely to do anything illegal."
But Adrienne stood firm:
"The Countess had no power to sell this picture or mortgage it, for it is not hers. You cannot give away another's property."
Then, as Monsieur Bouverie began to splutter and storm, Adrienne called out suddenly and sharply to Pierre:
"Pierre, show these gentlemen out, and remember that we intend now to admit no one into the Château whilst we are in it."
Then she gave a little bow to the American, and said to him in English:
"I am sorry that you have been misinformed, sir, about this picture. It does not belong to Monsieur Bouverie, and the Count my cousin does not intend to sell it. He has told me so. I will wish you good afternoon."
She walked away from them, then stood at the top of the staircase watching them go down and out of the front door.
Monsieur Bouverie was shaking with rage, and volubly explaining, and denouncing Adrienne's interference.
Then Adrienne issued her commands to Pierre:
"Lock and bolt all the outside doors. We intend to see no one except perhaps Miss Preston or the Curé. We must keep a closed door till we go."
She said nothing to her aunt of what she had done. She felt ashamed and indignant that the Countess had weakly deceived her stepson and had tried to part with the one possession he prized. And she did not want to upset her in these last days. The Countess was sleeping badly, and at last was beginning to realize that this move would be different to the usual autumnal flitting. But Adrienne realized that she had made an open enemy of the notary. It was war to the knife between them now, and she was beginning to be frightened of the responsibility lying upon her shoulders. She did not know how to remove the picture and where to take it. It was a very large one, and would require a frame and a van to transfer it to her aunt's flat. She thought of the farm, but feared that Monsieur Bouverie would forcibly remove it from there.
Half an hour later, she was standing in the hall talking to Pierre about it. It was nearly time for her aunt to appear for tea, which they were having in the salon now, as it was getting too cold to sit out of doors.
Pierre was delighted at the unceremonious way in which Monsieur Bouverie had received his exit. And when they suddenly heard a violent ring and a still more violent knocking at the door, both he and Adrienne thought it might be Monsieur Bouverie returning to the attack, with his legal papers all in form.
"Let him knock a bit, Mademoiselle; it will cool his blood," said Pierre, almost dancing with excitement on the tips of his old toes.
But through one of the hall windows Adrienne caught sight of a tall figure and she knew it was not the little notary.
"Open immediately, Pierre. I believe, oh I believe it is the Count."
It was, and, as Guy strode in, he looked puzzled and perplexed.
"Are you in a state of siege here?" he asked. "I have never known this front door locked and barred before five o'clock at this time of year."
Adrienne sprang forward and seized hold of his hand:
"Oh, Cousin Guy, how glad I am to see you! I might have known you would not be too late, but you have driven it very close."
"I started directly I got your letter, but our boat was delayed, and I have had other difficulties to overcome. How are you all? I hoped to see you here, but was not certain. I was sorry to hear about the General."
"Yes," said Adrienne, drawing a long breath; "a lot has happened since you went; but oh, I can think of nothing but of your return. Everything will be all right now; why did I doubt it?"
They had no further talk together, for the Countess suddenly appeared. She was as glad and relieved as Adrienne was, but in her own way she did not let him know it.
"Why have you stayed away so long? Everything has gone from bad to worse. And now Monsieur Bouverie is turning me out of this, and says he is coming to live here himself. Imagine Madame Bouverie in this salon dispensing hospitality. What am I to do? Not a penny to spend. What are you going to do?"
"Nothing to-night, ma mère. To-morrow we'll have a good talk and see if we can't right things."
His eyes were on Adrienne as he spoke. She looked in her black gown very fair and sweet. With a pretty grace she was presiding over the tea-tray. Happiness shone in her grey eyes, but she noted that there were weary lines upon her cousin's face, and though he leant back easily in his chair and began to talk of trifles, there was grim determination in the set of his lips, as if he were anticipating an unpleasant struggle with his stepmother's lawyer.
"Where have you been all this time?" demanded the Countess.
He smiled at her. "I've been scouring British Columbia and a good bit of Canada for something I wanted. And I found it at last."
"Some new machines for farming, I suppose," said his stepmother.
She expressed no further interest in his doings, but asked him if he were putting up at the farm.
"Yes; I have only just come up to report myself to you. I must not dine here to-night. I want to see Grougan, and have an appointment with him at six."
"That's your lawyer from Orleans? If he had been my lawyer instead of Bouverie, we should not have come to such a pass."
"But," said Guy with raised eyebrows, "I begged you to have him three years ago, and you would not."
"How could I when Monsieur Bouverie held everything of mine in his hands and understood it all so well?"
Guy relapsed into silence. Then when he had finished his tea, he said to Adrienne:
"Will you walk to the farm with me? Have you had a walk to-day? Will ma mère spare you?"
"Oh yes, go," said the Countess a little impatiently to Adrienne. "And make him see my side of things, Adrienne. If he values his father's home at all, he will make some effort to keep it."
When a little later Adrienne set out down the drive with Guy, she felt tongue-tied. She had so much to say that she hardly knew where to begin.
Guy was silent for the first few minutes himself, but he soon spoke:
"Well, little cousin, my time has come. To-morrow afternoon the tug of war will begin; my lawyer versus Bouverie. But to-morrow morning, I must have a very plain talk with ma mère. We must have no repetition of these mortgages if we once get clear of them."
"Oh, Cousin Guy, take the Château over yourself. You must. It is the only way. If you can only afford it, do keep it yourself."
"That is precisely what I have always meant to do, but ma mère would not have relinquished it until she was driven to the last extremity. You will hear my plans to-morrow."
"Now I must tell you about your picture," said Adrienne. "I have not told Aunt Cecily, and I don't know if I took too much upon myself. Listen!"
She recounted to him the events of the afternoon.
Guy listened with his imperturbable face, and when she had finished said:
"Thank you, little cousin. I think you showed great pluck and presence of mind. Best not talk to ma mère about it. She looks very frail."
"Yes, I have really been anxious about her. Any great shock would be disastrous, I believe, to her. I needn't ask you to be patient with her, because you always are. In some ways you're a marvel!"
"She mustn't have a shock, eh?"
Guy stopped in his long strides. They had come to the gate of the farm, and he pointed to the house.
"In there I have something that may be a surprise to her. I hardly think it could be a shock. My experience of your aunt is that she is so detached from every one but herself, that other people's lives and fortunes do not interest her or affect her."
"I think you are right there," said Adrienne slowly. Then her eyes wandered to the farm.
Guy followed her gaze.
"It is what I went to find," he said. "Come along, and you will be enlightened."
Adrienne followed him up the narrow path. It was an unpretentious, small farmhouse, with whitewashed walls and blue slate roof, but it looked very sweet in the autumn sunshine. There was a minute grass plot, in front of which a small boy and a big dog were disporting themselves.
As they came up the boy sprang to his feet, then planted himself a little defiantly, his back against the door, upon the doorstep. He was a pretty child with a shock of dark curls upon his head, and a small pointed face. For a moment Adrienne thought he must be some belonging of the farmer's, and then, as she looked again, his whole bearing and dress did not betoken a peasant child.
"This is my small son," said Guy gravely. "Shake hands, Alain, with this lady."
The child's large frank eyes met Adrienne's, and his face softened as he saw her smile.
With a little foreign bow, he raised her hand gently to his lips and kissed it.
Adrienne stood still and gazed at him. She could find no words to say.
"I should have been back sooner," said Guy in his imperturbable voice, "if it had not been for this small person. I had a tremendous job in finding him, and a difficult job in bringing him away. The people he was with were quite willing to part with him, but he was not willing to come, and I had to spend several days with him before I could inspire him with the necessary confidence to come with me happily. Even now he looks upon me with suspicion; he is not quite sure whether I have not a rod in pickle for him up my sleeve."
Adrienne drew the child to her.
"Why, there is nothing of you, Alain," she said tenderly; "you will get fat and jolly now that you are with your Daddy." She was looking at his tiny arms and legs, which were like sticks, and the boy looked down at himself and up at her.
"Aunt Susy always said I ran too much to get fat. Who are you? I like you."
"I'm your cousin—Cousin Adrienne."
She sat down in the little porch, and he climbed upon her knee and began fingering her white ivory beads.
"Is this your rosary? I have a rosary in a little box which once belonged to a mother of mine. Did you know I had a mother? When I was a baby I had. And she gave me to Aunt Susy before she went to heaven and Aunt Susy said she'd always wanted a little boy like me. But I never knew I had any father except the Bon Dieu in Heaven."
Here he stole a glance at the Count, who was leaning against an old apple tree and watching them.
"You have an awfully nice father, Alain," said Adrienne under her breath.
"I shall get to know him soon," said Alain wistfully; "but he's very tall and strong and strange to me. Aunt Susy's husband was a little fat man, always laughing. He and I played in the hay together."
"Well," said Guy, coming forward, "will he be a shock to your aunt, do you think?"
"Does she know that you are married?"
"That I was, you mean," said Guy, and a little bitter smile crossed his lips. "No, she does not; it was but a ten months' interlude, a sudden venture, a swift regret. Frankly I had no idea that this small person existed. I had been told that he had died as a baby. The woman who took him from his mother coveted him and kept him, and wrote giving me particulars of his death. Now she's at the point of death herself, and glad to relinquish the care of him."
"And you heard about him, and went off to America to hunt for him?" said Adrienne. "Why did not you tell us?"
"Because I was not sure of my facts. I suppose Miss Preston has been discreet and told you nothing? She could give you particulars, for it was through her brother that I learnt of the existence of my son. I had reason to believe that my wife left me to run off with him; but I discovered that it was to his great friend she went."
"And is she dead?" Adrienne asked in a dazed sort of way.
"She died eight years ago, three months after she left me. Caught a chill in Florence, and the boy spent two years of his life there with his foster-mother, who returned to America with him later. That is his history. His foster-mother was a superior woman, had been nurse to his mother before, and so has trained him in manners and morals. He misses her, of course, and old Henriette here doesn't understand children."
"But you won't keep him here? He must come to the Château," said Adrienne quickly.
"My plans are not made yet," replied Guy gravely.
Adrienne got up from her seat, and gently put the child off her lap.
"I must go now. I hear the little chapel bell ringing in the village and Aunt Cecily will be wondering where I am. May I congratulate you, Cousin Guy, upon having someone of your own to love and care for? We shall see you to-morrow morning."
"Yes. If you like to prepare your aunt for my news, you can do so. If not, I will break it to her when I come."
As she sped away homewards her thoughts were in confusion. Never had she imagined her cousin to be a married man—a widower! And she resented his reserve on this point. When he had spoken to her, before leaving for America, was it this sudden bit of news, this knowledge that he had a small child somewhere, which made him do it? Did he suddenly feel he must have a home and a woman to take care of it and of the child?
"He seems so cold, so passionless, as if he has no love left in him, and yet I suppose his unhappy experience has embittered him. Cousin Guy with a child! Well, it is an astounding state of things. What on earth will he do with the poor little soul? I'm afraid Aunt Cecily won't welcome him."
With such thoughts as these, she wended her way homewards.
THE NOTARY'S DEFEAT
"AUNT CECILY, did you know that Cousin Guy was married?"
The Countess looked her astonishment as Adrienne put this question to her after dinner.
"No; but I should never be surprised at anything he did," she said, recovering her equanimity very quickly. "He is very reserved and secretive. Who has been talking to you?"
"He has. I think he will tell you about it himself to-morrow. I don't know the rights of it, but it evidently was not a happy marriage, as she left him very soon, and died a few months later."
"I believe," the Countess said thoughtfully, "that dear Philippe must have known it. I dare say he did not care to trouble me with the details. I never cared for Guy or for his concerns. But dear Philippe said to me when he lay dying: 'My dearest, if we ever have grandchildren, I should like them to know this home of theirs!' I did not pay much attention then; but really Guy may have a dozen children for all I know."
"He has not a dozen," said Adrienne very quietly; "but he has one. He thought the child was dead, then heard he was not, and went off to America to look for him."
"And has he found it? Is it a boy or a girl?"
The Countess was sitting up in her chair now and looking interested.
"A boy. He is at the farm. I saw him this evening. Cousin Guy said I could tell you. You will be able to hear about it all to-morrow."
"A boy!"
The Countess repeated it to herself, then subsided upon her cushions again.
"I really don't see that his family has anything to do with us, Adrienne. He must board him out somewhere if he is small. French children generally have foster-mothers, you know. It doesn't concern us. I cannot imagine Guy with a child to look after. But it is treating me very strangely to withhold this information from me. I always say he is a most unnatural stepson. I ought to have been told before."
Adrienne tried to soothe her ruffled feelings. She was relieved to find that Guy was right in his conjectures; that his stepmother would not be disturbed by his news. The child itself was of no interest to her. She did not even ask Adrienne for a description of him, and in a few moments she was full of her Orleans friends, and she kept up an animated conversation with Adrienne till bedtime over the possible gaieties when she had settled in her flat.
The next morning Guy arrived over for his business talk. But the Countess would not discuss any business before déjeuner. At twelve o'clock they adjourned to the library and then Guy plunged into the matter in hand. He told his stepmother that his lawyer held many proofs of Monsieur Bouverie's dishonesty, that he meant to have the matter cleared up, and that at three o'clock that afternoon both lawyers were coming to have an interview with him at the Château.
"There is no doubt," said Guy gravely, "that I shall be able to prevent him taking possession here next Tuesday, but the question is, ma mère, about yourself. What are your wishes about continuing to live here? Do you not prefer Orleans? In the winter I know you do; and I should suggest your making no alteration in your plans, but go there on the date you have settled. But would you like to return next summer?"
"I may not be alive then," said the Countess, feeling for her handkerchief. "Of course I do not wish to be turned out of my dear husband's home. Is it likely that I should? It is the dreadful penury in which I live which is my greatest trial."
"Well—now listen to me, ma mère. I am hoping I shall be able to square things up, and we'll make a fresh start, but with this difference: that I take over the Château as well as the farm and run it on my own. You have tried to do it and have failed. Now I'll have a try and hope I may succeed. I have changed in my views somewhat—lately. I'm tired of a roving life and I mean to settle down. If I go away at all, it will be for a couple of months in the winter. I want to relieve you of the whole care and responsibility of this place. If buy it back, or get it back from your little notary, it must be for myself, but with the understanding that, for as long as you live, you can consider it as your home. I will pay for all repairs, all wages; I will run the house on my own lines, and I see that I shall have to spend a good sum on outside decoration as well as the inside. I shall welcome you every summer as my guest—in fact, at any time of the year you like to come; but as far as money goes, you will have your own marriage settlement, which has not been touched by this scoundrel, and I think I shall be able to afford you from the estate an extra two hundred a year. Will this suit you? I think you will enjoy the freedom of all care and anxiety. And you ought to be able to live comfortably on your income in your Orleans flat."
The Countess listened to her stepson rather more quietly than he had expected; she appeared to be weighing it in her mind, for she was absolutely silent for a few minutes. Then she said:
"And how will you, a man, be able to run this big house satisfactorily? I little thought that, after promising me I could have this for my life, you would now be turning me out."
"No, ma mère, Monsieur Bouverie has turned you out. You have sold the Château to him. Your possession comes to an end. If I buy it back, I buy it back for myself. But you can still look upon it as your home. Your rooms will be always ready for you. Everything in them that you have always had."
"Beggars can't be choosers," said the Countess bitterly; "I must agree, of course. How can I do otherwise?"
Then she changed her tone, and spoke with flashing eyes.
"It's a pity that you try to deceive yourself and me by saying you have changed your views, and after giving me to understand all these years that you had no affection for the place, now intend to settle down here. There is one detail you have omitted to mention in your change of plans, and this is your new-found child. He is the cause of all this change of views. You would not buy back the Château for your father's wife, it is for your boy. May I ask who his mother was? Why have you kept this marriage so dark? It is really he who is to supplant me, and before I leave the home in which I have been mistress for so many years, I would like to make sure that this child is all that your father would desire for a successor. I expect, as my right, that you give me all details of this marriage."
Adrienne had been growing more and more uncomfortable. She was ashamed of her aunt, ashamed that she showed no gratitude or appreciation for what her stepson was doing for her. And now she silently slipped out of the room. She had no fear that Guy would lose his temper, or retaliate in any degree to his stepmother's unjust charges. He had infinite patience, infinite self-control; she knew that he would remain absolutely calm and unmoved, but she felt that he would be—that he must be—hurt in his soul, by her aunt's unkindness and suspicion.
She went into the garden, and there, lifting her head to the clear blue sky beyond, tried to get above earth's difficulties and misunderstandings.
It was not long before Guy joined her, and he drew a long breath before he spoke.
"There!" he said. "That's one effort over. I knew she would take it hardly, but it will be for her happiness. She has tried and struggled and failed to keep a home over her head, and now I must do it for her. I suppose she will never believe that I planned this out before I had any knowledge that I possessed an heir. But that does not matter. I shall go straight forward now. You had better go to her and get her mind off my iniquity and deception if you can. She'll soon forget it, and be happy when she gets into her flat. I really don't know what she will do without you when you go home!"
"Poor Aunt Cecily!" said Adrienne.
And then she turned to look at Guy with very tender eyes.
"And poor Cousin Guy!" she said softly. "No one understands or feels for his difficulties, and this addition of responsibility that has just come to him!"
Then she added quickly:
"But he'll be a joy and a treasure! What a darling little boy he is! When will you let Aunt Cecily see him?"
"Not till I've polished off Bouverie," said Guy with a grave smile.
Adrienne flitted away from him, and, as so often before, he watched her figure till it disappeared into the house. But this time from a flash of interest and admiration, the light in his eyes glowed with deep passion, and he murmured between set lips:
"Shall I ever win her, and see her as mistress here?"
At three o'clock, Monsieur Bouverie arrived up at the Château. Guy and Monsieur Grougan, his lawyer, were awaiting him in the big library.
Adrienne kept out of his way, but Pierre told her that he looked very white, though he blustered more than usually.
"I have very little time to give the Count," he said; "I am particularly busy to-day."
The interview went on and on. Four o'clock came, five o'clock, six o'clock, and still the three were talking together. The Countess had forgotten her anger against Guy. Now she was most excited.
"Do you think Guy will get the better of him? If he has robbed me all these years, will I get my money back? I think I ought to be there with them, and yet I would rather not. I am afraid of angry men."
"Cousin Guy will never get angry," said Adrienne.
"No, so much the worse for Monsieur Bouverie," said her aunt shrewdly; "the cold, implacable man is to be feared rather than the angry one. My dear Adrienne, when Guy looks at me so straightly, I squirm. I'm afraid of him."
At six o'clock the library door opened. Monsieur Bouverie was the first one to leave.
Adrienne could not help glancing through the salon windows at him as he strode down the avenue. His shoulders were hunched up. He looked, Adrienne told her aunt, crushed and defeated.
Guy and his lawyer still remained in the library.
When seven o'clock came Guy came out of the room, pushing his hair back with one hand.
"Phew!" he said as he came across Adrienne in the hall. "We have had warm work in there, and tough too, but thank God it is over."
"Is he routed?" Adrienne asked.
"He either fulfils our terms, or he stands committed to trial in Orleans."
Adrienne softly clapped her hands.
"The villain is unmasked and defeated," she said; "and what about the Château?"
"It's mine," said Guy laconically.
They were standing by the open door as they talked. Guy said he wanted air.
Then with happy eyes Adrienne leant against the massive oak door. Putting her lips against it she kissed it.
"Darling old Château," she said, "you've been rescued! I'm so thankful. I believe you'd have broken my heart if you'd gone out of the family."
"Why, Adrienne, do you love it so?"
Guy's tone was almost impetuous for him.
Adrienne laughed up at him.
"I'm so glad and happy that I could dance a jig here and now!" she said recklessly. "Who wouldn't love the darling old place? It always seems to wear a smile for me. Come outside and have a good look at it."
She pulled him by the sleeve. Together they stood out upon the terrace gazing up at the old building. Its roof was getting golden with moss and lichen. Red Virginia creeper was climbing up its walls. The woods above it, the gardens and bit of park round it were all tinted with russet brown and gold. The smell of wood fires came out of its old chimneys, for now the evenings were chilly, the Countess had fires burning in her rooms.
Guy looked up at it, and then at the girl by his side. He gave a short sharp sigh, and said:
"Yes, it might be a very happy home."
Then with alacrity, he moved into the house.
"I want to tell ma mére, and get her to have Grougan to dinner. We shall still have business to do afterwards."
Adrienne followed him into the salon, where the Countess sat in state.
"Have you had success?" she asked.
"It is not absolutely certain whether he will fight us or not. He will let us know his answer to-morrow. But he knows he hasn't a leg to stand upon. One or two flagrant bits of dishonesty would be quite enough to condemn him. I've offered to let him off prosecution if he will pay up for his frauds. One doesn't want to hound the fellow to death, and I do not think you, ma mére, could stand cross-examination in a French Hall of Justice."
"No, no, indeed," the Countess said nervously. "I am not strong enough for any fatigue or excitement. But if he pays up, I hope I shall get some of my money back."
"You must not forget," said Guy in his cool, level tone, "that from time to time you have borrowed considerable sums of money from him. There must be justice on both sides. It remains to be seen, when both sides have discharged their debts, who will be the richer. I do not think, ma mére, it will be us. If I discharge the mortgage, it will take every bit of ready money I possess. His debts will alone enable me to do it at all. I fear nothing will be over for you, or for the estate, so do not build on false hopes."
Blank dismay took the place of eager expectancy in the Countess's face.
"Do you mean to say that I shall not get that diamond watch back?" she asked after a moment's thought.
Guy smiled.
"That item was mentioned to him. I had clear proof that he cheated you over that. We shall get it back, I hope. Now shall we postpone further talk, and have some food, and will you let Monsieur Grougan dine with us, for we still have a lot of business to transact before he leaves?"
"Oh, certainly, let him stay, though I hardly feel inclined for food after all the shocks of to-day."
Yet with her usual inconsistency, the Countess brightened up and made herself quite agreeable to the lawyer.
Adrienne did not talk much. Somehow her thoughts were on the small boy. What would become of him? Who would look after him? She could not picture her cousin in the role of a father to a child who was hardly out of the nursery.
She and her aunt discussed the situation again when dinner was over, and the two men had retired to the library; and Adrienne tried to impress her aunt with the reasonableness and generosity of her stepson's plans.
"The Château does want a master, Aunt Cecily. You have told me over and over again that it did. You will have all the joy of it without the anxiety. Aren't you thankful beyond words that the Bouveries are not going to walk in and take possession next Tuesday? I suppose I ought not to be ill-natured, but I should like to know how Madame Bouverie is feeling this evening after all her boastful bragging and impertinence!"
"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you about her; but I cannot help feeling hurt about this child being so suddenly sprung upon us. I only hope he is genuine, and that the marriage was so, too."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, how can you doubt Cousin Guy's word? He's the soul of honour."
"I dare say he may be, but it's a strange coincidence that, directly the boy appears, Guy should buy up the Château and turn me out."
"That's very unfair, Aunt Cecily."
Adrienne flared up quite angrily.
"He has always meant to save the Château at the last moment. He told me so—but he waited, as he said, till Monsieur Bouverie had a long enough rope to hang himself! And I think he is quite right to think of his son, and to wish to give him a home."
"Oh, of course, and then he'll give him a stepmother, and where shall I be?"
Her aunt's supreme selfishness had generally the effect of silencing Adrienne. She felt perfectly hopeless now and wisely let the subject drop.
The next day was Sunday. Adrienne went off to her Protestant Service, where she met Bertha Preston. They walked back together, and Adrienne told her all that had happened.