ILLNESS AT THE CHÂTEAU
IT was nearly three weeks later. The Countess would not hurry her
departure for Orleans. She continually postponed the date. The
Bouveries without a word suddenly disappeared from the village.
Their furniture was removed from their house to Paris, after they
had themselves departed. The village and neighbourhood regarded
their disappearance with great composure. They were not popular, and
relief was uppermost in most people's minds. It was all managed very
quietly. Guy appeared satisfied, for his lawyer had promptly settled
up everything, and Adrienne declared that their exodus was like a bad
taste gone from her mouth.
She was beginning to be a little restive about her Aunt's
procrastination. She felt uneasy about her uncle. She hardly ever heard
from him, and he was generally a very good correspondent. Guy's little
son had attached himself to her in a very marked way. He had been
brought up to the Château by his father and introduced to the Countess.
She was pleased to approve of his manners, as he kissed her hand in the
same pretty way as he had kissed Adrienne's; but he was absolutely dumb
before her, and in pity, Adrienne took him away into the garden, where
he suddenly overwhelmed her with a torrent of words:
"I love you. I don't want anybody else. The old lady is my grand-mère,
is she not? I do not want to be near her. She looks at me, and I don't
like her eyes. May I come and play in this garden often? I don't
like the farm. They jabber words I don't understand. And Dad says I
must learn French, so as to speak to them. But Ray the dog there, he
understands me when I speak English. Am I an English boy or a French
boy? I don't want to be two boys. Can you play cricket?"
Adrienne produced out of her pocket a ball, bought in the village that
morning, and with the addition of a flat piece of wood found in the
tool-house, she and Alain were soon playing a game on the lawn.
He was loath to part with her when the Countess sent for her, and began
to cry in a quiet hopeless fashion. His father found him in tears
behind a big shrub and asked him if he had hurt himself.
"No, but just when I begin to be happy, it stops," he sobbed.
"That's the way with most of us," said his father cheerfully; "but only
babies and fools cry."
He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears away from Alain's face.
"Now we must have no more tears, Sonnie, not one. And you will find
that if you can't be happy in one way, you can try another. If you like
to come with me, I'll show you where I used to fish when I was a little
boy."
"I wish I could live here always," said Alain, trotting after his
father obediently. "I should like to live with Cousin Adrienne."
"I'm afraid you and I will have to get on without her. She lives in
England and will be going there soon."
"I'll ask her to take me with her."
"I think you'd better wait. By and by you'll be going to school in
England."
"Shall I?"
"Yes; I want you to be more English than French. But you'll be coming
to live here very soon. Do you like it here?"
They were crossing a bit of the Park and making for a round pond under
some trees.
Alain raised a smiling face.
"Yes, I like it very much. But I don't like the farm."
"Then you don't take after me."
He cut a stick off a tree, produced a string out of his pocket and with
the help of a bent pin left Alain radiantly happy trying to fish for
minnows.
Then he went back to the house, where he discussed the alternative of a
nurse or governess.
"He wants a little of both," said Adrienne; "he's very small and timid."
"A good French bonne is what he wants," said the Countess. "I'll ask
Fanchette. She knows everyone round here."
And in the end Pierre and Fanchette between them evolved out of a
country village close by a very nice motherly woman who was quite
content to go to the farm and look after Alain till the Château was
ready to receive him. Guy was already arranging for an army of paperers
and painters to take possession, and then suddenly everything came to
a standstill. One morning about seven o'clock, Annette came rushing
excitedly to Adrienne:
"Mademoiselle. Vite! La Comtesse, ah, quel horreur!"
For a moment Adrienne thought her aunt was dead. Then slipping into her
room, she found her lying back in bed breathing very stertorously, her
mouth slightly twisted. Nothing would rouse her. Adrienne knew it was a
seizure, and sent Gaston riding off post-haste for the doctor. He came
promptly, but could do very little. He told Adrienne he had been afraid
of this for some time. She had appeared unusually well and happy the
night before, so that there was no special cause for such an attack.
All day Adrienne sat in the sick-room, and towards the evening the
Countess seemed to regain consciousness, and recognized Adrienne,
speaking to her in a thick husky voice. Guy came into the room, and
insisted upon Adrienne's going to bed.
"I'll sit by her for an hour or two, and Fanchette will be here. This
may mean a long illness. You must have rest and sleep, otherwise we
shall have you ill too."
So Adrienne did as he desired, but did not get much sleep. She had only
written to her uncle that day telling him she hoped to be home very
soon. And now how impossible it would be to leave her aunt!
The next day they got a nurse from Orleans, but though the strain of
nursing was taken off Adrienne, her aunt was never happy unless she was
in her room.
In a few days she recovered in a certain measure, but lay quietly in
bed and never wished to move. She recovered her speech, but used wrong
words, and only Adrienne seemed to understand her. The girl had adapted
herself instantly to the sick-room's requirements. She was always
bright and smiling in her aunt's presence; always gentle and tender
with her. The workmen were sent away, for their noise fretted the
invalid; but as she grew stronger, life resumed its normal state, and
before very long everyone became accustomed to her condition. Orleans
was not to be thought of. Adrienne unpacked the many trunks she had
packed, and rather sadly rearranged her aunt's room, putting out many
of her pretty treasures which had been packed to go away with her.
The Count continued to stay at the farm with his small boy, but he was
up at the Château every day.
One day, he insisted upon Adrienne riding out with him.
"You must have more exercise. It is good for you," he said.
And when Adrienne came out into the fresh air which was slightly
touched with frost, and cantered along the lanes, the pink flush came
into her cheeks and the light into her eyes.
"It is delicious," she said.
"How long are we going on like this?" Guy asked her. "It is not right
that you should spend your days in a sick-room. The doctor says she may
be many months in this state."
"How can I leave her?" Adrienne asked.
"What does your uncle say?"
"He wanted to come over, but Dr. Caillot advises not. He says she ought
to be kept as quiet as possible and to see no fresh people. Uncle
Derrick is willing that I should stay on for the present."
"And what do you feel about it?"
"Do you want to get rid of me?" Adrienne asked him laughingly. "I feel
that at present I cannot leave Aunt Cecily. I don't believe she'd get
well at all, if she worried; and she worries whenever I am long away
from her."
"Do you think the child about the house would disturb her?"
"How could he—the darling! The patter of his feet up and down the
stairs and his laugh and chatter would be music in our ears. I hope you
and he will come soon. It is your home, not ours, remember! I could
take Aunt Cecily into Orleans when she gets better."
"She will never be turned out by me," said Guy with emphasis.
"Well, can't we live together, one happy family?" said Adrienne
lightly. "I will stay a few weeks longer. Aunt Cecily will be up and
about by then, I hope."
But Guy knew better. He said nothing, for he would not damp her hopes.
And in a few days' time he and his small boy took possession of the
Château.
Alain and his nurse were put into two cheerful rooms at the end of
the long corridor away from the Countess, so that she should not be
disturbed.
And Adrienne had one delightful morning in Orleans, choosing nursery
furniture and bright pictures for the nursery. Guy was with her. There
was one awkward moment, when Adrienne was addressed as "Madame" and
something was suggested for her "little son."
Guy was so silent and imperturbable that, though the crimson blood
rushed into her cheeks, she felt sure that he had not heard the words.
And a wild desire tugged at her heart, that she might be a mother of a
boy like that.
It was the second evening after their arrival that Guy went to the
organ and very softly began to play. Adrienne was sitting with her
aunt. Hearing the music, she asked her aunt if she would like to
listen. Receiving assent, she put open the bedroom door.
But they were not the only listeners. Alain on his way to bed broke
away from the care of his bonne. With flaming eyes, he darted down
to the hall and hid behind a heavy carved oaken seat by the organ.
There he sat on the floor with clasped hands round his knees listening
entranced whilst his bonne, missing him, searched the terrace outside.
Guy did not play for long. He was improvising softly, and the strain
of his music was sad and wistfully sweet. When at last he dropped his
hands from the keys, and sat with bowed head and sorrowful memories,
two tiny arms suddenly reached up and clutched him round the neck.
"I love you, Daddy! I love you! Make more music."
The soft cheek that was pressed against his was tear-stained.
Guy turned round and lifted the child on his knee. It was the first
expression of affection that he had received from him.
"Why, Sonnie, have you a bit of your father in you, after all? If you
have, I'll have you taught music before you learn to read. There is
nothing like music for a weary, disappointed man's soul. It restores
his courage, and bucks him up to defy failure."
Alain naturally did not understand this.
"Play again, Daddy, play again!" he entreated.
But Lucie, the bonne, had found him, and she carried him off most
unwillingly to bed.
All the next day Alain talked to Adrienne of his father's music.
And in the afternoon, when her aunt was asleep, she took him into the
salon and opened the piano.
"Now, Alain, you shall learn to play. Daddy says so, and I will teach
you."
Alain shivered from head to foot with excitement when he touched the
notes of the piano with one tiny finger. He would not leave it when the
lesson was over, but sat on the high music-stool, striking one note
after another, first with one hand, then with the other. And hearing
his delicate certain touch, Adrienne told his father afterwards that
music oozed out of his fingers.
Every evening now, half an hour before bedtime, Alain would curl
himself up by the organ stool, and listen to his father's music.
Guy and his little son had found a bond of interest at last.
One afternoon Adrienne slipped away to see little Agatha. Bertha
Preston had left the neighbourhood, and she missed her friendship.
But Agatha was always a tower of strength to her, and whenever she
felt unusually tired or depressed she would visit her, and come away
refreshed.
"Agatha," she said as she sat down by the couch, and laid her hand
caressingly on Agatha's small white one, "I want to talk to Aunt Cecily
about good things, and I feel tongue-tied. I don't know how to begin.
Help me! It is so terribly pathetic to see her lying there day after
day with her brain clear, but her body almost lifeless, and her speech
difficult and uncertain. I wonder sometimes what she is thinking about.
She was always so restless before this illness, always moving about her
room, having her clothes altered, playing Bridge, looking at fashion
magazines. She can do none of these things now."
"No," said Agatha, smiling; "but she can do much better, she can lie
in the Arms of the Bon Dieu and listen to His Comforting Voice. It's
a great step upwards, Mademoiselle, to lie still and listen. A hush
has been sent into her life, so that she can do it. It was too noisy
before."
"That sounds beautiful, but to her it will be incomprehensible. I want
to help her. I have wanted to help her for a long time. I shall soon be
going away, and I shan't have done it."
"Then begin to-morrow, dear Mademoiselle."
"What can I say?"
"Read to her some of our Lord's words; you won't want many of your own."
Adrienne thought over this, with the result that that very same evening
she took up her aunt's Bible, which lay on her dressing-table, and
approached her, rather timidly, with it.
"Aunt Cecily, shall I read you a few verses out of this before you go
to sleep—just to think over, and sleep upon?"
The Countess stared at her and at the Bible, then she shut her eyes
wearily.
Adrienne took this to mean assent, as her aunt was capable of a
negative shake of her head.
So she turned to the third chapter of St. John, and read about the
nightly interview between the ruler and His King. She did not read many
verses, and that night made no comment on them. The next evening she
continued the chapter, and still said nothing. It was some evenings
before she summoned up her courage to say, after reading the end of the
fifth chapter of St. John:
"You know, Aunt Cecily, it is only since I came here that I have
learnt to love my Bible, and I think you will find comfort in it.
Little Agatha has taught me so much. She seems to live so close to God
herself, that she draws everyone nearer to Him too. And she says you
are now lying in God's Arms for rest and happiness."
The Countess shook her head, but Adrienne saw a tear trickle down her
cheek.
"And," went on Adrienne slowly, "if we do come into God's Arms,
it is to be forgiven, and loved, and blessed. He wants us, and is
disappointed if we keep away. As He says in this chapter:
"'Ye will not come to me that ye might have life.'"
She said no more, but as time went on found it easier to speak about
the things she had learnt to love.
And her aunt lay and listened, but never said a word.
One afternoon, Guy came in from the farm, where he still spent part of
his days, and asked Pierre for Adrienne.
"Mademoiselle has gone out for a short walk."
"Do you know where she went?"
Pierre did not know.
As he had a message to give her from Madame Nicholas whom he had
chanced to meet, Guy went in search of her. It was a strange life that
he was leading now, he reflected—strange for him and strange for her.
Virtually they were running the house together, much as husband and
wife would do; and yet there was always a deep barrier between them,
and of which they were both acutely conscious. There was no happy
intimate talk, only grave conversation about local interests, the
condition of the invalid, and the doings and sayings of the child.
He certainly brought life and happiness into the old Château. His
pattering feet up and down the stairs, his chatter and laughter, his
friendliness with the old servants, and with all the animals which he
could approach delighted and amused both Adrienne and his father.
Sometimes in the dusky twilight, as Adrienne sat opposite Guy at
dinner, in her white gown with the candles lighting up her fair sunny
face and hair, a throb of pain would rise in his throat and an ache
in his heart. Yet never again, he assured himself, would he lay bare
the love that had crept into his soul, and deepened and grown till
he could hardly contain himself. She had told him she would never
link her life to his because of his unfriendly reserve. She did not
like his ways, his manners, himself. And he was a strange mixture of
assurance and diffidence. He was convinced that he was not attractive
to any woman. He had lost a young wife because, three weeks after
marriage, she had told him she was tired of him, and wished she had
not married him. And Adrienne, with her sunny gracefulness, her sweet
temper and unselfishness, had told him very bluntly that there was
nothing attractive in his personality. He believed it now. His pride
forbade him from incurring again such a snub. Yet he marvelled that
circumstances had for a time decreed that they should share a home
together. He dreaded a change, yet he felt that inevitably it must come.
Madame Nicholas wanted Adrienne to take Alain the next day to her
house. She had a little grandchild staying with her, and was having a
children's party.
Guy now betook himself to the woods. He knew most of Adrienne's
favourite haunts by this time, and was not surprised when he caught
sight of her figure in the distance. But what was she doing? Was she
hurt or ill? He quickened his steps. She was lying face downwards
amongst the brown pine-needles between a group of pine trees, and as he
came near the heaving of her shoulders told him that it was either a
storm of passion or of weeping.
Like a flash, he reviewed the morning. He had seen her at déjeuner,
and she was light-hearted and gay chattering with Alain as if she had
been a child herself. What could have happened since? The post! The
letters came in at one o'clock, and he had not seen her since. She must
have had bad news. Then he felt that he must make his presence known;
she would not like him to see her like this, so he whistled, and in a
second Adrienne had got to her feet. There was a seat a little farther
down, and she made her way to this.
Here he found her. It was impossible for him to ignore her trouble, as
her swollen eyelids and tear-stained face could not be misunderstood.
For a moment he said nothing, then he sat down beside her.
"Little cousin, you are in trouble. Can I help you?"
"Oh, why did you find me? I wanted to be alone." Adrienne's tone was
desperate, but Guy was too anxious over her to be easily repulsed.
"I am sorry," he said in his quiet level tone; "but I had a message for
you and came out to find you. And I'm glad I came, for perhaps two may
be better than one in the present circumstances."
"Oh, you can't help me."
Adrienne's self-possession and dignity had left her. Tears were rushing
back to her eyes.
Then pulling a letter out of her pocket, she handed it to him.
"Read it. It's my own fault. I've stayed away from him; I've failed him
in his loneliness. He waited and waited and waited for me, and then
thought I did not want or care to come back to him. And oh, how hard
I've tried to leave Aunt Cecily, and how impossible it has been for me
to do so!"