A SUMMONS
GUY departed three days later. He was very uncommunicative; to
Adrienne, he seemed like a man walking in a dream. She hardly knew
her energetic cousin. Her aunt complained bitterly of his want of
confidence in her, and upbraided him with it when he came to wish her
good-bye.
"But, ma mère," he said, "this is not my life, my home; I am a bird of
passage. I have been working at the farm for a bit so as to pull it
together, and I pride myself upon having put a bit of work into Jean.
He can go on by himself now. You did not think I was always going to
sit in your pocket, did you?"
"I think you a most inconsiderate and ungrateful stepson," retorted the
Countess. "You know how I am being preyed upon, and how everyone takes
advantage of me because I have no man at my back. If this is not your
home, where is it?"
"I have no home," said Guy gravely; "I am a nomad from circumstances
and choice."
He bade her farewell, and she, as usual, dissolved into tears.
Adrienne went out to the terrace to see him off.
The car was waiting, and then, just as he was getting into it, he
turned and came back to her. There was a strange look upon his face,
half daring, half wistful.
"Little cousin," he said, "if I find I want to settle down, could we
work a home together, do you think?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Adrienne breathlessly.
"Don't you? Think about it whilst I am away. Only a woman makes a home,
and the only woman who could make me a home would be you."
Then the colour rushed into Adrienne's cheeks, and sudden anger seemed
to seize her.
"I am sorry I cannot oblige you," she said stiffly; "the contingency of
your wanting a home may never arise. It sounds from your point of view
very doubtful."
"Have you no personal liking for me?"
He put the question very gravely.
"I think you're a very baffling, mysterious person," Adrienne said,
and there was some resentment in her tone. "You won't take people into
your confidence, and you come and go with your own life locked away
from us all. I don't wonder my aunt gets impatient with you. She is on
the edge of a precipice; her home is being wrested away from her in a
most dishonest fashion, and yet you refuse to let us know whether you
mean to save it for her or not. I hate secrecy and intrigue of any
kind; you make a mystery of everything even of these Prestons. I have
been accustomed to the very reverse of this, and cannot understand you.
No, I would never link my life with one who is so I reserved, and so
complacent in his reticence."
He stood for a moment looking at her, but Adrienne would not meet his
eyes.
"I did not realize you disapproved of me so much," he said slowly; "I
am afraid you still bear me a grudge over that poor miserable Preston.
Well, you have given me my answer. Perhaps I have been foolish in being
so precipitous. Au revoir. You will stay here till I return?"
"I can make no promises," Adrienne replied; but her tone softened. "I
won't desert Aunt Cecily if I can help it, but I cannot stay on with
her interminably, and that she will not understand."
He left her, and she watched the car disappear down the drive and along
the straight white road that led to the station.
Why had she felt so ruffled and indignant? she asked herself.
"It was the way he spoke," she assured herself; "he could not have been
in earnest. Did he mean a proposal of marriage? If so, he was very
indifferent and uncertain about it, as he is about everything. He's so
detached and superior, hardly like a human being. I won't think about
him any more. He is gone, and I know, in spite of his aggravating ways,
we shall miss him intensely. If one was in trouble, how reliable he
would be! And yet what a contradiction he is! He seems to watch Aunt
Cecily's difficulties with perfect indifference. I cannot, cannot
understand him."
The following day Adrienne met Miss Preston in the village. She had
been visiting little Agatha. She was in a white serge gown with black
straw hat and a black scarf about her shoulders. And she looked worn
and weary but strikingly handsome and distinguished.
"It was kind of you to send me those flowers," she said; "though
they're but an emblem, and of no use to the one who is gone—yet one
appreciates the kind thought."
"I have been so sorry for you," said Adrienne; "you must be very
lonely."
"I am strangely bewildered," she said with a very sweet smile; "I am
like a horse without his rider, or a scale without weights. My very
reason for existence gone. I shall take time to adapt myself to life
again, so I'm staying in my retreat quite quietly. Will you come and
see me?"
"Certainly I will. What do you think of little Agatha?"
"She does not bear talking about," was the grave reply; "it is an
effort to get into her environment, and a bigger effort to get out of
it, do you not find it so?"
"I hope I do," said Adrienne slowly; "it is what she would wish, is it
not?"
Then they parted, and in a few days' time Adrienne made her promised
visit.
The cottage on Le Sourge surprised her. One big living-room downstairs
and a small back kitchen, two large bedrooms above, and a smaller one
in the roof. The walls of all were covered with water-colour sketches
of a purity and delicacy that proved the genius of the author of them.
They were mostly landscapes. Sunsets from the hills outside Rome, and
bits of the Mediterranean from Naples and Sicily. Queer little Italian
villages up against the sky in the folds of the hills; peasants with
carts of hay, trucks of fruit, milk-cans on dog-carts, and beautiful
girls, amongst the grapes in vineyards, girls with black hair, with
golden, and with flaming red tresses.
Adrienne caught her breath as she looked at them.
"What an artist your brother must have been!" she said.
"He was," Miss Preston replied quietly.
She was evidently not going to discuss her brother, for she began
to talk of other things. Incidentally Adrienne learnt that she had
relations in Yorkshire. She had an uncle who was Canon in York
Cathedral, and another uncle who was a retired General and lived in the
family place in Westmorland.
It was when Adrienne began to talk about her uncles that she told her
this.
"They are quite the pleasantest relatives to own," she said with
a humorous curl to her lips; "it is their wives who are sometimes
difficult, but you have never experienced that."
"No," Adrienne owned; "though at times I have had scares that way.
Uncle Tom is all right, but Uncle Derrick has two or three women
friends who occasionally sweep down upon us. There is a certain widow
who used to live in Malta, and whom he used to visit when he was at
sea. She's a nice woman, but I believe on her side it's little more
than just old friendship."
"Men ought to marry," Miss Preston said emphatically.
Then they talked of the country they were in, and its customs. Adrienne
came home to her aunt feeling that she had made a friend, and strangely
enough her aunt began to be interested in the stranger.
"Ask her to tea one afternoon. I should like to make her acquaintance
if she's a gentlewoman. I thought she and her brother were a pair of
these Bohemian artists. I've seen them going about in sandals, hatless
and with knapsacks across their backs, the women as tanned and dusty
and unkempt as the men."
So Miss Preston came to tea, and the Countess liked her, and asked her
to come again.
Adrienne went out walks with her, but in all her talks Miss Preston
never mentioned her brother or the Count.
One day, as they were sitting in the woods together, enjoying the cool
shade on a very sunny morning, Adrienne said suddenly to her friend:
"Do you believe that our lives are ordered and planned for us by God?
Little Agatha says they are."
"She thinks there is an original groove or place which we may
circumvent," said Miss Preston. "For a little French peasant girl, she
has a wonderful knowledge of the world and its ways."
"Yes, hasn't she? I think I'm talking to a sage or a philosopher when
I'm with her, but really she's something higher altogether. I think
what she would say is that if we have right relations with God, He
plans for us. It's very puzzling. Practically I am beginning to be torn
into two. I want to go back and take up my life at home again, and yet
I want to stay here. The old Château and the village have crept into my
life. I want to see Aunt Cecily safely through her difficulties. I know
she has told you about them. She tells every one, so I am not betraying
her confidence. I keep wondering what I am to do. And I am not sure
enough of my right relationship to God to know if He will guide me. I
suppose He guides by circumstances?"
Miss Preston smiled at Adrienne's anxious face.
"Don't make me your Father Confessor. I'm an ignoramus like yourself
over religious doctrine and experience. But I'd give all I possess to
have little Agatha's faith and joy. I believe in her, ergo I believe in
her God."
"So do I," Adrienne said thoughtfully; "I've never read my Bible so
much as since I've known her, and it is explaining things to me. But
I'm a long way off yet from where I want to be."
"Tell me when you arrive there," said Miss Preston; "for I've turned
my back like Christian in 'Pilgrim's Progress' on what I used to
think were the best things in life. Whether I shall replace them with
immortal gifts remains to be seen."
They were silent for a time, then resumed conversation upon lighter
topics.
One liking they had in common, and that was attending the little
Protestant Service on Sunday mornings.
Adrienne loved the long walk in the early mornings. She met Miss
Preston halfway. The Miss D'Aubignays and their sister Madame Passilles
were very friendly, and always pressed them to come to the house and
stay to lunch. Adrienne could never do this because of her aunt, but
Miss Preston did it occasionally, and told Adrienne afterwards that
Madame Passilles's talk and tracts drove her as far away from religion
as Agatha's talk brought her near.
"She's well-meaning and earnest, but has no sympathy or tact. She
starts by impressing you that she is safely inside the Holy of Holies
and you are outside—well outside—an outcast and a sinner. That raises
my contradictious ire. I say things that I do not mean on purpose to
annoy her. I mustn't go to lunch with them again. It is bad for one's
temper. She has one, strange to say, and it's quite as hasty as mine."
Adrienne tried to persuade her aunt to attend one of these services,
but nothing would induce her to hear of it, and she saw that she was
only irritating her by pursuing the subject.
And then one morning about six weeks after Guy's departure, Adrienne
received a wire.
"Tom ill. Appendicitis. Want you home. Come at once.—DERRICK."
It was a thunderbolt. Of course, when the Countess was told, there was
a terrible scene.
"You can't leave me. I won't be left alone. If he has an operation, he
will be in a Nursing Home, and you can do no good. I dare say it is a
false alarm. Everyone thinks he ought to have appendicitis in these
days."
"I must go, Aunt Cecily. I shall leave by this afternoon's train.
Nothing would induce me to stay away from either of my uncles if they
are ill. They have been like parents to me. Why don't you come with me?
He is your brother. If you cannot be left alone, come with me."
But this was not to be heard of. The Countess wept and cried, she
coaxed, she implored, she entreated, but Adrienne seemed proof against
her pleadings.
And then, as she was hastily packing her clothes into her portmanteau,
a sudden thought flashed into her mind. She ran off to her aunt's room.
"Aunt Cecily, I am really going. I must. But would you like Bertha
Preston as a visitor till I come back? She likes you, and you like her.
I will ride off to her at once. I have time before déjeuner. I believe
she would come to you."
The Countess was working herself into a fit of hysterics, but she
listened to this suggestion and was pleased to approve of it.
"She will be better than no one, and you must promise me to return,
Adrienne. You said you would stay with me till Guy returned."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, not if he stayed away indefinitely. But we won't talk
about that now. I must go immediately to Bertha Preston. I only hope
she'll come."
Off she rode as quickly as she could to Le Sourge, and fortunately
found Bertha at home.
She was astonished and rather disconcerted at Adrienne's request.
"I hardly know your aunt."
"Oh, do come; I shall be so relieved. She likes you and will soon
forget me when she sits up and talks to you of the past. I know it's
asking a lot, but you did say to me the other day that you were getting
tired of your cottage life, and you would be doing us such a great
kindness. I am bound to go. I must. And Aunt Cecily really is not
fitted to live alone. She depends so much on having someone to talk to,
and someone who can do little things for her."
"Oh, I'll come, if your aunt will put up with an old blasé woman
instead of a bright young girl. We'll try and get on together till you
come back. Don't you worry. Does she expect me this evening?"
"Is it too soon? To-morrow will do. I don't leave till four this
afternoon."
"Then I'll come to-morrow in time for déjeuner tell her; and if we fall
out, I can but return to my cottage. I'll do my best to keep her happy.
But she's a difficult subject. I hope you'll find your uncle through
the worst when you get home."
"I'm in such a bustle that I can hardly think," said poor Adrienne.
"Good-bye and a thousand thanks. Write to me, won't you? I feel
responsible for Aunt Cecily till Cousin Guy comes back."
Then she galloped home. She certainly did not have much time to think,
till the train was taking her towards Paris. She could hardly realize
that her French life was receding behind her.
And what had at one time been her greatest desire now seemed to her a
trouble rather than a joy. She was really anxious about her uncles, and
that anxiety eclipsed all else.
She arrived home late the next day. The car was outside the station
and in it, to her surprise, was the Admiral. He looked ill, and as he
kissed her affectionately, he said:
"I felt bound to meet you myself, my dear; I could not have anyone else
break it to you."
"What!" cried Adrienne with blanched cheeks. "Is it—is it serious?"
"He has gone, dear child."
The shock was great. Adrienne buried her face in her hands.
"I never imagined—I cannot believe it," she sobbed. "Tell me all."
"He was really taken ill in Norway. We hurried home, but the weather
was bad and we got delayed. There was a doctor on board, but you know
how your uncle hated doctors. He would have none of him. We stopped
in London, he was got into a Nursing Home and that very night they
operated, but it was too late, and he sank. I was with him and he sent
his love to you. I could not tell you in the wire. I brought him home
yesterday. The funeral is to-morrow."
"Oh, poor Uncle Derrick! Poor Uncle Derrick!"
Adrienne turned her tear-stained face towards her uncle. She forgot
everything except that he had lost the one being he loved most in the
world.
The Admiral's face quivered.
"Well," he said gently, "he was called away before me, and I always
thought I should go first. It is better so; he never would have managed
alone, a thorough bad business man. Poor Tom!"
They came to the house, and the homely sweetness of it sent another
gush of tears to Adrienne's eyes.
The dog sprang out to welcome her. The hall was filled with flowers.
The front door stood open and the striped sun-blinds were down. Inside
there was darkness and a hush. Drake met her with red eyelids. Adrienne
took his old hand in hers.
"Oh, Drake, what shall we do without him!" she cried.
The old butler choked a little.
"God only knows, Miss Adrienne," he said huskily.
She went into the library.
The Admiral followed, and then sitting down, he began to give her the
details of the last sad week.
"He felt he wouldn't get over the operation; he asked me to leave him
alone for half an hour before they came to take him to the Home. We
were at the Euston Hotel, and he added:
"'To make my peace with God, old chap.' And then he spoke of you—said
he wished you could be in time. Of course I tried to cheer him up, and
told him we all expected him to pull through, but he shook his head."
Adrienne listened with the tears running down her cheeks. She could
hardly believe that she would never hear again the hearty ringing
voice, the chuckling laugh, the boyish steps of her Uncle Tom.
And then a little later she paid a visit to his room, where he lay
quiet and peaceful as if he had just fallen asleep.
It was a sad time. She was so overwhelmed with the blow that she did
not write to her aunt till after the funeral was over.
Her uncle Derrick seemed to depend upon her for everything; the blow
had fallen upon him the most heavily, but he was very quiet, saying
little of his own grief. Adrienne noted that he silently put away the
chessmen and board into a locked drawer, and she knew that he would
never touch the game again. She was glad that there was a certain
amount of business to be done, for it occupied him and kept him from
brooding.
And she found her own time taken up with the many letters of sympathy
which had to be answered and which arrived by every post. She had seen
Godfrey at the funeral, and many other of her old friends; but she was
so busy in the house that she never left it, and when about ten days
after the funeral, Godfrey came to ask her if she would take a ride
with him, her uncle urged her to go.
"You are looking so pale, my dear; it will do you good. You have been
too much confined to the house."
So she went upstairs to get into her habit, her horse was ordered; and
Godfrey went into the library for a smoke with the Admiral, whilst
he waited for her. And Adrienne, whilst she was getting ready, was
thinking of her cousin Guy, and of the morning rides which she used to
take with him. They seemed so long ago!
When Godfrey had first proposed the ride, she was about to refuse, but
he had turned to her appealingly:
"I do want to have a talk with you so much. It is very personal."
And now her thoughts passed from Guy to Godfrey.
"I hope he is not going to bring up the old subject, and yet I almost
feel it would solve my difficulties. I must stay close to Uncle
Derrick now, and if I married Godfrey, it would be all so simple and
straightforward. Godfrey would make an ideal husband; he is so frank,
so true, so kind. Comparing him with Cousin Guy, I see now that he has
just what Guy is lacking in. He is so open and confiding; one feels
there is nothing behind him. Cousin Guy irritates me with his reserve
and silence, Godfrey is as open as the day. I believe if he proposes
again to me to-day, I shall say yes, and then I shall write to Aunt
Cecily and she will see that I cannot return to her."
Planning out such a future for herself, she was surprised that she
did not feel more jubilant over it. Could it be possible, she asked
herself, that the old Château in its quiet village had crept into her
heart to stay there? She tried to put it from her, and ran lightly
downstairs equipped for her ride.