A MORNING RIDE
WITHIN the next few days Adrienne paid two visits in the village, one
to little Agatha again and one to Madame Bouverie. This last one was
compulsory; for a long time she had made excuses when invitations came
to tea or to tennis, but her aunt insisted upon her accepting this one.
It was to an "English tea" in the garden.
"Madame Bouverie is angry; she says you think yourself too good for
their company, and I cannot afford to displease her, much as I loathe
her. It won't hurt you as much as it hurts me to continually receive
her when she calls."
So Adrienne went. The Bouveries lived in a villa just outside the
village. His brass plate was on the door, and his office adjoined the
street, but at the back they had a very pretty and rather pretentious
garden, with rose pergolas, fountains and masses of bright-coloured
flower beds.
The doctor's wife, some young people from Orleans, the Curé, and two
nieces from Tours who were staying in the house, formed the party.
Though they sat in the garden and played tennis, Madame Bouverie could
not resist showing Adrienne her house, which was overcrowded with
furniture and treasures of all sorts.
"It is rather full," she apologized; "but we shall be soon leaving it
for a bigger house. My husband and I have a collecting mania; we pick
up things all over the world."
If Adrienne had only known, nearly the whole of the old china, and
glass, and many pictures had come from the Château, which indeed had
proved a treasure-house to the collectors.
The conversation was entirely in French, but Adrienne was now able to
understand and take part in it. She played tennis, and made herself
as agreeable as she could to everyone. The doctor's wife was a very
talkative little soul. Adrienne felt that, as a doctor's wife, she
lacked discretion. Her husband's patients were the source of the
greatest interest to her.
"Adolphe is so busy, so popular! All the great people in the
neighbourhood call for him. The Marquise of Pompagny was 'phoning in
distraction yesterday; I could not appease her. Adolphe was with a Mr.
Preston, a countryman of yours, Mademoiselle. He is very dangerously
ill of a fever following a wound. He is not too abstemious, and it
tells, it tells when sickness comes. I promised the Marquise my husband
should come immediately he returned—I asked if it were herself or her
children, and then—imagine it—her pet Pom was indisposed, and it was
urgent—imperative that Adolphe should leave the sick Englishman, and
attend instantaneously upon the little darling! When he returned, I
gave him the message. He snorted! He rebelled, but he went post-haste,
with no bit of lunch, no rest, for we cannot afford to quarrel with the
Marquise!"
"How is Mr. Preston?" Adrienne asked as soon as she could get in a word.
"Dying, Mademoiselle, dying, my husband says. They live not very far
from this village, but he came in very delicate health, and they do not
like visitors. I went up to see them, but was not admitted. But then
they are English, so—a thousand apologies, Mademoiselle. I forget I am
speaking to an Englishwoman. Still you know some of your country people
are reserved—haughty—as is this sister of the invalid."
"I feel sorry for her," said Adrienne. "I did not know he was so ill."
"Do you know them?"
"No, I met the sister. If you remember I summoned your husband when the
accident happened."
"Ah, so you did! Strange that I should have forgotten. The accident!
Think you it was an accident? She said he was chopping wood, but my
husband says he gets fits of delirium tremens, and does damage to
himself and others. He has been an artist; but Adolphe thinks that the
sister knew, when she brought him here, that she was bringing him to
die."
Adrienne heard no more, for Madame Caillot was called away, but she
thought much of the brother and sister in their trouble, and wondered
if she could help them in any way.
When she called upon Agatha the next day, she mentioned them to her.
To her surprise she learnt that Agatha had already received a visit
from Miss Preston. It appeared that a young peasant woman who knew
Agatha well was attending upon them. And Miss Preston had been advised
to go to Marie for some cooling medicine which had a wonderful effect
in cases of fevers. When she came, Marie had brought her into the sick
girl's room.
"Mademoiselle," said Agatha in her sweet grave voice, "there is one
thing I am never permitted to do—to talk about my visitors, to tell
their troubles to others. But I will say this to you. Mademoiselle
Preston is a heavy-laden soul, and she is a brave one, though she
expends her strength needlessly. For cannot our burdens be rolled upon
the shoulders of the One who holds the world in the hollow of His hand?"
"I am sure you comforted her, Agatha."
"Nay," said Agatha, looking out of her window dreamily; "at times it
hurts to probe for the thorn. And troubles and cares harden the soul
more than pleasures, Mademoiselle."
Adrienne was silent. Presently she said:
"You have made me think, Agatha. I have passed my years very pleasantly
and easily, with just enough religion to take me to church, and to say
my daily prayers. I have done it from habit or from duty. But I have
gone no further. I worship afar off. I do not know Christ as my near
and dear Friend as you do. I don't think I ever shall be so good as
that."
Agatha turned to her with her radiant smile. "It is not the good ones
that our Lord covets for His Friends. It is the lowly and contrite
heart that is His chosen habitation. You are losing happiness, that is
all I can say. Happiness that stays, and deepens, and never dims."
"I should like to know Him like that," was Adrienne's wistful reply.
"You will, dear Mademoiselle. Just a quiet talk with Him about the big
need in your life, the union with Him. He died to join earth to heaven,
the sinner to his Saviour."
She said little more. Agatha's words were always few, that was why they
were remembered. But when Adrienne got up to go, she said:
"I expect you to come to me next time with your happy soul shining
through your eyes. May I say, I expect to see signs of our dear Lord's
presence within!"
"Oh, Agatha, I'm cold and far away, but I'm reading my Bible. I should
like to get nearer if I could."
And as she went home, a deep and earnest resolve took root within her,
that her religion should no longer be a mere respectable cloak, but a
deep and living reality within her soul.
A day or two after this visit, the Count came over to see his
stepmother on business. He appeared at five o'clock. It was a lovely
afternoon in June, and Adrienne and her aunt were taking tea on the
terrace, outside. The Countess was in one of her brighter moods. She
was expecting the quarterly sum of money that Guy brought her from his
farm accounts, and money to her represented ease and enjoyment of life.
Without it, she was abject and miserable. Adrienne, too, had heard from
her uncles that day accepting her decision to prolong her stay away. In
fact they had told her that they intended to take a six weeks' cruise
to Norway, so could spare her to her aunt for that time.
The Countess told Guy this fact with a triumphant air.
"I have said again and again to Adrienne that my brothers can get on
quite well without her. The longer she stays away, the more they will
get accustomed to her absence. And the better it will be for all of
us. French air seems to suit her. Madame Pompagny remarked to me how
improved she was in looks."
"She meant that I was thinner," said Adrienne, laughing.
"Ah well, you could do with a little less flesh," said the Countess,
who prided herself upon her slimness; "and it is not comme il faut to
be thick and stout. We leave that to Madame Bouverie and her kind!"
"When are we going to have some more rides together?" asked Guy, his
eyes on Adrienne's graceful figure as she poured out tea for her aunt.
"To-morrow morning, if you like," Adrienne responded gaily; "but I am
quite accustomed now to ride about alone. You have been so much away,
and so immersed in your farm!"
"Haymaking is a busy time, but it's over now for this year. To-morrow,
then, at seven o'clock."
"So terribly early," murmured the Countess; "it reminds me of those
dreadful hunting mornings in England. I never could bear them. They say
over here that we take our pleasures sadly. Anything more spartan than
an English sportsman I hope I may never see. And I don't at all approve
of your riding about alone, Adrienne. French girls don't do it."
"No, but they know that English girls do," responded Adrienne.
It was at this juncture that Pierre appeared with a note which he
presented to the Count.
Adrienne, watching him idly, as he politely asked his stepmother's
permission to read it, was startled to see what an effect the contents
had upon him. Under the tan of his cheeks a red flush mounted. His
features contracted, his brows knit, and his lips compressed like steel.
Then he very deliberately and slowly got to his feet.
"Pierre, I'll have my mare at once," he said to the old man who stood
waiting at the door.
"What is it? Business again?" asked the Countess indifferently.
He did not reply, but strode to the door.
"Don't wait dinner for me to-night. I shan't be able to come in again.
I'll say good night to both of you."
He was gone; and Adrienne cried out impulsively:
"He looks as if someone has challenged him to fight a duel. I hope I
shall never encounter one of those looks from him."
"Are you talking of Guy? Duels are not much in his line," said
her aunt; "I always think he is too easy in his dealing with his
fellow-creatures. Certainly with the peasants he is, and he is
strangely unsociable over here. Never makes friends with his father's
acquaintances. Dear Philippe made a great mistake by letting him be
educated in America. He was always with his mother's people. No, I
don't think he is likely to be called out by any French dueller. But
he is too reserved. Why could he not have told us frankly what was in
that note? I am not inquisitive, but in this dull hole everything is of
interest."
"I never can understand whether you like or dislike this Château," said
Adrienne.
"And I don't understand myself," said the Countess. "When the Bouveries
press me, and hint that they mean to take possession, I would give my
soul to remain here; but when the dull days come, and the monotony
depresses me, I long to run away from it, and never see it again."
"It would save you a lot of worry and care if you did that," said
Adrienne carelessly.
Then the Countess almost stormed at her, she was so angry. And having
worked herself up into a state of emotion and heroics over her darling
husband's ancestral home with all its past historic stories, she
dissolved into tears, and Adrienne had the greatest difficulty in the
world to calm her and comfort her.
Punctually at seven o'clock the next morning, Guy was waiting with the
horses.
"I wondered if you would remember," said Adrienne, when she had joined
him and they were walking their horses through the cool green glades in
the wood.
"I am not given to fail," he said shortly.
"No, but you left us in a very perturbed state of mind last night, and
I was afraid that your business might interfere with our pleasure this
morning."
He made no reply to this. He was unusually abstracted and distrait, and
after some minutes of silence, Adrienne said gaily:
"Really, Cousin Guy, if your soul is going to be miles away from me, it
will be a very dull ride with only your body for company."
He turned and looked at her.
"Perhaps you would prefer to ride alone?"
"I should prefer you to respond to me a little. Am I very demanding?"
He still did not speak, and they rode on in silence through the wood.
Then as they came out in the open, he said with a little effort:
"That artist up the hill died last night. I want you to ride with me
now to a Protestant parson who lives about eight miles away. I told his
sister I would send him to her."
"Oh, I am sorry," murmured Adrienne, not knowing quite what to say;
"I am glad you are helping her, poor thing, and I am thankful I
wrote to her when I did. She replied so kindly, but she told me that
complications had followed her brother's wound, and I heard from little
Agatha that he was practically dying. When did you hear of it?"
"He sent for me."
Adrienne understood then that the note he had received the night before
was the summons.
After a moment's silence, Guy spoke again:
"I was mistaken—he had wronged me—but he was innocent of the worst
wrong I accredited him with. He has been his own worst enemy all his
life, but he has gone now to his account. We need not judge him. You
can go and see his sister if you like. I am very thankful you can stay
on with your aunt, for I shall have to go over to America, and I may be
there for a longish time."
Adrienne felt dismay seize her.
"I am always nervous when you are away," she said. "I never know what
Mr. Bouverie may do. He haunts the Château in your absence—and Aunt
Cecily gets more and more depressed and miserable."
"I don't think her moods improve with my presence here," said Guy
gravely; "Bouverie is nearly at the end of his tether. It would be
better for all of us, if he took his last step."
"What do you mean? You don't expect him to turn her out of the Château,
do you? You would prevent that?"
"Why should I? I have given, and given and given, and money in your
aunt's hands is the same as putting it into a sieve! It runs through as
soon as it gets there."
"I don't understand either of you," Adrienne murmured.
Then she left that subject.
"Who is this Protestant parson?" she asked. "I have been longing to get
to an English—or Protestant service, and Aunt Cecily said there was
none within reach of us."
"There is a Protestant family—descendants of the historian, D'Aubignay,
who live about ten miles off. When they are here for the summer, they
engage a chaplain to come out, and have service in a small chapel in
their grounds. They have only just come into residence, or I would have
told you of it. You may like to go over on Sundays."
"I should very much. Are they nice people? Aunt Cecily has never
mentioned them to me."
"They are not her sort, but they would be delighted to have you at
their services. There are no young people. Three elderly women and
their brother. One is a widow, and it is she who has the money."
They rode on through the country lanes, and then along a straight white
road lined with poplars.
It was Adrienne's turn to be silent now; she felt that with her uncles
in Norway, and Guy in America, life might be difficult, and she had a
haunting presentiment of evil to come.
They came at length to a small village, in which Guy found the
chaplain. He was a short, pleasant-faced man, who spoke English with
the greatest ease.
Guy dismounted, but did his business on the doorstep.
Adrienne rode through the village and noted on the outskirts a Château,
standing amongst old trees. Then she came across an old lady, in a big
mushroom hat, who was talking to one of the peasants. She wondered at
seeing her out at that early hour, but from her face and voice she knew
she must come from the Château. As Adrienne passed her, she stood still
and regarded her with quiet interest. On the impulse of the moment
Adrienne spoke in her best French:
"Excuse me, Madame, but I am told that there is a Protestant Service
held near here. Should I intrude if I attend?"
"But certainly not," the old lady responded with a gracious little bow;
"our Service is open to all. We have two, every Sunday, at ten o'clock
and five."
"I should like to come to the ten o'clock one if I may. I am staying
with my aunt, Madame de Beaudessert."
"Why, of course! I saw the Count the other day, and he mentioned your
name to us. I should have called, but your aunt does not care for our
visits. I felt it my duty to leave her a little tract on the sin of
card-playing and gambling, and she resented it."
"I am sure she would," said Adrienne, smiling.
She bowed and rode back to her cousin.
He had just finished his talk with the chaplain, Mr. Marline.
As they were on their way home, Adrienne told him of her meeting with
the old lady.
"That would be Miss D'Aubignay. She is given to tract distribution; I
received one on the evils of smoking. Now I wonder what yours will be!"
"On youth and giddiness," said Adrienne, laughing; "but I don't think
giddiness is a perquisite of mine—I am generally thought a frump by
girls nowadays!"
Then she asked him when Mr. Preston's funeral would be.
He told her in two days' time, and that he would be buried in the small
Protestant burial-ground in the village they had just left.
"Could I send Miss Preston a few flowers?" Adrienne asked.
"If you like. Take them to her if you will."
He relapsed into silence, and their ride home was almost a speechless
one.
Adrienne felt she had a lot to think about, and was glad to get to the
quiet of her own room.
It was ridiculous she told herself to feel depressed because her cousin
was going to leave them, but she could not combat it until she was with
her aunt, and then she was her cheerful self again.