Barbara in Brittany Part 16

She felt it was a very bold, and perhaps an impertinent thing to do, but she was almost sure that Mademoiselle Vire would do as she asked. As soon as she saw him so far on his way, she ran to the inn, and went through to the kitchen, where a maid was cooking.

"Bring your master to me, as quickly as possible," the girl said peremptorily. "You need not be afraid" she added, seeing that the woman--not unnaturally--looked upon her with suspicion. "I will touch nothing, and the quicker you come back the better I shall be pleased."

The maid eyed her doubtfully for a few minutes, then shrugged her shoulders and ran out of the room. Her master would, at least, be able to get rid of this obnoxious stranger, she thought. He came quickly enough, with an anxious expression on his rosy face, and Barbara had to tell the story twice or thrice before he seemed to understand. It was rather unpleasant work telling a foreigner about the evil deeds of a fellow-countryman, but it seemed the right thing to do, though the thought of it haunted the girl for some time.

When once the landlord understood matters, he acted very promptly, sending some one for the police, and then with a telegram to Neuilly. He said he had had his doubts all along, because the gentleman had seemed queer, and the people sleeping next him had complained that they were sure he beat his son, for they used to hear the boy crying.

The landlord then went down into the hall to wait until Mademoiselle Therese's interview was over, and Barbara, leaving a message to the effect that she had grown tired and had gone on, ran back to their house.

Having succeeded in entering un.o.bserved, she got her purse and hurried off to Mademoiselle Vire.

The old maid looked at her with a mingling of relief and curiosity, but was much too polite to ask any questions.

"The young man is here," she said, and led the way into the little dining-room, where her mistress was sitting opposite the boy with a very puzzled face, but doing her best to make him take some wine and biscuit.

Mademoiselle Vire had always appeared to Barbara as the most courteous woman she had ever met, and, in presence of the frightened, awkward youth, her gracious air impressed the girl more than ever.

Knowing that he could not understand French she told his story at once, and her listener never showed by a glance in his direction that he was the subject of conversation. They both came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to go to St. Malo, and take the first boat to England. It left in the evening about seven, so that by next morning he would be safe at Southampton.

Then Barbara said, in the way she had been wont to advise Donald, "I think you should go straight to your sister, and take counsel with her as to what you should do. I will lend you money enough for what you need."

"You _are_ kind," the boy said, with tears in his eyes. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get any money--as soon as ever I can, I do promise you--if only I get safely to England." He had such a pitiful, frightened way of looking over his shoulder, as if he expected to see his father behind him all the time, that Barbara's wrath against the man arose anew, and she felt she could not be sorry, whatever his punishment might be.

"Good-bye," she said kindly. "I must go away now. I think, when you arrive in England, you might write to Mademoiselle Vire, and say you arrived safely. I shall be anxious till I hear."

The boy almost embarra.s.sed Barbara by the a.s.surances of his grat.i.tude, and she breathed more freely when she got into the open air.

"How glad I ought to be that Donald isn't like that," she thought, the remembrance of her frank, st.u.r.dy brother rising in vivid contrast in her mind.

When she got back, Mademoiselle Therese was enjoying herself thoroughly, recounting the adventure to her own household and to the widower and his sons whom she had called in to add to her audience. She described the whole scene most graphically and with much gesticulation, perhaps also with a little exaggeration.

"The anger of the man when he found he must accompany the officers was herculean," she said, casting up her eyes; "he stormed, he raged, he tore his hair" (Barbara remembered him as almost quite bald!), "he insisted that his son must come too."

"How mean!" the girl cried indignantly.

"But the son," mademoiselle paused, and looked round her audience--"the son," she concluded in a thrilling whisper, "had gone--fled--disappeared.

One moment he was there, the next he was nowhere. Whereupon the papa was still more angry, and with hasty words gave an exact and particular description of him in every detail. 'He must be caught,' he shouted, 'he must keep me company.' Such a father!" Mademoiselle rolled her eyes wildly. "Such an inhuman monster repelled me, and--I fled."

Barbara, feeling as if they should applaud, looked round vaguely to see if the others were thinking of beginning; but at that moment she was overpowered by Mademoiselle Therese suddenly flinging herself upon her and kissing her on both cheeks.

"This!" she said solemnly, holding Barbara with one hand and gesticulating with the other--"this is the one we must thank for the capture. She directed the landlord--her brains planned the arrest--_she_ will appear against him in court."

"Oh, no!" Barbara cried in distress, "I really can't do that. They have telegraphed for Madame Belvoir's son from Neuilly--he will do. I really could not appear in court."

"But you can speak French quite well enough now--you need not mind about that; and it will be quite an event to appear in court. It is not _every_ girl of your age who can do that."

Mademoiselle spoke almost enviously; but the idea was abhorrent to Barbara, who determined, if possible, to avoid such an ordeal.

The next afternoon they had a visit from one of Madame Belvoir's sons, who had come across to see what was to be done about the "solicitor."

Barbara was very glad to see him, for it brought back remembrances of the first happy fortnight in Paris.

It was rather comforting to know, too, that the result of one of the plots she had been concerned in had been satisfactory, for the news about Alice was good. She was getting on well with French, and all the Belvoirs liked her very much. The "American gentleman" had been to see her twice, and her father had not only given her permission to stay, but had written to Mademoiselle Eugenie to that effect, and was coming over himself to see her.

CHAPTER XVII.

A MEMORY AND A "MANOIR."

No amount of wis.h.i.+ng on Barbara's part could do away with the necessity for her appearing in court, and the ordeal had to be gone through.

"If I were a novelist, now," she said ruefully to Mademoiselle Therese, "I might be able to make some use of it, but as I am just a plain, ordinary person----"

Her chief consolation was that the boy had written saying he had joined his sister and that he "had never been so happy in his life." He was going to be a farmer, he said, and Barbara wondered why, of all occupations, he had fixed upon one that appeared to be so unsuitable; but, as a proof of his good intentions, poor boy, he had sent her ten s.h.i.+llings of the money she had lent him, and promised to forward the rest as soon as he could. It was some comfort also, as Mademoiselle Vire pointed out, that the man would be safely out of the way of doing further harm for the present.

Barbara quite agreed with her, but thought she would have felt the comfort more if some one else had played her part. But when the whole unpleasant business was over, and Barbara had vowed that nothing would ever prevail upon her to go into court again--even if it were to receive sentence herself--she sought out Mademoiselle Vire, with a proposal to do something to "take away the bad feeling."

"Make music," the little lady said. "That is, I think, the only thing I can offer you, my child. Music is very good for 'bad feelings.'"

"Yes, oh, yes, it is; but this is something I have been wanting for a long time, and now I feel it is the right time for it. _Dear_ Mademoiselle Vire, will you come for a drive with me?"

A delicate flush coloured the old lady's cheeks, and Barbara watched her anxiously. She knew she was very poor, and could not afford to do such things for herself, and she was too frail to walk beyond the garden, but she also greatly feared that she might have made the offer in a way to hurt her friend's feelings.

The little lady did not answer for some time, then she looked into the eager face before her and smiled.

"_If_ I said I would go, where could you get a carriage to take us?"

"Oh, I have found out all about that," the girl replied joyfully. "I shall not ask you to go in a donkey-cart, nor yet in a _fiacre_. I have found out quite a nice low chaise and a quiet pony that can be hired, and I will drive you myself."

It took only a little consideration after that, and then mademoiselle gave her consent to go next day if it were fine.

"If Jeannette would care to come," Barbara said, before leaving; and the old woman, who had been sitting very quietly in her corner while the arrangements were being made, looked at her mistress with a beaming face, and read her pleasure in the plan before she spoke.

"I am so glad you thought of her," Mademoiselle Vire whispered as she said good-bye to her visitor, "for though, of course, I should never have asked you to include her, yet she has been so patient and faithful in going through sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair she should share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieved to leave her at home on such a day."

Barbara had one more invitation to give, which went rather against the grain, and that was to Mademoiselle Therese, whom she felt she could not leave out; but she was unfeignedly glad when the lady refused on the score of too much English correspondence.

The following day being gloriously fine, they started for the drive in great contentment, going by Mademoiselle Vire's choice towards La Guimorais, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast.

The pony was tractable and well behaved, and they rolled along slowly under the shady trees and past the old farms and cottages, Mademoiselle Vire's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while Jeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap.

Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards a lonely _manoir_, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse.

Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for garden nor ruined beauty could destroy.

"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Vire asked, and Barbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the high gray walls.

"The master once, the servant now, but still n.o.ble," the old lady whispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered at last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild, through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in the little lady's own garden; but Barbara, noticing the longing look, slipped out and gathered a handful.

"The farmer would spare you those, I think, madame, if it pleases you to have them."