"I know you are discreet, and you know more about the child than I do. If it had not been for your brother, he would never have been found."
"That is true, but my brother knew more than I did. It was all very sad. As you have guessed, my poor brother was loose in his morals and not abstemious. Nine or ten years ago, he met Carlotta Luigi in Rome. Her father was a very clever physician there. She was a great beauty and a great flirt. My brother and a dozen other men were infatuated with her. Then the Count came along. She fell headlong in love with him, and people said proposed to him. Anyhow they married when they had only known each other six weeks, and he carried her off to America with him.
"It was not long before she commenced a passionate correspondence with my brother, asking him to rescue her from a cold Puritan of a husband, who had renounced both his title and his Château and wanted her to live in a country farmhouse in Virginia. My brother, I am sorry to say, encouraged her, though he had not the remotest idea of either marrying or living with her. I suppose your cousin got hold of some of his letters, and drew his own conclusions. Then she made a bolt, but brought her six weeks' old baby with her. I am afraid it was a bit of spite against her husband. She would leave him nothing.
"She arrived in Rome, and the very night she arrived, my brother calmly departed, and sent word to her that he was ill, and could not see her. Another lover of hers, a young Austrian, came forward, and she went off with him. She gave her baby into the charge of a German friend of hers, and it was she who reported the child's death to its father. I think Carlotta felt reckless, and took no care of herself. She contracted a chill very soon, and fell into a rapid decline, but up to the last she refused to write to her husband. I visited her when she was left neglected and forlorn, and I wrote to her husband, but he never answered me; he thought that my brother was wholly responsible for her flight from him."
"Were you living with your brother at the time?"
"No, oh, no. I came out to him with the idea of reforming him and making a home for him, but he would have none of me then. It was afterwards, when he knew he was ill of an incurable disease, that I came to him, and finally persuaded him to come away from the cities and live quietly in the country. It was strange that we should have pitched our quarters near the Count. I never knew that this was his part of the world or that he was over here. I heard it accidentally through the village girl who came to work for us."
"And your brother knew that the child was alive?"
"Yes. It appears that, when she was dying, Carlotta wrote to him; she taxed him with having made her leave her husband, and then deceived her. And she said in her letter:
"'Not only did you make me lose a good husband, but also my child, for an old friend has taken him back to America and forgotten to give me her address. I am dying alone now, without a soul belonging to me near me.'
"In justice to my brother she was not quite fair, for she began the correspondence. He wished to forget all about her."
"It's a sad story," said Adrienne musingly.
"Yes, but thanks to little Agatha, I was able to tell my poor brother when dying that there was a chance for him. And it was his own wish that the Count should come and see him and hear about his child. I had a bad quarter of an hour with the Count before he saw him. And yet, under his apparent hardness, I believe there's great feeling."
"Oh, Bertha, what a life you have had!" exclaimed Adrienne. "How could you give up all your friends, because of your brother!"
"He and I were chums as children," she said; "he wasted his life in riotous living like the prodigal, and yet in intervals produced such good work! His temptations were women, and—wine. After all, it was but natural that I should try to reclaim him. If I did not entirely succeed, his last year was one of respectability and peace."
Then she said:
"How do parent and child get on? It's rather hard for the Count to be saddled so suddenly with a small child."
"I hope they'll get on," said Adrienne doubtfully; "but they're very shy of each other at present. He wants some woman to look after him, Bertha."
"Yes, he will have to have a nurse or governess," said Bertha. "How does your aunt take it? She is too absorbed in her own troubles, I expect, to think about him."
"Yes, she seems entirely indifferent to him. Sometimes I wonder if she can be the sister of my uncles. They are so utterly different—of course poor Uncle Tom has gone now, he always used to say that she was spoiled as a child. I can do nothing with her; no one could change her outlook, it would be a human impossibility!"
"What does Agatha say?"
"Oh, she says that nothing is impossible with God, and that I must pass on to her what I myself receive. But it's very, very difficult. She has given up all religion, except that she keeps a Bible on her dressing-table; but I've never seen her use it."
They parted soon afterwards, and Adrienne again wondered how things would work out under a new regime. The old servants were devoted to her cousin; she could fancy with what joy they would hear the news, but how they would welcome the child was doubtful.
"Well," she told herself resolutely, "I shan't worry myself about it. As soon as I have settled Aunt Cecily in Orleans, I must get back to Uncle Derrick, and Cousin Guy must get on as best he can."
ILLNESS AT THE CHÂTEAU
IT was nearly three weeks later. The Countess would not hurry her departure for Orleans. She continually postponed the date. The Bouveries without a word suddenly disappeared from the village. Their furniture was removed from their house to Paris, after they had themselves departed. The village and neighbourhood regarded their disappearance with great composure. They were not popular, and relief was uppermost in most people's minds. It was all managed very quietly. Guy appeared satisfied, for his lawyer had promptly settled up everything, and Adrienne declared that their exodus was like a bad taste gone from her mouth.
She was beginning to be a little restive about her Aunt's procrastination. She felt uneasy about her uncle. She hardly ever heard from him, and he was generally a very good correspondent. Guy's little son had attached himself to her in a very marked way. He had been brought up to the Château by his father and introduced to the Countess. She was pleased to approve of his manners, as he kissed her hand in the same pretty way as he had kissed Adrienne's; but he was absolutely dumb before her, and in pity, Adrienne took him away into the garden, where he suddenly overwhelmed her with a torrent of words:
"I love you. I don't want anybody else. The old lady is my grand-mère, is she not? I do not want to be near her. She looks at me, and I don't like her eyes. May I come and play in this garden often? I don't like the farm. They jabber words I don't understand. And Dad says I must learn French, so as to speak to them. But Ray the dog there, he understands me when I speak English. Am I an English boy or a French boy? I don't want to be two boys. Can you play cricket?"
Adrienne produced out of her pocket a ball, bought in the village that morning, and with the addition of a flat piece of wood found in the tool-house, she and Alain were soon playing a game on the lawn.
He was loath to part with her when the Countess sent for her, and began to cry in a quiet hopeless fashion. His father found him in tears behind a big shrub and asked him if he had hurt himself.
"No, but just when I begin to be happy, it stops," he sobbed.
"That's the way with most of us," said his father cheerfully; "but only babies and fools cry."
He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears away from Alain's face.
"Now we must have no more tears, Sonnie, not one. And you will find that if you can't be happy in one way, you can try another. If you like to come with me, I'll show you where I used to fish when I was a little boy."
"I wish I could live here always," said Alain, trotting after his father obediently. "I should like to live with Cousin Adrienne."
"I'm afraid you and I will have to get on without her. She lives in England and will be going there soon."
"I'll ask her to take me with her."
"I think you'd better wait. By and by you'll be going to school in England."
"Shall I?"
"Yes; I want you to be more English than French. But you'll be coming to live here very soon. Do you like it here?"
They were crossing a bit of the Park and making for a round pond under some trees.
Alain raised a smiling face.
"Yes, I like it very much. But I don't like the farm."
"Then you don't take after me."
He cut a stick off a tree, produced a string out of his pocket and with the help of a bent pin left Alain radiantly happy trying to fish for minnows.
Then he went back to the house, where he discussed the alternative of a nurse or governess.
"He wants a little of both," said Adrienne; "he's very small and timid."
"A good French bonne is what he wants," said the Countess. "I'll ask Fanchette. She knows everyone round here."
And in the end Pierre and Fanchette between them evolved out of a country village close by a very nice motherly woman who was quite content to go to the farm and look after Alain till the Château was ready to receive him. Guy was already arranging for an army of paperers and painters to take possession, and then suddenly everything came to a standstill. One morning about seven o'clock, Annette came rushing excitedly to Adrienne:
"Mademoiselle. Vite! La Comtesse, ah, quel horreur!"
For a moment Adrienne thought her aunt was dead. Then slipping into her room, she found her lying back in bed breathing very stertorously, her mouth slightly twisted. Nothing would rouse her. Adrienne knew it was a seizure, and sent Gaston riding off post-haste for the doctor. He came promptly, but could do very little. He told Adrienne he had been afraid of this for some time. She had appeared unusually well and happy the night before, so that there was no special cause for such an attack.
All day Adrienne sat in the sick-room, and towards the evening the Countess seemed to regain consciousness, and recognized Adrienne, speaking to her in a thick husky voice. Guy came into the room, and insisted upon Adrienne's going to bed.
"I'll sit by her for an hour or two, and Fanchette will be here. This may mean a long illness. You must have rest and sleep, otherwise we shall have you ill too."
So Adrienne did as he desired, but did not get much sleep. She had only written to her uncle that day telling him she hoped to be home very soon. And now how impossible it would be to leave her aunt!
The next day they got a nurse from Orleans, but though the strain of nursing was taken off Adrienne, her aunt was never happy unless she was in her room.
In a few days she recovered in a certain measure, but lay quietly in bed and never wished to move. She recovered her speech, but used wrong words, and only Adrienne seemed to understand her. The girl had adapted herself instantly to the sick-room's requirements. She was always bright and smiling in her aunt's presence; always gentle and tender with her. The workmen were sent away, for their noise fretted the invalid; but as she grew stronger, life resumed its normal state, and before very long everyone became accustomed to her condition. Orleans was not to be thought of. Adrienne unpacked the many trunks she had packed, and rather sadly rearranged her aunt's room, putting out many of her pretty treasures which had been packed to go away with her.
The Count continued to stay at the farm with his small boy, but he was up at the Château every day.
One day, he insisted upon Adrienne riding out with him.
"You must have more exercise. It is good for you," he said.
And when Adrienne came out into the fresh air which was slightly touched with frost, and cantered along the lanes, the pink flush came into her cheeks and the light into her eyes.
"It is delicious," she said.
"How long are we going on like this?" Guy asked her. "It is not right that you should spend your days in a sick-room. The doctor says she may be many months in this state."
"How can I leave her?" Adrienne asked.
"What does your uncle say?"
"He wanted to come over, but Dr. Caillot advises not. He says she ought to be kept as quiet as possible and to see no fresh people. Uncle Derrick is willing that I should stay on for the present."
"And what do you feel about it?"
"Do you want to get rid of me?" Adrienne asked him laughingly. "I feel that at present I cannot leave Aunt Cecily. I don't believe she'd get well at all, if she worried; and she worries whenever I am long away from her."
"Do you think the child about the house would disturb her?"
"How could he—the darling! The patter of his feet up and down the stairs and his laugh and chatter would be music in our ears. I hope you and he will come soon. It is your home, not ours, remember! I could take Aunt Cecily into Orleans when she gets better."
"She will never be turned out by me," said Guy with emphasis.
"Well, can't we live together, one happy family?" said Adrienne lightly. "I will stay a few weeks longer. Aunt Cecily will be up and about by then, I hope."
But Guy knew better. He said nothing, for he would not damp her hopes.
And in a few days' time he and his small boy took possession of the Château.
Alain and his nurse were put into two cheerful rooms at the end of the long corridor away from the Countess, so that she should not be disturbed.
And Adrienne had one delightful morning in Orleans, choosing nursery furniture and bright pictures for the nursery. Guy was with her. There was one awkward moment, when Adrienne was addressed as "Madame" and something was suggested for her "little son."
Guy was so silent and imperturbable that, though the crimson blood rushed into her cheeks, she felt sure that he had not heard the words.
And a wild desire tugged at her heart, that she might be a mother of a boy like that.
It was the second evening after their arrival that Guy went to the organ and very softly began to play. Adrienne was sitting with her aunt. Hearing the music, she asked her aunt if she would like to listen. Receiving assent, she put open the bedroom door.
But they were not the only listeners. Alain on his way to bed broke away from the care of his bonne. With flaming eyes, he darted down to the hall and hid behind a heavy carved oaken seat by the organ. There he sat on the floor with clasped hands round his knees listening entranced whilst his bonne, missing him, searched the terrace outside.
Guy did not play for long. He was improvising softly, and the strain of his music was sad and wistfully sweet. When at last he dropped his hands from the keys, and sat with bowed head and sorrowful memories, two tiny arms suddenly reached up and clutched him round the neck.
"I love you, Daddy! I love you! Make more music."
The soft cheek that was pressed against his was tear-stained.
Guy turned round and lifted the child on his knee. It was the first expression of affection that he had received from him.
"Why, Sonnie, have you a bit of your father in you, after all? If you have, I'll have you taught music before you learn to read. There is nothing like music for a weary, disappointed man's soul. It restores his courage, and bucks him up to defy failure."
Alain naturally did not understand this.
"Play again, Daddy, play again!" he entreated.
But Lucie, the bonne, had found him, and she carried him off most unwillingly to bed.
All the next day Alain talked to Adrienne of his father's music.
And in the afternoon, when her aunt was asleep, she took him into the salon and opened the piano.
"Now, Alain, you shall learn to play. Daddy says so, and I will teach you."
Alain shivered from head to foot with excitement when he touched the notes of the piano with one tiny finger. He would not leave it when the lesson was over, but sat on the high music-stool, striking one note after another, first with one hand, then with the other. And hearing his delicate certain touch, Adrienne told his father afterwards that music oozed out of his fingers.
Every evening now, half an hour before bedtime, Alain would curl himself up by the organ stool, and listen to his father's music.
Guy and his little son had found a bond of interest at last.
One afternoon Adrienne slipped away to see little Agatha. Bertha Preston had left the neighbourhood, and she missed her friendship.
But Agatha was always a tower of strength to her, and whenever she felt unusually tired or depressed she would visit her, and come away refreshed.
"Agatha," she said as she sat down by the couch, and laid her hand caressingly on Agatha's small white one, "I want to talk to Aunt Cecily about good things, and I feel tongue-tied. I don't know how to begin. Help me! It is so terribly pathetic to see her lying there day after day with her brain clear, but her body almost lifeless, and her speech difficult and uncertain. I wonder sometimes what she is thinking about. She was always so restless before this illness, always moving about her room, having her clothes altered, playing Bridge, looking at fashion magazines. She can do none of these things now."
"No," said Agatha, smiling; "but she can do much better, she can lie in the Arms of the Bon Dieu and listen to His Comforting Voice. It's a great step upwards, Mademoiselle, to lie still and listen. A hush has been sent into her life, so that she can do it. It was too noisy before."
"That sounds beautiful, but to her it will be incomprehensible. I want to help her. I have wanted to help her for a long time. I shall soon be going away, and I shan't have done it."
"Then begin to-morrow, dear Mademoiselle."
"What can I say?"
"Read to her some of our Lord's words; you won't want many of your own."
Adrienne thought over this, with the result that that very same evening she took up her aunt's Bible, which lay on her dressing-table, and approached her, rather timidly, with it.
"Aunt Cecily, shall I read you a few verses out of this before you go to sleep—just to think over, and sleep upon?"
The Countess stared at her and at the Bible, then she shut her eyes wearily.
Adrienne took this to mean assent, as her aunt was capable of a negative shake of her head.
So she turned to the third chapter of St. John, and read about the nightly interview between the ruler and His King. She did not read many verses, and that night made no comment on them. The next evening she continued the chapter, and still said nothing. It was some evenings before she summoned up her courage to say, after reading the end of the fifth chapter of St. John:
"You know, Aunt Cecily, it is only since I came here that I have learnt to love my Bible, and I think you will find comfort in it. Little Agatha has taught me so much. She seems to live so close to God herself, that she draws everyone nearer to Him too. And she says you are now lying in God's Arms for rest and happiness."
The Countess shook her head, but Adrienne saw a tear trickle down her cheek.
"And," went on Adrienne slowly, "if we do come into God's Arms, it is to be forgiven, and loved, and blessed. He wants us, and is disappointed if we keep away. As He says in this chapter:
"'Ye will not come to me that ye might have life.'"
She said no more, but as time went on found it easier to speak about the things she had learnt to love.
And her aunt lay and listened, but never said a word.
One afternoon, Guy came in from the farm, where he still spent part of his days, and asked Pierre for Adrienne.
"Mademoiselle has gone out for a short walk."
"Do you know where she went?"
Pierre did not know.
As he had a message to give her from Madame Nicholas whom he had chanced to meet, Guy went in search of her. It was a strange life that he was leading now, he reflected—strange for him and strange for her.
Virtually they were running the house together, much as husband and wife would do; and yet there was always a deep barrier between them, and of which they were both acutely conscious. There was no happy intimate talk, only grave conversation about local interests, the condition of the invalid, and the doings and sayings of the child. He certainly brought life and happiness into the old Château. His pattering feet up and down the stairs, his chatter and laughter, his friendliness with the old servants, and with all the animals which he could approach delighted and amused both Adrienne and his father.
Sometimes in the dusky twilight, as Adrienne sat opposite Guy at dinner, in her white gown with the candles lighting up her fair sunny face and hair, a throb of pain would rise in his throat and an ache in his heart. Yet never again, he assured himself, would he lay bare the love that had crept into his soul, and deepened and grown till he could hardly contain himself. She had told him she would never link her life to his because of his unfriendly reserve. She did not like his ways, his manners, himself. And he was a strange mixture of assurance and diffidence. He was convinced that he was not attractive to any woman. He had lost a young wife because, three weeks after marriage, she had told him she was tired of him, and wished she had not married him. And Adrienne, with her sunny gracefulness, her sweet temper and unselfishness, had told him very bluntly that there was nothing attractive in his personality. He believed it now. His pride forbade him from incurring again such a snub. Yet he marvelled that circumstances had for a time decreed that they should share a home together. He dreaded a change, yet he felt that inevitably it must come.
Madame Nicholas wanted Adrienne to take Alain the next day to her house. She had a little grandchild staying with her, and was having a children's party.
Guy now betook himself to the woods. He knew most of Adrienne's favourite haunts by this time, and was not surprised when he caught sight of her figure in the distance. But what was she doing? Was she hurt or ill? He quickened his steps. She was lying face downwards amongst the brown pine-needles between a group of pine trees, and as he came near the heaving of her shoulders told him that it was either a storm of passion or of weeping.
Like a flash, he reviewed the morning. He had seen her at déjeuner, and she was light-hearted and gay chattering with Alain as if she had been a child herself. What could have happened since? The post! The letters came in at one o'clock, and he had not seen her since. She must have had bad news. Then he felt that he must make his presence known; she would not like him to see her like this, so he whistled, and in a second Adrienne had got to her feet. There was a seat a little farther down, and she made her way to this.
Here he found her. It was impossible for him to ignore her trouble, as her swollen eyelids and tear-stained face could not be misunderstood.
For a moment he said nothing, then he sat down beside her.
"Little cousin, you are in trouble. Can I help you?"
"Oh, why did you find me? I wanted to be alone." Adrienne's tone was desperate, but Guy was too anxious over her to be easily repulsed.
"I am sorry," he said in his quiet level tone; "but I had a message for you and came out to find you. And I'm glad I came, for perhaps two may be better than one in the present circumstances."
"Oh, you can't help me."
Adrienne's self-possession and dignity had left her. Tears were rushing back to her eyes.
Then pulling a letter out of her pocket, she handed it to him.
"Read it. It's my own fault. I've stayed away from him; I've failed him in his loneliness. He waited and waited and waited for me, and then thought I did not want or care to come back to him. And oh, how hard I've tried to leave Aunt Cecily, and how impossible it has been for me to do so!"
LOVERS
THIS was the letter that Adrienne had received that day.
"MY DEAREST ADRIENNE,—"I am sitting down to break a bit of news to you. It may astonish you, it has astonished me myself, but it has just seemed to happen in some inexplicable fashion. I am going to marry Florence Winter. We have been old friends for many a long day, as you know. I think if it had not been for Tom, it might have happened ten years ago, but she did not like him, and he did not like her, and I would never have left him to set up a separate establishment. When I was up in town a short while ago, I saw a good bit of her, but I never intended anything more than to strengthen our friendship."Then I went home, and the house was I confess it unbearably lonely. I felt that I could not urge you to come back when your aunt needed you so much, and, as time slipped on, I began to think that it might be a happier life for you over in France than with one old man in a small country village. Your aunt wrote saying she was going to Orleans, where she could give you a good time. This her illness has stopped for the present. I longed to come over and have a good talk with you, but you wrote, saying it was best not. And then I was restless awaiting your return, and I went up to town again, and the long and short of it is we settled it up."I hope you may be glad, for it will leave you free to live the life you like the best. Only remember a home with me is always waiting for you. I know you like Florence, and she's ready to mother you if necessary—in any case to welcome you always. We are such old folk that we mean to walk in quietly to a London church one day very soon and come out man and wife. Write to me, dear, and let me know what you think of—"Your devoted old Uncle"DERRICK."Tell me how your aunt is, and when you go to Orleans. I am so thankful that the responsibility of the Château will no longer be hers."
Guy read this through, folded it up slowly and thoughtfully and then handed it back to Adrienne. "You have been between two fires," he said. "Each of them wanting you badly. Poor little woman!"
His sympathetic tone brought the tears again with a rush.
"I can't explain it to you, but everything, everyone seems to be swept away from me. I was so happy, so content before I came over here! And now—now my two best friends have married, or are just going to marry each other, and neither of them will be the same to me again. Uncle Derrick I adored! And now he, and my home will not be mine any longer. Mrs. Winter is nice, but she's a London Society woman, and I hate town and town ways. It's just pure selfishness on my part, for I believe she'll make Uncle Derrick very happy. They've always been fond of each other. Well, I have failed him, and made him feel lonely and forlorn, and now it's my turn, and I can't complain!"
There was a moment's pause. Adrienne felt ashamed of her outburst, and was pulling herself together when Guy deliberately put his arm round her and drew her towards himself.
"You shall not be either lonely or forlorn," he said, strong passion vibrating in his voice. "I want you as never man wanted a woman before. And I'll undertake to keep you from tears if you give yourself to me. I've been snubbed off, I know, but I'm not going to be snubbed off now. I know this, that if love and devotion can make you happy, you'll have it in me. Give me a chance to show you what I can do. I'm tired of restraining and curbing my feelings. I want to tell you what you've been to me since that first happy day when your little feet entered my home. Don't fret over your uncle! If you knew how desolate a man's life can be when he's shut into himself and grey memories, without any hope to look forward to, you would be glad that he's solved his problem. In any case, he wouldn't have wished to keep you single all your life just to attend on him. Adrienne sweet, dearest, let me kiss those tear-stained eyes. I must. I long to comfort you so!"
Utterly unable to withstand him, Adrienne let her head sink on his shoulder. It was broad enough and strong enough to bear all her life's burdens, she knew. She was a little dazed and bewildered by his impetuosity, and then remembered that this was more like the cousin who had come down to her uncles and insisted that she should come to the aid of her aunt. It was only lately that he had been so grave and self-contained.
And Guy had no single thought now but of kissing away his loved one's tears, of seeing the light gradually creep into her soft grey eyes, and the sunshiny smile return to her quivering lips.
This Adrienne, lonely, forlorn and dejected, disappointed and disillusioned in her childhood's home, was a different girl to the dignified stately young lady who had accused him of being all that she disliked, mysterious, reserved and complacent in his reticence. That accusation had hurt him; he had no room in his heart for hurts or injuries now, it was all taken up with his overflowing love and passion for her. If Adrienne had wished to free herself from his strong protective hold, she could not. But she lay passive in his arms, and when his lips touched hers, she could only turn her face a little, and hide it on his shoulder.
"You—you haven't allowed me time or breath to speak," she at last managed to say.
"My darling, I'm waiting to hear you. But I'm not afraid. If I haven't inspired you with feelings of love or confidence in myself, I know that I've the power in me to do it. It has come to me now that you and I are meant for each other, that God above has drawn us together, and has been slowly but surely demolishing all the barriers that might have loomed up between us."
Then he added:
"I asked you before to join me in making a home. I had that vision perpetually before my eyes—but now it isn't the home I think about, it is you yourself, and only yourself that I want to win."
And then Adrienne looked up at him, and the light shone in her eyes and smile.
"And that is what I want to hear," she whispered; "and I only want in the whole wide world, just you."
It was winter time, but the pines whispered and rustled their tops together above them, and the golden sun that was already nearing the horizon sent its shafts of glory across the wood to greet the pair of lovers. The golden rays hovered on the two heads so close together, the cheerful chattering of the birds preparing their beds for the night gradually ceased, and a sudden hush fell upon the woodlands round them.
Adrienne roused herself with a little quivering laugh:
"You certainly know how to dry tears, Guy. I wonder if dear Uncle Derrick and Mrs. Winter are as happy as we are? I could not tell you just now, but deep down in my heart I was crying for you. I did want you so badly. Ever since I sent you to America with such hasty words as I used, I have been consumed with shame and remorse. And I felt you had given up caring about me, that you were expecting me to leave the Château as soon as I could. When Uncle Derrick's letter came, and I felt that he didn't want me, I wondered where on earth I could go, to get away from you both!"
Then she stood up. Even in this golden moment of happiness, her duty in life came before her.
"I must go back to Aunt Cecily. Nurse will be wanting her tea."
"Ah!" said Guy, getting up and stretching himself. "Now I see freedom before me! I dared not make a move before, because of frightening you away. Now the first thing that I shall do will be to get another good nurse, and relieve you of this constant attendance in a sick-room."
"But," said Adrienne in her usual cheery tone, "I am not going to forsake Aunt Cecily. I am too fond of her for that."
"We'll discuss the subject later."
They walked back to the Château together, Adrienne feeling as if she were in a dream.
Was it the level-headed, rather aloof Guy now speaking to her with such passionate earnestness?
"I fell in love with you at first sight," he was telling her; "I used to shut my eyes often and see you in that English drawing-room of yours at the piano singing that song about giving. The windows were open, and I can smell the sweet jasmine now that was climbing up outside. I was desperately afraid you would not come over, and when you did, I was afraid you would not stay. I have so many pictures of you, Adrienne. I took them all away to America with me, and looked at them again and again. Do you remember when I first came upon you in the wood? The sun was on your hair, and if I hadn't had plenty of self-control, I could have taken you up and kissed you there and then."
"You had consummate self-control," said Adrienne, looking up at him with her sunny smile. "You seemed above and beyond me altogether; and when you did ask me to make a home for you, I felt it was the home you were thinking about, and not me."
"I was crude in expression. I've never had a home all my life—home is where love blossoms and ripens and stays. I never had anyone to care for me. Even my mother was bored with me. She hated children and she died when I was five. I wasn't French enough for my father. We were good friends—nothing more. And when my stepmother came into my father's life, I was in America, a grown man."
"Did you never know Mathilde? I thought her rather nice, though she lived, I think, entirely for amusement."
"We met occasionally. The Château was not a happy home. It is only since I have watched your love for it that I began to think I might come to care for it too."
"You do love it, don't you?"
"I think it's a good setting for the light of my eyes and the centre of my life. I have been remote and unfriendly, sweetest, but I dared not be anything else. And it was a great shock when I heard about my little son. It seemed to place you at a greater distance from me. I thought you might object to that former bit of my life. When you took him to your heart, I thanked God and took courage. And lately hope sprang up. You seemed content and happy here. I can't express what your presence in the Château has been. Pierre told me that you were the sunny angel of the house. You flit about singing your little songs, and turning a shining face to everyone. We all brighten up when you pass by. I don't wonder ma mère is frantic at the idea of losing you."
"Oh, Guy, don't flatter so. But seriously, I must go home to Uncle Derrick. He is all I have of my own. You know what I mean, and—and I want to tell him about ourselves."
"Of course you shall. I know you will come back to me, so will spare you willingly. I have been feeling for some time that you ought to go, but I frankly confess I was afraid of losing you. I've always had jealous fears about that young squire so close to you."
"Oh, Godfrey! Why, Guy, I refused him before I came out here, and now he's going to marry my best girl friend."
"Then we'll find another good nurse as soon as we can, so that you can leave your aunt without a qualm. And I think you'd better let me come over and fetch you back. I'm sure you'd like to be married from your uncle's house."
"You take my breath away."
"Think it over, darling. There's nothing to wait for."
Adrienne was silent, then they came to the end of the wood from where they had a view of the old house and gardens.
Adrienne's eyes glowed as she looked upon it.
"Darling old Château!" she said. "I little thought you were going to be my home, when you crept inside me, and snuggled so close up in my heart!"
Guy threw back his head and laughed. Adrienne had always felt the charm of his laugh.
She turned to him and clasped his arm with both her hands.
"I mean to make you laugh often and often till you chase your wrinkles away," she said; "I love you when you do it. Oh, Guy, the cares of this life are rolling off my shoulders. I can't even feel sorry for Aunt Cecily. All her anxieties are over; she will never be plunging into debt and borrowing money any more, and we shall have no anxiety over her. She seems so peaceful and happy! When she gets stronger she will come downstairs, a peaceful, contented old lady. You see if she does not! Her whole nature seems to be altering."
But Guy looked grave.
"We'll make her last years happy if we can," he said; "I feel that you are beginning married life with two responsibilities, my darling. It's hardly fair on you, but your aunt and the small boy must look upon this as their home."
"I should rather think so. You will be my only responsibility, Guy; they're just happy incidents, but you,—"
She paused, shook her head and gave it up.
And then they came indoors, and Guy, in the overflowing joy of his heart, said to Pierre as he came forward in the hall:
"Mademoiselle is never going to leave us, Pierre. Wish me joy. She will be your mistress."
Pierre, like an excitable Frenchman, began to wave his hands.
"Ah, bon, bon!" he ejaculated. And then he began to invoke so many blessings on Adrienne's head that she ran away from him crying:
"I shall suffer from a swollen head very soon."
She stopped at her aunt's door.
Her first impulse had been to tell her of her happiness, and then she began to wonder whether her aunt would consider it good news or not.
She might not like the idea of Adrienne becoming mistress of the Château. If she were in normal health and strength, Adrienne was sure that the idea of being superseded would not please her. She finally decided not to tell her. So she went in and relieved the nurse in her usual way.
Later on she had another talk with Guy, and before she went to bed that night had written to her uncle telling him of her engagement and saying that she hoped to be home in a few days' time. She also congratulated him very warmly on his own contemplated marriage.
"We will not be married together on the same day," she wrote; "for I want you to give me away. But I want my wedding to be very quiet, and Guy agrees with me. I am longing to see you and talk to you. If you only knew how I have longed for you, and how lonely I have been feeling, you wouldn't imagine that I had forgotten you. It was when Guy found me crying my eyes out that he promptly said he meant to take care of me for the future. He's an adept at comforting. He's stiff and matter of fact outside, but at heart is the tenderest, most feeling person in the world."
Very few people were told of Adrienne's engagement. But she made a point of telling little Agatha herself.
Agatha wisely smiled.
"I knew it would come, Mademoiselle. The good God lets me know things, because my life is so quiet. And the Count will settle down amongst us at last. It will be good for us all—very good. See how God has arranged for you, and for the poor Countess. She will die happily in her old home, and you will take her place, and be held tightly in the hearts of us all."
"Oh, Agatha, do you think my aunt is going to die? I wonder and think so much of her. I long that she should get into touch with the unseen land before she goes there, but she speaks so seldom now, and with so much difficulty. I wish I knew about her."
"Dear Mademoiselle, the Lord has found her and is keeping her safely in His Arms."
"How do you know?"
Agatha laughed in her gentle, joyous way.
"I do know. I haven't a fear now. I talked about her much, and now I have been assured. Keep on reading to her, Mademoiselle, and talk to her as you do when you visit the little Alain in his bed."
"I think you are a wizard, Agatha. I never told you how I talk to Alain."
But when she was reading to her aunt that evening, she felt as if Agatha's words were true. The Countess listened as if she liked to listen, and smiled more than once as if she were comforted and pleased.
Coming out of the bedroom, Adrienne went downstairs into the salon, where a blazing wood fire was burning. She piled some cushions together on the hearthrug and sank down into them. As a little child she had always loved making pictures in the fire. Guy was busy writing letters in the library, but she loved the solitude of the old Château and never felt lonely in it. She did not hear Guy's step, so deep was she in her dreams, until a soft touch on her hair made her look round.
"All alone, sweetheart?"
"Sit down by me and let us be children together. Only one more evening and then the ocean will be between us. Have you written to Mathilde?"
"I came to tell you that this evening's post has brought a letter from her. She is on her way here. She is not surprised at her mother's illness. She tells me she had a very slight seizure once before."
"I am glad she's coming. I shall not be missed."
"No? It will be only losing our light and hope and sunshine. But we shall weather through."
"You will be very happy, and so shall I, looking forward to our next meeting."
Guy would not sit down: he was standing with his back to the fire, looking down upon her.
"Sometimes," he said, "I can't believe in my luck. And I am wondering if, when you get back to your old environment, it will take possession of you again, and you will feel you cannot give it all up for a very mundane middle-aged widower. You will be beginning your married life, poor child, with ready-made cares, a restless little stepson and a sick aunt, to say nothing of a husband who intends to monopolize you entirely whenever he gets a chance."
Adrienne looked up at him with radiant eyes.
"What good times we shall have! And if—if I come back by Christmas, what a lovely Christmas with a child to enjoy it, and all the villagers to surprise and please with gifts. We'll give the old Château a good time, too. It has been so very dull and sedate for so many years."
"I believe the Château comes first sometimes with you."
"Are you jealous of it?"
Then Adrienne rose and put her slender arms round his neck, drawing his head down to her.
"Oh, Guy, Guy, how you've made me love you! Do you think that any old environment of mine could wean me away from all I have here? And could the Château itself compare with you! I shall be counting the days to when you come over to claim me."
"Yes," said Guy with emphatic assurance in his tone, "I am living for that day too. I don't think anything in this whole wide world would make me forgo my claim. But I shall want you to myself. Will you come over to America with me for a few weeks? I should like to show you my mother's old home in Virginia. One of her aunts, an old lady of eighty years, is living there in old-fashioned state. We will get Mathilde to stay on here till we return."
"I will go anywhere with you," Adrienne whispered.
And then Pierre came in to extinguish the candelabra, and she said good night in a very matter of fact way and went off to bed.
WED
"WELL, Uncle Derrick, here I am, and how well you are looking. Quite ten years younger!"
Adrienne had arrived at her country station, and, as usual, her uncle was there to meet her. He had violets in his buttonhole, and his whole appearance was alert and smart.
"I have only been home for a few days," he said, as he drew her hand into his arm and walked her out of the station into the road to the car which was waiting. He was driving himself; and when they were once off, he turned to her in a kind of shamefaced way.
"We couldn't wait. I didn't tell you, as it might have hurried you back before you were ready to come, but we've had a quiet week in the New Forest together, and now I've brought her home."
Adrienne drew a long breath, then she said:
"I'm so glad. You're such a dear that I love to think that you're going to have a little happiness on your own at last."
But for a moment blank dismay filled her heart. She had so counted on having a cosy time alone with her uncle before her marriage.
Resolutely she packed her disappointment away out of sight.
"Were you surprised at my news?" she asked him.
"Rather. You started off with a dislike to him. I am not sure that I think him good enough for you. Not a patch on Godfrey."
"Oh, oh! I must protest! Godfrey is a dear, but he's always the same, always serene and good and straight, and never perturbed or excited. He always would assent to everything I suggested, and we should have lived a placid level life, knowing each other through and through and never discovering anything more of each other. Now Guy is different. He is masterful, and reserved and passionately tender at times, and at other times impervious to coaxing or persuasion, and sternly obdurate. He has more in him than ever he lets escape, and I'm always discovering fresh traits in his character."
"I think," said the Admiral slowly, "that I would rather know anyone through and through, than be in ignorance of how they might act on certain occasions."
"Oh, but he would be always right. I know he would."
"He is perfect in your eyes. That makes a good beginning. I want to have a talk with him about the future. Has he enough income to keep you comfortably in that old Château?"
"Don't speak disrespectfully of my darling Château. I wish you could have come over before I left. Yes—he was telling me the other day that he has money and property from his own mother. He has done a great deal for Aunt Cecily. I am almost ashamed to think how much."
"She ought to have got rid of that old house long ago."
"She was deep in debts and misery, but it seemed quite hopeless to help her. And then it all came to a crisis as I wrote and told you, and now everything is fair and square—except her health. I can't bear to say it, but she is so gentle and quiet now that it makes everything easy. Poor Aunt Cecily! She will never play Bridge again. That was her great temptation. She always played for money. And never minded how high the stakes were—so of course she lost a good deal. She was not a brilliant player, so I was told. Now give me the village news."
They talked on till they reached home. Adrienne wondered how she would have felt had she been coming back to take up her old home life again. As she entered the hall, she had a strange forlorn feeling that her place had been filled, and she was wanted no longer. Yet when she entered the drawing-room and met her uncle's wife, her grace and beauty and affectionate interest in her overcame the awkwardness of the meeting. Mrs. Chesterton was no longer young, she did not disguise her grey hair; she had naturally a good complexion, beautiful dark eyes, and a very charming smile. Tall and slight, she held herself with great dignity and composure. As she kissed Adrienne, she said:
"Your uncle has been longing to see you. His happiness will be complete now. Dear Adrienne, I hope you will soon be as happy yourself as we are. You have youth and a long life in front of you. We have old age creeping on and life mostly behind us. But it is so good, so satisfying, to be together at last."
"You have waited a long time," said Adrienne as she returned the kiss warmly. "I wonder now, why you waited so."
"Just thirty years," said Mrs. Chesterton. She said no more, but as Adrienne caught her radiant smile of welcome to her uncle, who had followed her in, she felt content and glad that the long waiting for them was over.
Those first few days were rather difficult. It seemed so unnatural to Adrienne to take a back seat in the home over which she had been mistress ever since she had left school. But she was very thorough in her abnegation, and more than once Mrs. Chesterton remonstrated with her.
"Let us do things together, dear, as much as possible. Don't be always trying to retire and push me forward. And let me help you all I can with your trousseau. I have always been a busy woman with many irons in the fire; and just at first after town, this country life seems rather quiet and empty."
"You won't move Uncle Derrick up to town?" Adrienne begged her. "He does so love the country, and all his councils and committees in our small town."
"You need not be afraid; I am too fond of him to take him away from all his work. I mean to adapt myself to the country and not try to adapt him to the town."
Adrienne's relief of mind was great.
The big event now locally was Godfrey's marriage, and the whole neighbourhood was most excited about it. Adrienne had many hours with Phemie, who was sewing for herself in her bedroom at the farm and making good resolutions for the future.
Her mother no longer harried and bustled her about. She wisely left her alone, and had already a land girl in her place. Adrienne was amused when she heard she was a parson's daughter in a neighbouring parish; and was certainly neither old nor plain in looks. She wondered if Dick would be susceptible; but when she said something of this kind to Phemie, she scoffed at it.
"Don't you know that Dick has always secretly worshipped you? It sounds ridiculous, of course; but he'll take a long time in adjusting his affections in a fresh direction."
"I never thought—I never knew—" faltered Adrienne.
"No; with Godfrey's open and undisguised admiration, Dick knew he had no chance. I believe faint hopes were stirred when I told him about myself and Godfrey. But I felt that over in that Château, you and that stepcousin would naturally come together. I hope he's really all you wish, Adrienne dear. Godfrey can't understand it. He says you told him that you wanted a lover who would thrill you through and through and carry you off your feet, one whom you could follow to the death."
"I talked a lot of nonsense to Godfrey," said Adrienne with rising colour.
She felt hurt that he should discuss her so openly with Phemie, but would not let herself be affected by it.
"I do think I could follow Guy anywhere," she said quietly. "Don't you feel that with Godfrey?"
"Of course I do. I adore him."
The two girls sewed and talked together.
Then Adrienne went up to town with Mrs. Chesterton, and a busy fortnight of shopping followed. Her uncle would not accompany them. When she returned, it was to be present at the young squire's wedding.
Lady Sutherland was the only one who could not and would not rejoice. Phemie told Adrienne in confidence that it needed all her pluck and courage to go through with it. But the anticipation of a honeymoon spent in Florence, Rome, and Venice was sufficient compensation for what she suffered beforehand.
It was a very quiet wedding; Adrienne felt as if she were in a dream, wondering all the time how she should feel when her turn came.
The villagers did their best to show their approval. Bells were rung, flowers strewn on the pathway, and small flags and bunting flying on every house in the village.
They knew Phemie, and liked her, but considered that she was not quite up to Sir Godfrey. They all loved him, and wished him well. The general opinion was that it was time he married and settled down!
When it was all over, and the happy pair had gone off to Rome, Lady Sutherland asked Adrienne to come and stay a few days with her. And out of pity Adrienne went. She felt sorry for the old lady, who talked about going to a small dower house about four miles away, but evidently thought she ought not to be obliged to do it. She confided in Adrienne:
"Of course Godfrey wishes me to stay; he says I can help Phemie so much, but she is not a girl who will like to be helped. It is the bitterest time in a woman's life when she has to give up her home, the reins of authority and her son to a stranger. Ah, my dear, I should not feel it so much were you my daughter-in-law."
"I believe you would," said Adrienne, trying to laugh. "In some ways Phemie is more capable than I am. I am very fond of her, and you will be too when you've learnt to know her. She has had a hard girlhood, has she not? And I think that prosperity will soften her. She adores Godfrey, and he deserves to be adored."
Adrienne had a way with her of lightening people's burdens. When she left Lady Sutherland, that good lady was resigned to her circumstances, and determined to make the best of them.
"You're a dear girl," the old lady said, as she kissed her on parting. "I know you've had your own troubles, but you're fortunate in having a fresh home waiting for you. I know how you felt the loss of your Uncle Tom. It was a blow to all of us, and now this marriage of the Admiral's!—I only hope it will turn out well for them both."
Adrienne had no doubt upon that point. Day by day she saw how increasingly happy her uncle became. It was quite pathetic to note how his eyes followed his wife, as she moved about, with both dignity and grace.
With all her home interests, Adrienne never failed to write and to hear from Guy. They had fixed their wedding for the 15th of November.
His last letter before he came over was as follows:
"MY DEAREST,—"This is to be followed by me myself. How the days have dragged since you left us! But I have been busy, and have tried vainly to distract my thoughts from your little figure and personality. I was playing on the organ yesterday evening—just letting my thoughts run on—you need not be told the subject of them—and suddenly a small voice piped up from behind me:"'I think, Daddy, you're making up about Cousin Adie when she sings.' That was rather cute, wasn't it? He's making giant strides in his music. I don't want him to be a prodigy, but I'm convinced he'll be a musician. Yesterday he came an awful cropper off his pony and cut his head badly. It happened close to little Agatha's cottage and I took him straight in. He was howling horribly, but in an instant she calmed him. She put her hands upon his head, and he looked up at her and smiled:"'Why the pain is all gone!' he said. Then Marie bathed and bound the cut up, and he's never had any more pain in it since. I do believe she has healing power in her fingers, the village firmly declares she has."Your aunt is about the same, no better, no worse—Mathilde is feeling very dull, but has generously promised to stick to her post till we come back from our trip abroad. She and I garden sometimes together, and she's helping me to smarten up bits of the house for my bride. This is enough about our household here. My tongue is tied when I come to my heart's centre. I can neither write nor speak of what I feel, but you know always and utterly my life is yours, with all its imperfections and crudity and roughness."I pray God continually to keep my darling safe and happy, until I am able to undertake the care of her. For that moment I impatiently wait."Ever and entirely yours,"GUY."
And the day after she received this, Guy arrived. His train was late, and it was seven o'clock when he reached the station. One swift look around, and then he saw Adrienne, standing slim and straight in her long fur coat, the one lamp in the little station shining on her eager, smiling face. Without a thought of onlookers, he drew her out of the lamplight and into his arms.
But his words were few:
"I hardly expected you to meet me."
"Uncle was coming, but he has a slight cold, and it was raining, so we persuaded him to stay at home."
In the car Adrienne was given all the news of the Château. Alain had wanted to accompany his father, but though he had been invited, Guy would not bring him.
"He is best where he is, and he is company for Mathilde, who is getting restive. She finds it deplorably dull."
"It is winter and the gloomiest month in the year," said Adrienne by way of apology for her.
"It beats me how any sane, intelligent person can be affected by weather."
"That's just like a man! You go out all weathers. Many women do not. And they are really physically affected by atmospheric changes. I'm sure you've been very kind to Mathilde."
Guy looked at her, and there was a little sparkle in his eye.
"I compare her every hour of the day with my little girl, and wonder how one Creator fashioned such different souls. We won't talk of Mathilde any more."
They reached the house, and Adrienne took him straight into the drawing-room.
There was a blazing fire; the Admiral and his wife greeted Guy very kindly. To Guy, fresh from the spacious, mellowed old salon in the Château, English rooms were too full of luxuries and of knickknacks for comfort. But he had not much thought for anything but Adrienne. His eyes hardly ever left her face. Yet before others they were both absolutely undemonstrative and matter of fact.
Adrienne discussed all the details of the eventful day, and informed Guy that they were to be in the church by eleven o'clock.
"Then we will come back, have some lunch, and catch the three o'clock train to town. I think waiting about all the afternoon is so tiring for everyone."
After dinner Guy retired into the library with the Admiral, and Adrienne sat with her aunt till the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room.
"You do like him?" she inquired anxiously of Mrs. Chesterton.
"He is a man," she responded. "Yes, I do, but I should be afraid myself that he might prove somewhat hard and obstinate at times."
"Perhaps," said Adrienne slowly; "but still I would rather live with a strong man than with a weak one. And if one loves very much, one can trust, and—and yield."
"Not on every point," said her aunt decidedly; "keep your individuality, my dear child, and remember that to only God above are you responsible for the actions of your soul."
Adrienne smiled. But she had no fears for the future; only the sense of utter rest and happiness that she would have Guy to lean upon when difficulties arrived.
One whole day they had together, and then the wedding day dawned.
Adrienne wore a soft ivory satin gown, and looked perfectly charming. But she had no bridesmaids; a few girl friends clustered round her. The service was very quiet and only a few old friends were present, Lady Sutherland amongst them.
Adrienne was rather glad that Godfrey and Phemie were still away. Dick and his mother, of course, were there. And a friend of Guy's, a Colonel Skipwith, an American come down from town to be his best man. He was a smart soldierly man, who had very amusing reminiscences of himself and Guy as youngsters out in the Colonies.
"I remember," he said, "when we first heard that a young Frenchy was coming out to try his hand at farming. We were all learning together, and there were a couple of us who meant to get some fun out of the new arrival. But it didn't take us many days to discover that we'd met our match in Froggy, as we called him. His fists and muscles belonged to a Hercules. We went down under them, and his tongue was as scathing as his fists."
"Not a very attractive picture of me, eh, Adrienne?" laughed Guy. "But you must remember I was one against four in that farm, and I had to show them that French parentage does not always mean softness and imbecility."
And so in the little village church Adrienne and Guy pledged their troth. It was a clear frosty day, and when they drove to the station the sun was giving them his blessing.
Adrienne's last words with her uncle had been tearful ones.
"I shall look forward to seeing you and Aunt Grace out with us one day," she said. "When the spring comes I shall expect you. And oh, dear Uncle Derrick, let me feel always that this is my English home."
"Why, naturally, my dearest child. God bless and keep you, and grant that you may be the sunshine of your old Château as you have been over here."
They were gone.
Adrienne turned and met her husband's tender eyes with perfect confidence. "And now," she said to him, as she slipped her hand into his, "I am yours utterly, and entirely, and for evermore."
Guy could make no answer at first; he only drew her closer to him, but after a moment murmured:
"May I be worthy of such a gift."
And the car glided on, and the journey together through life commenced.
HUSBAND AND WIFE
SNOW was upon the old Château, obliterating all paths and flower beds, showing only a wide expanse of pure white around it. The afternoon was already drawing in, lights were twinkling in the village and in the windows of the Château. Inside, there were blazing wood fires everywhere. The passages and floors were like mirrors with much polishing, and Alain was improving the occasion by sliding up and down them.
There was a sense of bustle and expectancy in the house. But upstairs, Mathilde and two nurses were in the Countess's room. Only that morning when she had seemed so much better, and had received the news of the bride and bridegroom's return with such pleasure, a sudden seizure had occurred, and she now lay unconscious, breathing with more and more difficulty as time went on. The doctor had been in and out all day, and had tried to give her oxygen, but it only seemed to distress her, and he told her daughter that nothing could save her now. Mathilde heard the car arrive, and swiftly went downstairs.
"It's a sad home-coming," she said. "Mother is dying and knows no one. Will you come up, and see if she recognizes you?"
Adrienne slipped off her fur coat in the hall and ran upstairs without a word. She was looking radiantly pretty, but now the shock of Mathilde's news paled her cheek and brought sadness to her face. Her husband followed her. In a moment or two, they stood by the large four-post bed, looking down at the fragile little figure in it, so close to the shores of eternity. Adrienne bent over her and took her hand.
"Aunt Cecily," she said in her clear voice, "do you know me?"
There was a flicker of the closed eyelids, and then they lifted. The Countess's eyes looked dark and blue, but quite intelligent.
She looked at Adrienne, then at her stepson, stretched out her hands to them with a smile, and then with rather a happy sigh lapsed into unconsciousness again. She passed away peacefully about an hour later.
Adrienne wept bitterly in her husband's arms.
"I did want her to have a short time of happiness with us, if only we could have had her a little longer!"
Mathilde retired to bed. She had had an anxious day and was quite done up by the strain of it. It was indeed a strange and sad home-coming.
Adrienne wired to her uncle, and he arrived at the Château the following evening.
Four days later they laid her to rest in the family vault in the little churchyard at the top of the hill.
Admiral Chesterton stayed on at his niece's request for another week. She took him out to some of her favourite haunts, and talked to him a good deal about her aunt.
"I feel comforted about her. Guy never left off reading to her at night till my wedding. And she seemed to like it and understand it. But since we have been away, I am afraid no one has continued it. Of course I feel that God could speak to her Himself and comfort her, but we do miss having a Protestant clergyman over here. Of course she would never have the Curé near her, though I believe he would have come. And he is such a really good little man that I'm sure he could have done her no harm. Guy says he means to take me into Orleans where there is a Protestant Service on Sundays. It seems so sad her being left quite alone the last week of her life with only Mathilde, who never seemed very fond of her mother."
"Ah well," said the Admiral reassuringly, "you must think of God's mercy and love surrounding her. We can trust her to Him."
He pleased Adrienne by saying that the Château was more comfortable and homelike than he had ever thought it could be. And when he left, he felt assured and relieved about her future.
Mathilde outstayed him. She was collecting a good many of her mother's private possessions to take back to America with her. She was not at all pleased to find that her mother's money, which came to her by will, had virtually disappeared, been frittered away by the Countess, who was continually drawing on her capital for her needs, and she spoke rather angrily to Guy about it.
"I thought you had made over the Château to my mother, yet I find you established in it before her death. It needs explanation."
"That I can give you," said Guy quietly.
He marched her off to the library, bade her be seated, and gave her a full and detailed account of her mother's debts and losses, and of the mortgage of the Château, which he had redeemed.
She came out of that room a wiser and a sadder woman.
But Adrienne felt hotly incensed at her imputations of Guy's honesty and fair dealing, and protested accordingly.
"Guy gave Aunt Cecily money again and again; he was always paying her debts and putting her straight. You haven't given him a word of thanks or of gratitude for all he has done. Don't you realize that it is owing to him that Aunt Cecily was permitted to die in her own home. Her lawyer was turning her out of it and taking possession, when Guy arrived in the nick of time to prevent him."
"I only know that I, as her daughter, ought to have some share in this property," said Mathilde.
"You can only have that by sponging upon Guy. I should think you would have too much pride to ask him for what is legally his inheritance. It was his when he let Aunt Cecily live in it for her lifetime. It is doubly his, now he has paid up the mortgage for it."