THE NOTARY'S DEFEAT
"AUNT CECILY, did you know that Cousin Guy was married?"
The Countess looked her astonishment as Adrienne put this question to
her after dinner.
"No; but I should never be surprised at anything he did," she said,
recovering her equanimity very quickly. "He is very reserved and
secretive. Who has been talking to you?"
"He has. I think he will tell you about it himself to-morrow. I don't
know the rights of it, but it evidently was not a happy marriage, as
she left him very soon, and died a few months later."
"I believe," the Countess said thoughtfully, "that dear Philippe
must have known it. I dare say he did not care to trouble me with
the details. I never cared for Guy or for his concerns. But dear
Philippe said to me when he lay dying: 'My dearest, if we ever have
grandchildren, I should like them to know this home of theirs!' I did
not pay much attention then; but really Guy may have a dozen children
for all I know."
"He has not a dozen," said Adrienne very quietly; "but he has one. He
thought the child was dead, then heard he was not, and went off to
America to look for him."
"And has he found it? Is it a boy or a girl?"
The Countess was sitting up in her chair now and looking interested.
"A boy. He is at the farm. I saw him this evening. Cousin Guy said I
could tell you. You will be able to hear about it all to-morrow."
"A boy!"
The Countess repeated it to herself, then subsided upon her cushions
again.
"I really don't see that his family has anything to do with us,
Adrienne. He must board him out somewhere if he is small. French
children generally have foster-mothers, you know. It doesn't concern
us. I cannot imagine Guy with a child to look after. But it is treating
me very strangely to withhold this information from me. I always say he
is a most unnatural stepson. I ought to have been told before."
Adrienne tried to soothe her ruffled feelings. She was relieved to
find that Guy was right in his conjectures; that his stepmother would
not be disturbed by his news. The child itself was of no interest to
her. She did not even ask Adrienne for a description of him, and in a
few moments she was full of her Orleans friends, and she kept up an
animated conversation with Adrienne till bedtime over the possible
gaieties when she had settled in her flat.
The next morning Guy arrived over for his business talk. But the
Countess would not discuss any business before déjeuner. At twelve
o'clock they adjourned to the library and then Guy plunged into the
matter in hand. He told his stepmother that his lawyer held many proofs
of Monsieur Bouverie's dishonesty, that he meant to have the matter
cleared up, and that at three o'clock that afternoon both lawyers were
coming to have an interview with him at the Château.
"There is no doubt," said Guy gravely, "that I shall be able to prevent
him taking possession here next Tuesday, but the question is, ma mère,
about yourself. What are your wishes about continuing to live here?
Do you not prefer Orleans? In the winter I know you do; and I should
suggest your making no alteration in your plans, but go there on the
date you have settled. But would you like to return next summer?"
"I may not be alive then," said the Countess, feeling for her
handkerchief. "Of course I do not wish to be turned out of my dear
husband's home. Is it likely that I should? It is the dreadful penury
in which I live which is my greatest trial."
"Well—now listen to me, ma mère. I am hoping I shall be able to square
things up, and we'll make a fresh start, but with this difference: that
I take over the Château as well as the farm and run it on my own. You
have tried to do it and have failed. Now I'll have a try and hope I
may succeed. I have changed in my views somewhat—lately. I'm tired of
a roving life and I mean to settle down. If I go away at all, it will
be for a couple of months in the winter. I want to relieve you of the
whole care and responsibility of this place. If buy it back, or get
it back from your little notary, it must be for myself, but with the
understanding that, for as long as you live, you can consider it as
your home. I will pay for all repairs, all wages; I will run the house
on my own lines, and I see that I shall have to spend a good sum on
outside decoration as well as the inside. I shall welcome you every
summer as my guest—in fact, at any time of the year you like to come;
but as far as money goes, you will have your own marriage settlement,
which has not been touched by this scoundrel, and I think I shall be
able to afford you from the estate an extra two hundred a year. Will
this suit you? I think you will enjoy the freedom of all care and
anxiety. And you ought to be able to live comfortably on your income in
your Orleans flat."
The Countess listened to her stepson rather more quietly than he had
expected; she appeared to be weighing it in her mind, for she was
absolutely silent for a few minutes. Then she said:
"And how will you, a man, be able to run this big house satisfactorily?
I little thought that, after promising me I could have this for my
life, you would now be turning me out."
"No, ma mère, Monsieur Bouverie has turned you out. You have sold the
Château to him. Your possession comes to an end. If I buy it back, I
buy it back for myself. But you can still look upon it as your home.
Your rooms will be always ready for you. Everything in them that you
have always had."
"Beggars can't be choosers," said the Countess bitterly; "I must agree,
of course. How can I do otherwise?"
Then she changed her tone, and spoke with flashing eyes.
"It's a pity that you try to deceive yourself and me by saying you
have changed your views, and after giving me to understand all these
years that you had no affection for the place, now intend to settle
down here. There is one detail you have omitted to mention in your
change of plans, and this is your new-found child. He is the cause of
all this change of views. You would not buy back the Château for your
father's wife, it is for your boy. May I ask who his mother was? Why
have you kept this marriage so dark? It is really he who is to supplant
me, and before I leave the home in which I have been mistress for so
many years, I would like to make sure that this child is all that your
father would desire for a successor. I expect, as my right, that you
give me all details of this marriage."
Adrienne had been growing more and more uncomfortable. She was ashamed
of her aunt, ashamed that she showed no gratitude or appreciation
for what her stepson was doing for her. And now she silently slipped
out of the room. She had no fear that Guy would lose his temper, or
retaliate in any degree to his stepmother's unjust charges. He had
infinite patience, infinite self-control; she knew that he would remain
absolutely calm and unmoved, but she felt that he would be—that he must
be—hurt in his soul, by her aunt's unkindness and suspicion.
She went into the garden, and there, lifting her head to the clear
blue sky beyond, tried to get above earth's difficulties and
misunderstandings.
It was not long before Guy joined her, and he drew a long breath before
he spoke.
"There!" he said. "That's one effort over. I knew she would take it
hardly, but it will be for her happiness. She has tried and struggled
and failed to keep a home over her head, and now I must do it for her.
I suppose she will never believe that I planned this out before I had
any knowledge that I possessed an heir. But that does not matter. I
shall go straight forward now. You had better go to her and get her
mind off my iniquity and deception if you can. She'll soon forget it,
and be happy when she gets into her flat. I really don't know what she
will do without you when you go home!"
"Poor Aunt Cecily!" said Adrienne.
And then she turned to look at Guy with very tender eyes.
"And poor Cousin Guy!" she said softly. "No one understands or feels
for his difficulties, and this addition of responsibility that has just
come to him!"
Then she added quickly:
"But he'll be a joy and a treasure! What a darling little boy he is!
When will you let Aunt Cecily see him?"
"Not till I've polished off Bouverie," said Guy with a grave smile.
Adrienne flitted away from him, and, as so often before, he watched her
figure till it disappeared into the house. But this time from a flash
of interest and admiration, the light in his eyes glowed with deep
passion, and he murmured between set lips:
"Shall I ever win her, and see her as mistress here?"
At three o'clock, Monsieur Bouverie arrived up at the Château. Guy and
Monsieur Grougan, his lawyer, were awaiting him in the big library.
Adrienne kept out of his way, but Pierre told her that he looked very
white, though he blustered more than usually.
"I have very little time to give the Count," he said; "I am
particularly busy to-day."
The interview went on and on. Four o'clock came, five o'clock, six
o'clock, and still the three were talking together. The Countess had
forgotten her anger against Guy. Now she was most excited.
"Do you think Guy will get the better of him? If he has robbed me all
these years, will I get my money back? I think I ought to be there with
them, and yet I would rather not. I am afraid of angry men."
"Cousin Guy will never get angry," said Adrienne.
"No, so much the worse for Monsieur Bouverie," said her aunt shrewdly;
"the cold, implacable man is to be feared rather than the angry one. My
dear Adrienne, when Guy looks at me so straightly, I squirm. I'm afraid
of him."
At six o'clock the library door opened. Monsieur Bouverie was the first
one to leave.
Adrienne could not help glancing through the salon windows at him as
he strode down the avenue. His shoulders were hunched up. He looked,
Adrienne told her aunt, crushed and defeated.
Guy and his lawyer still remained in the library.
When seven o'clock came Guy came out of the room, pushing his hair back
with one hand.
"Phew!" he said as he came across Adrienne in the hall. "We have had
warm work in there, and tough too, but thank God it is over."
"Is he routed?" Adrienne asked.
"He either fulfils our terms, or he stands committed to trial in
Orleans."
Adrienne softly clapped her hands.
"The villain is unmasked and defeated," she said; "and what about the
Château?"
"It's mine," said Guy laconically.
They were standing by the open door as they talked. Guy said he wanted
air.
Then with happy eyes Adrienne leant against the massive oak door.
Putting her lips against it she kissed it.
"Darling old Château," she said, "you've been rescued! I'm so thankful.
I believe you'd have broken my heart if you'd gone out of the family."
"Why, Adrienne, do you love it so?"
Guy's tone was almost impetuous for him.
Adrienne laughed up at him.
"I'm so glad and happy that I could dance a jig here and now!" she said
recklessly. "Who wouldn't love the darling old place? It always seems
to wear a smile for me. Come outside and have a good look at it."
She pulled him by the sleeve. Together they stood out upon the terrace
gazing up at the old building. Its roof was getting golden with moss
and lichen. Red Virginia creeper was climbing up its walls. The woods
above it, the gardens and bit of park round it were all tinted with
russet brown and gold. The smell of wood fires came out of its old
chimneys, for now the evenings were chilly, the Countess had fires
burning in her rooms.
Guy looked up at it, and then at the girl by his side. He gave a short
sharp sigh, and said:
"Yes, it might be a very happy home."
Then with alacrity, he moved into the house.
"I want to tell ma mére, and get her to have Grougan to dinner. We
shall still have business to do afterwards."
Adrienne followed him into the salon, where the Countess sat in state.
"Have you had success?" she asked.
"It is not absolutely certain whether he will fight us or not. He will
let us know his answer to-morrow. But he knows he hasn't a leg to stand
upon. One or two flagrant bits of dishonesty would be quite enough to
condemn him. I've offered to let him off prosecution if he will pay up
for his frauds. One doesn't want to hound the fellow to death, and I do
not think you, ma mére, could stand cross-examination in a French Hall
of Justice."
"No, no, indeed," the Countess said nervously. "I am not strong enough
for any fatigue or excitement. But if he pays up, I hope I shall get
some of my money back."
"You must not forget," said Guy in his cool, level tone, "that from
time to time you have borrowed considerable sums of money from him.
There must be justice on both sides. It remains to be seen, when both
sides have discharged their debts, who will be the richer. I do not
think, ma mére, it will be us. If I discharge the mortgage, it will
take every bit of ready money I possess. His debts will alone enable
me to do it at all. I fear nothing will be over for you, or for the
estate, so do not build on false hopes."
Blank dismay took the place of eager expectancy in the Countess's face.
"Do you mean to say that I shall not get that diamond watch back?" she
asked after a moment's thought.
Guy smiled.
"That item was mentioned to him. I had clear proof that he cheated you
over that. We shall get it back, I hope. Now shall we postpone further
talk, and have some food, and will you let Monsieur Grougan dine with
us, for we still have a lot of business to transact before he leaves?"
"Oh, certainly, let him stay, though I hardly feel inclined for food
after all the shocks of to-day."
Yet with her usual inconsistency, the Countess brightened up and made
herself quite agreeable to the lawyer.
Adrienne did not talk much. Somehow her thoughts were on the small
boy. What would become of him? Who would look after him? She could not
picture her cousin in the role of a father to a child who was hardly
out of the nursery.
She and her aunt discussed the situation again when dinner was over,
and the two men had retired to the library; and Adrienne tried to
impress her aunt with the reasonableness and generosity of her
stepson's plans.
"The Château does want a master, Aunt Cecily. You have told me over and
over again that it did. You will have all the joy of it without the
anxiety. Aren't you thankful beyond words that the Bouveries are not
going to walk in and take possession next Tuesday? I suppose I ought
not to be ill-natured, but I should like to know how Madame Bouverie is
feeling this evening after all her boastful bragging and impertinence!"
"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you about her; but I cannot help feeling
hurt about this child being so suddenly sprung upon us. I only hope he
is genuine, and that the marriage was so, too."
"Oh, Aunt Cecily, how can you doubt Cousin Guy's word? He's the soul of
honour."
"I dare say he may be, but it's a strange coincidence that, directly
the boy appears, Guy should buy up the Château and turn me out."
"That's very unfair, Aunt Cecily."
Adrienne flared up quite angrily.
"He has always meant to save the Château at the last moment. He told me
so—but he waited, as he said, till Monsieur Bouverie had a long enough
rope to hang himself! And I think he is quite right to think of his
son, and to wish to give him a home."
"Oh, of course, and then he'll give him a stepmother, and where shall I
be?"
Her aunt's supreme selfishness had generally the effect of silencing
Adrienne. She felt perfectly hopeless now and wisely let the subject
drop.
The next day was Sunday. Adrienne went off to her Protestant Service,
where she met Bertha Preston. They walked back together, and Adrienne
told her all that had happened.
"I know you are discreet, and you know more about the child than I do.
If it had not been for your brother, he would never have been found."
"That is true, but my brother knew more than I did. It was all very
sad. As you have guessed, my poor brother was loose in his morals and
not abstemious. Nine or ten years ago, he met Carlotta Luigi in Rome.
Her father was a very clever physician there. She was a great beauty
and a great flirt. My brother and a dozen other men were infatuated
with her. Then the Count came along. She fell headlong in love with
him, and people said proposed to him. Anyhow they married when they had
only known each other six weeks, and he carried her off to America with
him.
"It was not long before she commenced a passionate correspondence
with my brother, asking him to rescue her from a cold Puritan of a
husband, who had renounced both his title and his Château and wanted
her to live in a country farmhouse in Virginia. My brother, I am sorry
to say, encouraged her, though he had not the remotest idea of either
marrying or living with her. I suppose your cousin got hold of some of
his letters, and drew his own conclusions. Then she made a bolt, but
brought her six weeks' old baby with her. I am afraid it was a bit of
spite against her husband. She would leave him nothing.
"She arrived in Rome, and the very night she arrived, my brother calmly
departed, and sent word to her that he was ill, and could not see her.
Another lover of hers, a young Austrian, came forward, and she went off
with him. She gave her baby into the charge of a German friend of hers,
and it was she who reported the child's death to its father. I think
Carlotta felt reckless, and took no care of herself. She contracted
a chill very soon, and fell into a rapid decline, but up to the last
she refused to write to her husband. I visited her when she was left
neglected and forlorn, and I wrote to her husband, but he never
answered me; he thought that my brother was wholly responsible for her
flight from him."
"Were you living with your brother at the time?"
"No, oh, no. I came out to him with the idea of reforming him and
making a home for him, but he would have none of me then. It was
afterwards, when he knew he was ill of an incurable disease, that I
came to him, and finally persuaded him to come away from the cities and
live quietly in the country. It was strange that we should have pitched
our quarters near the Count. I never knew that this was his part of the
world or that he was over here. I heard it accidentally through the
village girl who came to work for us."
"And your brother knew that the child was alive?"
"Yes. It appears that, when she was dying, Carlotta wrote to him; she
taxed him with having made her leave her husband, and then deceived
her. And she said in her letter:
"'Not only did you make me lose a good husband, but also my child,
for an old friend has taken him back to America and forgotten to give me
her address. I am dying alone now, without a soul belonging to me near
me.'
"In justice to my brother she was not quite fair, for she began the
correspondence. He wished to forget all about her."
"It's a sad story," said Adrienne musingly.
"Yes, but thanks to little Agatha, I was able to tell my poor brother
when dying that there was a chance for him. And it was his own wish
that the Count should come and see him and hear about his child. I had
a bad quarter of an hour with the Count before he saw him. And yet,
under his apparent hardness, I believe there's great feeling."
"Oh, Bertha, what a life you have had!" exclaimed Adrienne. "How could
you give up all your friends, because of your brother!"
"He and I were chums as children," she said; "he wasted his life in
riotous living like the prodigal, and yet in intervals produced such
good work! His temptations were women, and—wine. After all, it was
but natural that I should try to reclaim him. If I did not entirely
succeed, his last year was one of respectability and peace."
Then she said:
"How do parent and child get on? It's rather hard for the Count to be
saddled so suddenly with a small child."
"I hope they'll get on," said Adrienne doubtfully; "but they're very
shy of each other at present. He wants some woman to look after him,
Bertha."
"Yes, he will have to have a nurse or governess," said Bertha. "How
does your aunt take it? She is too absorbed in her own troubles, I
expect, to think about him."
"Yes, she seems entirely indifferent to him. Sometimes I wonder if she
can be the sister of my uncles. They are so utterly different—of course
poor Uncle Tom has gone now, he always used to say that she was spoiled
as a child. I can do nothing with her; no one could change her outlook,
it would be a human impossibility!"
"What does Agatha say?"
"Oh, she says that nothing is impossible with God, and that I must
pass on to her what I myself receive. But it's very, very difficult.
She has given up all religion, except that she keeps a Bible on her
dressing-table; but I've never seen her use it."
They parted soon afterwards, and Adrienne again wondered how things
would work out under a new regime. The old servants were devoted to her
cousin; she could fancy with what joy they would hear the news, but how
they would welcome the child was doubtful.
"Well," she told herself resolutely, "I shan't worry myself about it.
As soon as I have settled Aunt Cecily in Orleans, I must get back to
Uncle Derrick, and Cousin Guy must get on as best he can."