A CONTEST OF WILLS
ADRIENNE thought a great deal about the English girl and her brother
during the next few days. She would have liked to call and make
inquiries, but her aunt made incessant demands on her time and
attention, and when she mentioned them said rather haughtily:
"My dear Adrienne, I am not in the habit of knowing English tourists;
they come and go. We have a lot of artists in this neighbourhood, and
as a rule they are not in our class of life. I beg of you to put these
people out of your thoughts. You went out of your way to help them, and
that's an end of it."
But there was a certain streak of obstinacy in Adrienne's nature; she
had been unaccustomed to control or surveillance. In her uncles' house
she was mistress, and there was something in that English girl's face
and bearing that made her want to know her. So she bided her time.
In the meanwhile she made the acquaintance of the Curé. He came up
one morning to ask when the Count would return. As Adrienne was upon
the terrace when he arrived, she spoke to him, and told him that they
expected the Count back the end of the week. He looked relieved, and
then Adrienne asked if there was anything that her aunt could do.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"She could, but I fear she will not. It is only the sad case of a widow
with children who has lost her only means of subsistence."
"Ah," said Adrienne with interest, "I know all about her; and now
I begin to understand, it is my cousin Guy who is the peasants'
benefactor and not my aunt. Why do they think all their help comes from
her?"
The Curd looked uncomfortable, then he said:
"It is his wish; he does it for his father's sake, he does not want the
Château to have a bad name. And he also does it for his own sake. He is
a very kindhearted man, the Count, though he hides it under a cloak of
reserve."
"I will tell him about the widow and her cow directly he comes back,"
said Adrienne; "I heard about it when I was with little Agatha."
The priest's round, cheerful face became quite radiant.
"You have made acquaintance with her, our little Agatha? She is well
worth the knowing. One of the Good God's saints. She lives always on
His Threshold."
He departed, and Adrienne wisely kept the purpose of his visit a secret
from her aunt.
Two days later the Count returned. He surprised Adrienne in the act of
gathering roses in the garden just before she went to her aunt's room
for tea.
Adrienne felt a sudden joy course through her veins as she saw him. She
knew then how much she had missed him.
"Well," he said to her, "how have things been going? Madame ma mère,
how is she?"
"Pretty well. She had an attack of—of what I think is nerves and
depression and went to bed, but she is better again now. Before I
forget, the Curé called upon you about a villager in distress. Her cow
has died. It is Jeanne Couiller."
"Why don't these peasants insure their cows?" he said a trifle
impatiently.
But he took his notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something into
it.
Adrienne looked at him, and glancing up he met her gaze.
"A penny for your thoughts," he said lightly.
"Why don't you take credit for what you do?" she asked him. "It is not
fair to credit Aunt Cecily with your good deeds."
He frowned.
"I don't like any criticism on what I do or say," he said rather coldly.
"I won't apologize for criticizing you," said Adrienne with her sunny
laugh; "because if I am cowed by Aunt Cecily, I am not going to be
cowed and browbeaten by you. She is weak and unhappy, you are strong.
It is the weak who tyrannize. I have seen little Agatha, and I think
she's perfectly charming. I had a very short visit, but I mean to go
again."
She could not but notice that whenever Agatha's name was mentioned, it
evoked a smile from people's faces.
Guy's rather stern countenance softened at once.
"That's good to hear," he said. "And now I must see ma mère."
The Countess brightened up, as she always did when her stepson
appeared. It was a warm afternoon, and they had tea on the terrace and
were quite a cheerful little party.
But Adrienne fancied that, in spite of cheerful words, Guy was
abstracted and absent in manner. He did not stay very long, pleading a
lot of business which awaited his return. And when he went, it needed
all her ingenuity to keep her aunt contented.
"He is getting more and more unsociable. He comes round much less since
you have been out here."
"Of course he does," Adrienne assented cheerfully; "for he knows you
are not left alone."
"But you are becoming so dull, you have so little to say."
Adrienne could not help laughing.
"I suppose I have used up all my small talk, and there is so little to
talk about. You are not interested in the village news. I think I must
try and have some adventures when I walk out, and then I shall have
something to tell you when I come back."
"A good conversationalist needs no fresh material to talk about."
"I have not lived long enough," said Adrienne demurely, "and I have led
too quiet a life to be an interesting companion, I fear. Now if Uncle
Tom were here, he would never stop talking; he's always amusing, and
he's never at a loss."
"Oh, Tom is the fool of the family," said the Countess with disdain.
The next morning Adrienne determined to ride off and inquire for the
stranger who had met with an accident. She said nothing about it to her
aunt, and at eight o'clock was riding through the woods.
She had just reached the end of them, when she met her cousin Guy. He
was walking with a farmer, but directly he saw her, he stopped, and his
companion walked on.
"Where are you off to?" he inquired.
"To Le Sourge. There are some English people living up there, and one
of them has met with an accident. I met his sister coming down for
help, and I want to know how he is."
To her surprise, Guy's brows contracted fiercely.
"I am sorry you have run across them," he said. "I must ask you to go
no further."
"But—but—"
Adrienne looked her amazement, then she stiffened in her saddle:
"Unless you have some very good reason, I mean to go on. It is only
kind to do so."
Guy's lips snapped together like steel.
"I cannot permit you. You must take my word for it without demanding a
reason."
The colour rose in Adrienne's cheeks and the fire to her eyes. Never in
her life had she been subjected to autocratic rule.
"That I will not do," she said. "You have no right to dictate to me,
Cousin Guy. Let me pass."
His hand was on the bridle of her horse; he held the bit in an iron
grip.
"You are under my stepmother's care," he said; "and when she is unable
to exercise her authority, I shall do so if necessary."
He had turned her horse as he spoke and was leading it back through the
pathway in the woods.
For an instant Adrienne's temper rose high; she realized that if it
came to a struggle she had the advantage. And yet the fear flashed
through her that even on foot her cousin was more than a match for her.
She could not resort to her riding switch. Dignity and pride forbade
her to prolong the contest.
With an exasperated laugh she said:
"But this is absurd! You are treating me like a child. I don't want to
quarrel with you. But you are exceeding your powers—as a cousin—we are
not even properly related."
"Thank goodness, no!" he ejaculated fervently.
Again Adrienne looked her surprise.
"You needn't lose your temper," she said; "it is I who should do that.
And I have done it. I am very angry with you. I am not accustomed to
being treated in such a manner. Will you kindly take your hand off my
bridle?"
"Not until I have your word that you will abandon this visit."
"That I shall not give you, unless you give me a satisfactory reason
for doing so."
There was silence, but his hand still controlled her horse, and his
face was set like adamant.
"Cousin Guy, you are making yourself ridiculous. Do you think we're
back in the mediaeval times when men managed women with high-handed
tyranny? Do you think that your will is law? It is not to me, nor ever
will be. If you prevent me going to Le Sourge this morning, I shall do
so to-morrow, or at the first opportunity that comes. And you're only
making yourself exceedingly unpleasant, for no just cause."
Not a word or a flicker of an eyebrow. Her cousin strode on, as if she
had not spoken.
"I am seeing you in a new light," Adrienne went on; "I was beginning
to like you, and to enjoy your company. Your behaviour this morning is
quite irritating enough to stop all friendship between us."
Then Guy stopped, and looked at her.
His sternness had disappeared, and his eyes were smiling if not his
lips.
"You are an adept at tongue lashing," he said; "women always are. But
words never affect me, only deeds. When you are calm, I will speak. If
you had full confidence, instead of mere liking, you would have given
me the promise I want, for you would have known I should never have
frustrated your wishes from mere caprice or from sheer tyranny."
"I cannot obey blindly. Why should I? I am not a child."
But Adrienne's tone was no longer haughty; she was beginning to feel
ashamed of the temper she had shown.
For a moment or two, he led her horse on in silence.
Then she said suddenly:
"You can take your hand away. I won't be led along in this fashion.
I'll give up my visit—for to-day."
He dropped the bridle at once.
Adrienne whipped up her steed and cantered away from him through the
woods, never drawing rein till she reached the Château.
She felt really angry with her cousin, angrier than she had ever felt
with anyone before.
"Does he expect to shut me up in the Château with my aunt, and only
know a few of her French Bridge-playing friends? And when I get a
chance of knowing another Englishwoman, shall I not take it? What
possible concern is it of his? I wish I had gone before he returned. I
liked the look of her. And I mean to see her again. I shall walk out
to-morrow if it is fine."
But that evening Guy appeared at dinner.
Adrienne was standing at an open door in the salon humming a little
song to herself, and waiting for her aunt. She always dressed very
simply. Her white gown was almost severe in its cut, and only a cluster
of crimson roses at her breast relieved its white purity. As she stood
there, a picture of a fresh English girl in her slim grace and dignity,
with her sunny brown hair just touched with the golden rays of the sun,
Guy from the threshold of the door gazed at her with intent dreamy eyes.
And then, turning, she saw him: her little song died away on her lips,
her smile disappeared.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked, advancing into the room.
Adrienne glanced at him in cold disdain.
The entrance of her aunt saved her from the necessity of a reply.
She was very silent during dinner, and her aunt said at last to Guy:
"Well, I am thankful you are back. I've been telling Adrienne that she
is becoming dull. I suppose she's getting tired of us."
"I have had the misfortune to offend her," Guy said coolly.
Adrienne shot an indignant glance at him, but it was not her way to
sulk.
"He has been very rude to me, Aunt Cecily, and I don't want to talk
to him. I am sorry you find me so dull, but my month here is soon
coming to an end. I shall have to be going home next week. I heard
this morning from Uncle Derrick, and he wants me to fix my date for
returning."
If Adrienne had exploded a bomb, she could not have startled her aunt
more. She burst forth into a torrent of expostulations, almost French
in her excitement and agitation.
"I will not hear of it, Adrienne! You came here to be with me. Your
uncles have each other! You know I cannot be left alone. It is
preposterous! To come over here for a month! You know you could not
do it! Your home ought to be with me altogether. I have a claim upon
you. You are my only niece, you have no parents, and your home ought
to be with me and not with your uncles! I will not hear of your going!
I shall write to Derrick to-night. I will wire! He shall not take you
away! How can I be left in my present state of health? It is cruel! The
very suggestion is making me feel quite faint and unnerved. Help me
into the salon. I must lie down. No, I do not want any strawberries."
Out came her handkerchief. Adrienne looked helplessly at Guy, who rose
and offered his stepmother his arm.
"No," the Countess sobbed; "I will go to bed, I am too unwell. My heart
is bad. To spring such a thing upon me is most unkind. Guy, use your
authority; tell her she is not to go. You brought her over; make her
stay!"
"Oh, Aunt Cecily," said Adrienne, quite distressed at the commotion she
had caused, "I am sorry, but you know I only came for a month. Don't
think any more about it to-night. Let me come up and help you."
For a moment the Countess seemed as if she were going to refuse her
help, then she thought better of it; but all the way upstairs she
was upbraiding her as she leant upon her arm, with ingratitude and
selfishness.
Guy lit his pipe and paced the terrace outside, wondering if Adrienne
would come down again, or if she would ignore his presence there.
He felt a great relief when he saw her white gown in the distance. A
few minutes later she stood before him.
"My aunt has sent me to you with a message. She wants you to come over
to-morrow morning and see her about a letter she has received from a
farmer. It is about some fences that want to be renewed. They border on
his ground, and his cattle break through."
"Tell her I will be here at half-past ten."
Then he drew forward a wicker chair.
"Come and sit down. If I had not offended you, you would not have
threatened to leave your aunt. And I have come to the conclusion that
I must explain. I know these people at Le Sourge, and the man is a
wastrel and a scoundrel, and not fit for any nice girl to know."
Adrienne dropped into the chair he had placed for her.
"Having said so much, you must tell me more," she said. "It is not the
man I want to know, of course I hope for his recovery, but it is his
sister who interests me, and a woman who has a brother who is a failure
is to be pitied, not shunned."
"I don't want to go into details," said Guy a little curtly. "It is
enough that he's not a man for you to know, and I'm thankful that he's
not likely to come within your circle."
"That's too arbitrary for me," said Adrienne in a tone of hauteur.
"I don't intend to go through life edging away from everything and
everyone who is not of spotless purity. What is their story? Their name
is Preston. Have they always lived here?"
"No, he's by way of being an artist. I met them in Rome some years ago;
he was rather well known upon the Riviera before that—ran through a
fortune at Monte Carlo—and then he took up art for a living."
"His poor sister! I expect she brought him to this out-of-the-way place
to keep him out of temptation."
"Oh, money is not his temptation. We won't discuss him. I will not have
you make his acquaintance."
"But, Cousin Guy, you are not my guardian."
"I have made myself one pro tem.," he said gravely. "Your uncles would
hold me responsible if you came to any harm."
"Oh, I'm not a child."
Adrienne's tone was impatient.
"Do you think I would fall in love with him, or he with me?" she went
on. "It is his sister I want to know. She is English, and is living
here away from friends. I liked her look so; she's straight and frank
and so handsome, and such lines of trouble upon her face!"
Silence fell between them for a few minutes, then Adrienne rose from
her seat with a little sigh.
"Well, I will submit to your discretion. I won't pay them a visit. If
I were younger and rasher, I would out of mere curiosity, but I will
write a note to her. That I can do, to show a little sympathy."
Guy rose and held out his hand to her.
"Shake, as we Americans say," he said, smiling.
Adrienne smiled at him in return. His smiles were so few that she was
absolutely fascinated by them. They made him look ten years younger.
She put her hand in his.
"Don't be so masterful and peremptory another time," she said; "it
never pays with me. I'm not one of those women who admire a 'cave man.'"
"I didn't lay my hand upon you," he said.
"You laid it on my horse. I wonder—" She stopped: a dreamy look came
into her eyes. "I wonder if he knows little Agatha."
"God forbid!" said Guy hastily.
Adrienne looked at him reproachfully.
"How can you speak so! I feel she would get hold of a man's soul if
anyone could, and bring light and hope to the most desperate. You are
very inconsistent, Cousin Guy. The first time I saw you, you talked to
me about half the world easing the burdens of the other half; you put
yourself and me in the position of burden-bearers, and said I ought
to ease the burden of loneliness and unhappiness which weighs down my
aunt—"
"And I really think you are doing it," said Guy, looking at her with a
little smile about his lips.
"Please don't interrupt me, but listen to your inconsistency. What
about the sister of this man whom you condemn in such a wholesale way?
Is she never to have her burden eased? Isn't an unsatisfactory brother
whom she is hoping to reform, a very big burden for any woman to bear?
Is she never to form a friendship because of it? Is she to be boycotted
because of him?"
Guy was standing in a leaning posture, his arm resting on the old
terrace wall. He straightened himself at Adrienne's words, and looked
away over the tree-tops in silence for a few minutes.
Then he said gravely:
"That's a straight thrust, my little cousin. I must weigh my words
well, if you store them up against me in such a fashion."
"If we talk from a height," said Adrienne demurely, "we must live up
there."
Guy did not appear to hear her. His eyes were still on the distant
view, as he said very slowly:
"I suppose I care more about you than her."
Adrienne was a little startled. Her self-possession was shaken.
She said quickly and nervously:
"You cannot trust me if you think the existence or life of this unknown
man could affect me in any way. It is his sister I should like to know
and help. But I will say no more. I have given you my promise not to
visit them. If I meet her by chance anywhere alone, I shall certainly
be friendly, should she wish it. And as for my returning home, you
know I must do it sooner or later, but I have promised Aunt Cecily to
stay another fortnight or so. I will say good night. Ever since I was
a small child, I have always refused to go to bed until I was friends
again with anyone who had had a difference with me, so you and I must
forget the events of this morning."
"We will," said Guy heartily.
He held her hand in his for a moment.
"If I could tell you a certain bit of my life," he said, "you would
understand my attitude towards these people. They have only come here
lately, and they don't know of my existence here, and I don't want them
to know it. But when they do, they'll remove themselves as far from my
vicinity as possible."
Adrienne looked at him wistfully.
"And you won't explain further?"
She left him, but he paced up and down the terrace for an hour later,
with set lips and moody eyes.