A WILD DRIVE.
The uncomfortable "campaign," as Marie had called it, continued for
some days, and Barbara was in the unpleasant condition of having both
parties confide in her. At the end of that time, however, it seemed as
if the dainties that sustained the two upstairs began to pall upon
them, as housekeeping evidently did on Mademoiselle Thérèse, and
Barbara saw signs of a truce.
This was doubtless hastened by the news that an old family friend was
coming with his wife and daughter on the next Sunday afternoon, and, as
Mademoiselle Thérèse explained, they must keep up appearances. He was
a lawyer who lived at Dol, and from the preparations that were made,
Barbara saw that they thought a great deal of him, for there was such
baking and cooking as had never been since her arrival. The salad even
was adorned with rose leaves, and looked charming, while the
Mesdemoiselles Loiré clothed themselves in their best garments.
They all sat in state in the drawing-room as the hour for the arrival
of the visitors approached, trying to look as if they had never heard
of soufflet or mayonnaise salad, and Barbara, who had been called upon
to taste each of the dishes in turn and give an opinion on their worth,
almost felt as if she never wished to hear of such things again. About
twelve o'clock a _fiacre_ stopped at the door, and a few minutes later
the visitors were announced--father, mother, and daughter.
Barbara was agreeably surprised--as indeed she often was by the Loirés'
friends--to find that they were so nice. The mother and daughter were
both very fashionably dressed, but simple and frank, the father,
however, being most attractive to Barbara. He was clever and amusing,
and contradicted Mademoiselle Thérèse in such an audacious way, that
had it been any one else, she would have retired to her bedroom
offended for a week. The visit passed most successfully, Mademoiselle
Loiré's cooking being quite as much appreciated as she had expected,
and when the visitors said good-bye, Barbara left the sisters
congratulating themselves on their success.
A few days later the final word was added to the truce between the
sisters by Mademoiselle Thérèse proposing that _she_ should stay at
home and look after the house, while her sister took Barbara and Marie
for a visit to Cancale, whose beauties, Mademoiselle Thérèse assured
Barbara, had a world-wide renown.
But the elder sister, though obviously pleased by the suggestion,
thought she would rather "Thérèse" went, while she stayed in St. Servan
and paid a few calls that she was desirous of making.
After much discussion it was so determined, and the following day
Mademoiselle Thérèse, with the two girls, set off after lunch by the
train. The ride was a pleasant one, and the magnificent view of the
Bay of Cancale with the Mont St. Michel in the distance delighted
Barbara's heart. She much preferred the quaint little fishing village,
La Houle, nestling at the foot of the cliffs, to the more fashionable
quarter of the town; but Mademoiselle Thérèse, who was bent on "seeing
the fashions of the visitors," led the way with energy to the hotel
half way up the cliff. It was certainly gay enough there, and the
Frenchwoman explained to her pupil "that if one noticed the costumes at
seaside resorts it often saved buying fashion-books."
They sat on the terrace, mademoiselle and Marie dividing their
attention between a stout lady, in a gorgeous toilet of purple trimmed
with blue, and oysters, which, the Frenchwoman assured Barbara, were
"one of the beauties of the place." But the latter contented herself
with tea, wondering idly, as she drank it, why the beverage so often
tasted of stewed hay. After their refreshment they strolled round the
town, and then sat upon the promenade, watching the sun travel slowly
down the sky towards the sea-line.
Suddenly mademoiselle remembered the time, and, looking at her watch,
declared they had but a few minutes in which to get to the train, and
that they must run if they wished to catch it. Off they started,
mademoiselle panting in the rear, calling upon the girls to wait, and
gasping out that it would be of no use to arrive without her. They
were extremely glad on arriving at the terminus to see that they had
still a minute or two to spare.
"We are in time for the train?" mademoiselle asked of a _gendarme_
standing near the station house.
The man stared at her.
"Certainly, madame," he said at last; "but would it not be as well to
come here in the morning?"
"In the morning!" she echoed. "You foolish fellow! We want to go by
this train--it should be here now--it leaves at 7.30."
"Ah!" the man said, and he seemed to understand. "I fear you have lost
_that_ train by several days; it went last Sunday."
"What!" screamed mademoiselle. "How dare you mock me! I will report
you."
"That must be as madame wishes," returned the man with horrible
calmness; "but the train madame wishes to get only runs on Sundays,
and, therefore, she must wait several days for the next. If any other
train will do, there is one in the morning at 9.30."
Barbara wanted to laugh, but consideration--or fear--of Mademoiselle
Thérèse--kept her quiet, and they stood gazing at one another in
sorrowful silence. A ten-mile walk at 7.30 in the evening, unless with
very choice companions, is not an unmitigated pleasure, especially when
one has been walking during the day. However, there was nothing for it
but to walk, as a conveyance, if obtainable, would have been too
expensive for Mademoiselle Thérèse's economical ideas.
They declared at first that it was a lovely evening, and began to cheer
their way by sprightly conversation, but a mile or two of dusty
highroad told upon them, and silence fell with the darkness. It was a
particularly hot evening too, and great heat, as every one knows,
frequently tends to irritation, so perhaps their silence was judicious.
Mademoiselle Thérèse kept murmuring at intervals that it really was
most annoying, as her sister would have been expecting them much
earlier, and would be so vexed. Perhaps visions of a second
retirement, which no "family friend" would come to relieve, floated
before her eyes.
More than half the distance had been covered when they heard the sound
of wheels behind them.
"A carriage!" cried mademoiselle, roused to sudden energy, "they _must_
give us a lift," and drawing up by the side of the road, they waited
anxiously to know their fate. It was fairly dark by this time, and
they could not distinguish things clearly, but they saw a big horse,
with a light, open cart behind. When mademoiselle first began to
speak, the driver took not the least notice, but after going a few
yards, pursued by her with praiseworthy diligence and surprising
vigour, he pulled up and pointed to the seat behind, the place beside
him being already filled by a trunk.
The wanderers scrambled in joyfully, greatly pleased with their good
luck, and it was not until they were in their places, and near the man,
that they discovered he had been drinking freely and was not as
clear-headed as he might have been. If there had been time they would
all have got out again, but he whipped up so quickly that there was no
chance. He continued to whip up, moreover, till they were going at a
most break-neck speed.
Mademoiselle, clinging madly to the side of the cart, begged him in the
midst of her gasps and exclamations to let them descend; but the more
she begged and the more desperate she became, the better pleased he
seemed, and it really looked as if they might all be thrown into the
ditch. Then mademoiselle, who was always rather nervous about driving,
broke into shrill screams, with Marie joining in at intervals--Gilpin's
flight was nothing to it--and the cart jolted and swayed so that calm
expostulation was impossible.
A lesson in rough-riding to a beginner could not have proved a more
disjointing experience, and the man, chuckling over the
loudly-expressed fear of his companions, drove on. Fortunately, there
were not many turns, and the road was fairly wide all the way; but once
Barbara felt the hedge brush her face, and Marie's handkerchief, which
she had been using to mop up her tears, was borne away a few minutes
later by the bushes on the opposite side of the road.
The only thing that could be said in favour of the drive was that they
covered the ground with great speed, and the thought occurred to
Barbara that it would be by no means pleasant to enter the streets of
St. Servan with their present driver and two screaming women, as, apart
from other considerations, they might meet the policeman, and the
encounter would be unpleasant.
She told mademoiselle and Marie that if they did not want to be killed
or locked up in the _préfecture_, they must jump off the back of the
cart while going up the hill outside the town. The horse, after its
wild career, would calm down on the incline, besides which, a fall in
the road would be preferable to being thrown through a shop window.
It took very forcible language to make Mademoiselle Thérèse face
present terror rather than await the future; but, when the horse really
did slow down to a walk, and the two girls had reached the ground in
safety, she made a mighty effort, and floundered out in a heap upon the
road, making so much noise that Barbara was afraid the man would
realise they were gone, and insist upon their getting in again.
But he whipped up at that moment, and the noise of the cart drowned the
dolorous complaints. The girls soothed their companion by assuring her
that in ten minutes they would be home, when, most assuredly, her
sister's heart would be moved to pity by their sorry plight and the
tale of their adventures.
Just as they arrived at their own door they met Mademoiselle Loiré
hurrying up, and her sister, thinking she was coming to look for them,
and not knowing the reception she might get, fell upon her neck,
pouring forth with incoherent sobs and explanations the tale of their
woes.
Mademoiselle Loiré was most sympathetic and unreproachful, and, having
dried her sister's tears, led her into the house, where the whole party
sat down to cake and cider, under the influence of which Mademoiselle
Thérèse quite recovered, and retold their adventures, Barbara realising
for the first time, as she listened, what heroines they had been!
Their screaming advance along the highroad became a journey, where they
sat grimly, with set teeth, listening to the curses of a madman, and
bowing their heads to escape having them cut off repeatedly by the
branches of trees.
Their ignominious exit from the cart on the hill became a desperate
leap into the darkness, when the vehicle was advancing at full gallop;
and when Barbara finally rose to say good-night, she felt as if they
had all been princesses in a fairy-tale, in which, alas! there had been
no prince.
She learned two things on the morrow--not counting the conviction that
riding at a gallop in a cart made one desperately stiff. The first was
from Marie, who told her that Mademoiselle Loiré's forbearance with
their late return, and her intense sympathy with their adventures,
probably arose from the fact that she had just been returning from her
own expedition when she met the wanderers, and had been filled with
very similar fears concerning her reception as those which had filled
her sister's heart.
The other fact, which Barbara read aloud to Mademoiselle Thérèse from
the newspaper, was that Jean Malet had been apprehended for furious
driving at a late hour the previous night, and would have to pay a
heavy fine.
"How he had come safely through the streets at such speed," said the
journalist, "was a miracle. Fortunately, there was no one in the cart
but himself."
"Fortunately, indeed, there was not," remarked Barbara, folding up the
paper.