Barbara in Brittany Part 13

"I _am_ so sorry it's wet," she said. "It makes it so much worse for you to be hanging about."

"It _is_ hardly the day one would choose for a bicycle ride," he returned cheerfully; "but, like the conductors in Cook's Tours, I feel I have been chartered for the run, and weather must make no difference.

But you should go straight home. It would be too conspicuous to have _two_ people loitering about. I will let you know as soon as possible how things go, and if you don't hear till to-morrow, it will mean we are safely on our journey."

Barbara saw the wisdom of returning at once, but did so with reluctance, and, finding that she was quite unable to give proper attention to her work, wrote a long letter home, relieving her mind by recounting the adventure in full. It was a good thing that the first plan--of hiding Alice in the neighbouring house--had not been carried out, for, about three quarters of an hour later, Mademoiselle Eugenie came hurrying up to see if the girl was with them, and on hearing she was not, at once proposed--with a suspicious glance at Barbara--that she should inquire at the next house.

She asked the girl no questions, however, perhaps guessing that if she did know anything she would not be very likely to tell. It was Mademoiselle Therese who, in the wildest state of excitement, questioned every one in the house, Barbara included, and the latter felt a little guilty when she replied that the last time she had seen the missing girl was in the baths.

Before very long the bellman was going round proclaiming her loss, and describing the exact clothes she wore; and Barbara was afraid, when she heard him, that there would soon be news of her; for she had been wearing the little black hat and coat that all the girls at Mademoiselle Eugenie's were dressed in. But the evening came, and apparently nothing had been heard of the truant. Mademoiselle Loire and Marie did hardly any lessons, such was the general excitement in the house, but discussed, instead, the various possibilities in connection with the escape.

Perhaps there was a little triumph in the hearts of the two elder women, for they had always felt rather jealous that Mademoiselle Eugenie had more boarders than they, even although they did not lay any claim to being a school. They would have given a great deal to be able to read Barbara's thoughts, but she looked so very unapproachable that they shrugged their shoulders and resigned themselves, with what patience they could, to wait.

Barbara's anxiety was greatly relieved the next evening by letters which she received from both the "Pretender" and Alice. The first wrote briefly, and to the point. He said he had delivered the girl safely to the people at Neuilly, whom Alice had taken to, and that there seemed to be "good stuff" in her, too, for he had given her some very straight advice about making the best of things, which she had not resented. Further, that Barbara need have no more anxiety, as he had cabled to her father to get permission for her to stay at Neuilly, in case of any trouble arising when it was discovered where she was.

Barbara folded up the letter with a sigh of relief that the matter had gone so well thus far, and opened Alice's communication, which was largely made up of exclamation marks and dashes.

She was very enthusiastic about Neuilly, and was sure she would be quite happy there, and that the heat would only make her feel at home.

She had smiled with delight at intervals all day, she said, when she thought of the rage of Mademoiselle Eugenie, and her futile efforts to trace her. She supposed a full description of her clothes had been given, but that would be no good, as the American had brought her a tweed cap and a cycling cape, and they had thrown her hat away by the roadside. She concluded by saying that Mr. Morton had been very kind, though he did not seem to have a very high opinion of her character, and had given her enough grandfatherly advice to last her a lifetime, and made her promise to write to Mademoiselle Eugenie.

Barbara tore up both letters, and then went out to visit Mademoiselle Vire, and relieved her mind by telling her all about it.

"It seems so deceptive and horrid to keep quiet when they are discussing things and wondering where she is," she concluded. "But she was to write to Mademoiselle Eugenie to-day, and I really don't feel inclined to tell her or the Loires the share I had in it."

"I hardly think you need, my child," Mademoiselle Vire said, patting her on the shoulder. "Sometimes silence is wisest, and, of _course_, you tell your own people. I do not know, indeed, if I had been young like you, that I should not have done just the same; and perhaps, even if I had been Alice, I might have done as she did."

Barbara laughed, and shook her head. She could never imagine the elegant little Mademoiselle Vire conniving at anybody's escape, especially through a bath-house window! But it cheered her to think that the little lady was not shocked at the escapade; and she went back quite fortified, and ready for supper in the garden with the widower and his family, whom Mademoiselle Therese had been magnanimous enough to invite.

CHAPTER XIV.

A WAYSIDE INN.

It was wonderful how quickly the excitement about Alice Meynell died down. Mademoiselle Therese went to call upon her former instructress, who told her, with evident reluctance, that the girl had gone to Paris with a friend who had appeared unexpectedly, and her father wished her to remain there for the present.

"Of course," Mademoiselle Therese said, in retailing her visit, "she will wish to keep it quiet; such things are not a good advertis.e.m.e.nt, and they will speak of it no more. I think, indeed, that Mademoiselle Eugenie will call here no more. She suspects that we helped to make the child discontented. I am thankful that _we_ have no such unpleasant matters in _our_ establishment. We have always had an excellent reputation!" and the sisters congratulated each other for some time on the successful way in which they had always arranged matters for _their_ boarders.

It was while her sister was still in this pleasant mood of self-satisfaction that Mademoiselle Loire proposed to go to St. Sauveur (a little town about twelve miles away), and collect the rent from one or two houses they owned there. As Mademoiselle Therese talked English best, and had the care of the English visitors, she had most of the pleasant excursions, so that Barbara was quite glad to think the elder sister was now to have a turn. Marie always went to St. Sauveur with her aunt, as she had a cousin living in the town, with whom they usually dined in the evening; and an invitation was graciously given to Barbara to accompany them both.

The girl often thought, in making these excursions here and there, how nice it would have been could she have shared them with her mother and the children; and then she used to make up her mind more firmly than ever that she would begin teaching French directly she got home, so that some day she could help to give the pleasure to Frances that her aunt was giving to her.

Donald had written on one occasion, that in view of so many excursions he wondered when the work came in; to which she had replied that it was _all_ work, as she had to talk French hard the whole time! And, indeed, a day never pa.s.sed without her getting in her lesson and some grammatical work, though it sometimes had to come before breakfast or after supper.

On this occasion they were to start very early, as Mademoiselle Loire explained that they would stop for a little while at a wayside inn, where an old nurse of theirs had settled down. It was therefore arranged to drive so far, and take the train the rest of the way, and Barbara, who had heard a great deal about "the carriage," pictured to herself a little pony and trap, and was looking forward to the drive immensely. What was her astonishment, therefore, when she saw drawn up before the door next day, a little spring cart with a brown donkey in it.

"The carriage!" she gasped, and hastily climbed into the cart lest Mademoiselle Loire should see her face. They all three sat close together on the one backless seat, and drove off gaily, Mademoiselle Loire "handling the ribbons," and all the little boys in the street shouting encouragement in the rear.

The donkey went along at an excellent, though somewhat erratic, pace, for every now and then he sprang forward with a lurch that was somewhat disconcerting to the occupants of the cart. The first time, indeed, that he did so, Barbara was quite unprepared, and, after clutching wildly at the side of the cart and missing it, she subsided into the straw at the back, from which she was extricated by her companions, amid much laughter.

"Would you prefer to sit between us?" Mademoiselle Loire asked her, when she was once more reinstated in her position. "You would perhaps feel firmer?"

"Oh, no, thank you," said Barbara hastily. "I will hold on to the side now, and be prepared."

"He does have rather a queer motion," Mademoiselle Loire; remarked complacently; "but he's swift, and that is a great matter, and you soon get used to his leaps. I should think," she went on, looking at the donkey's long gray ears critically, "he would make a good jumper."

"I should think he might," replied Barbara, subduing her merriment. "I don't think our English donkeys jump much, as a rule; but the Brittany ones seem much more accomplished."

"Undoubtedly," her companion continued calmly. "My sister says when _she_ was in England she tried to drive a donkey, and it backed the carriage into the ditch. They must be an inferior breed." To which remark Barbara was powerless to reply for the time being.

The drive was a very pretty one, and the donkey certainly deserved his driver's praises, for he brought them to the inn in good time. It was a quaint little place, standing close to the roadside, but, in spite of that fact, looking as if it were not greatly frequented. As they drove up, they saw an old woman sitting outside under a tree, reading a newspaper; but, on hearing the sound of wheels, she jumped up and ran to the gate. As soon as Mademoiselle Loire had descended she flung herself upon her; and Barbara wondered how the latter, who was spare and thin, supported the substantial form of her nurse.

She had time to look about her, for her three companions were making a great hubbub, and, as they all spoke together, at the top of their voices, it took some minutes to understand what each was saying. Then Barbara was remembered and introduced, and for a moment she thought the nurse was going to embrace her too, and wondered if it would be worse than a rush at hockey; but, fortunately, she was spared the shock, and instead, was led with the others into a musty parlour.

"I am so pleased to see you," the landlady said, beaming upon them all, "for few people pa.s.s this way now the trams and the railway go the other route; and since my dear second husband died it has seemed quieter than ever." Here she shook her head dolefully, and dabbed her bright, black eyes, where Barbara could see no trace of tears.

"Sundays are the longest days," the woman went on, trying to make her hopelessly plump and cheery face look pathetic, "because I am so far away from church. But I read my little newspaper, and say my little prayer--and mention all your names in it" (which Barbara knew was impossible, as she had never heard hers before that morning)--"and think of my little priest."

Mademoiselle Loire nodded to show she was listening, and Marie hastily stifled a yawn.

"I call him mine," the landlady explained, turning more particularly to Barbara, "because he married me the last time, and my second husband the first time."

Barbara thought of the guessing story about "A blind beggar had a son,"

and decided she would try to find out later exactly _whom_ the priest had married, for the explanation was still going on.

"Of course, therefore, he took an interest in his death," and the widow's voice grew pathetic. "So he always keeps an eye on me, and sends me little holy newspapers, over which I always shed a tear. My second husband always loved his newspaper so--and his coffee."

The word coffee had a magical effect, and her face becoming wreathed in smiles again, she sprang to her feet in a wonderfully agile way, considering her size, and ran to a cupboard in the corner, calling loudly for a maid as she went.

"You must have thirst!" she exclaimed, "terrible thirst and hunger; but I will give you a sip of a favourite beverage of mine that will restore you instantly."

And she placed upon the table a black bottle, which proved to be full of cold coffee sweetened to such a degree that it resembled syrup.

Poor Barbara! She was not very fond of hot coffee _un_sweetened, so that this cold concoction seemed to her most sickly. But she managed to drink the whole gla.s.sful, except a mouthful of extreme syrup at the end, though feeling afterwards that she could not bear even to look at coffee caramels for a very long time. They sat some time over the refreshments provided for them, and their donkey was stabled at the inn to await their return in the evening. Then bidding a temporary adieu to their hostess, they went on to the town by train.

Mademoiselle Loire went at once to get her rent, which, she explained, always took her some time, "for the people were not good at paying,"

and left the girls to look at the church, which was a very old one.

After they were joined by mademoiselle they strolled along to Marie's relations. The husband was a seller of cider, which, Marie explained to Barbara, was quite a different occupation from keeping an inn, and much more respectable. Both he and his wife were very hospitable and kind, and especially attentive to the "English miss."

It was quite a unique experience for her, for they dined behind a trellis-work at one end of the shop, and, during the whole of dinner, either the father or daughter was kept jumping up to serve the customers with cider. The son was present too, but no one would allow him to rise to serve anybody, for he was at college in Paris, and had taken one of the first prizes in France for literature. It was quite touching to see how proud his parents and sister were of him, and he seemed to Barbara to be wonderfully unspoiled, considering the attention he received.

It seemed her fate to have strange food offered her that day, and when the first dish that appeared proved to be stewed eels, Barbara began to dread what the rest of the menu might reveal. Fortunately, there was nothing worse than beans boiled in cream, though it was with some relief that she saw the long meal draw to a close. Coffee and sweetmeats were served in a room upstairs, in which all the young man's prizes were kept, and which were displayed with most loving pride and reverence by the mother and sister, while the owner of them looked on rather bashfully from a corner.

The young man was one of the type of Frenchmen who wear their hair cut and brushed the wrong way, like a clothes-brush. Barbara was beginning to divide all Frenchmen into two cla.s.ses according to their _frisure_: those that wore their hair brush-fas.h.i.+on, and those that had it long and oiled--sometimes curled. These latter sometimes allowed it to fall in locks upon their foreheads, tossing it back every now and then with an abstracted air and easy grace that fascinated Barbara. They were usually engaged in the Fine Arts, and she could never quite decide whether the hair had been the result of the profession, or vice versa.

After talking for some time, Barbara had her first lesson in ecarte, which she welcomed gladly, as helping to keep her awake. Then the whole family escorted their visitors to the station, where they stood in a row and waved hats and hands for a long time after the train had left. It was getting rather late when they reached the little inn once more, and Barbara was thankful that she had the excuse of a substantial dinner to fall back upon when she was offered more of the landlady's "pleasant beverage."

When the good-byes had been said it was growing dark, and the girl, thinking of their last adventurous drive, wondered if Mademoiselle Loire was any more reliable. However, after the first mile, she cast dignity aside, and begged to be allowed to sit down in the hay at the back of the cart and go to sleep, either the eel or her efforts to make herself agreeable having created an overpowering desire for slumber, and she was still dreaming peacefully when they drove into St. Servan, and rattled up the narrow street to their own door.