THE "AMERICAN PRETENDER."
"An invitation has come from Monsieur Dubois to visit them at Dol,"
Mademoiselle Thérèse exclaimed with pride, on opening her letters one
morning. "It is really particularly kind and nice of him. He includes
_you_," she added, turning to Barbara.
The girl had to think a few moments before remembering that Monsieur
Dubois was the "family friend" for whose sake the sisters had sunk
their grievances, and then she was genuinely pleased at the invitation.
"Now, which of us shall go?" mademoiselle proceeded. "It is clear we
cannot _all_ do so," and she looked inquiringly at her sister.
"Marie and I are _much_ too busy to accept invitations right and left
like that," Mademoiselle Loiré replied loftily. "For people like you
and Mademoiselle Barbara, who have plenty of leisure, it will be a very
suitable excursion, I imagine."
Barbara looked a little anxiously at the younger sister, fearing she
might be stirred up to wrath by the veiled slur on her character; but
probably she was pleased enough to be the one to go, whatever excuse
Mademoiselle Loiré chose to give. Indeed, her mood had been
wonderfully amicable for several days. "Let me see," she said, looking
meditatively at Barbara. "You have been longing to ride _something_
ever since you came here, and since you have not been able to find a
horse, how would it do to hire a bicycle, and come only so far in the
train with me and ride the rest of the way?"
Barbara's eyes shone. This _was_ a concession on Mademoiselle
Thérèse's part, for she had hitherto apparently been most unwilling for
the girl to be out of her sight for any length of time, and had assured
her that there was no possibility of getting riding lessons in the
neighbourhood. What had brought her to make this proposal now Barbara
could not imagine.
"That would be a perfectly lovely plan," she cried. "You are an angel
to think of it, mademoiselle." At which remark the lady in question
was much flattered.
The next morning they started in gay spirits, Mademoiselle Thérèse
arrayed in her best, which always produced a feeling of wonderment in
Barbara. The lady certainly had not a Frenchwoman's usual taste, and
her choice of colours was not always happy, though she herself was
blissfully content about her appearance.
"I am glad you put on that pretty watch and chain," she said
approvingly to her companion, when they were in the train. "I always
try to make an impression when I go to Dol, for Madame Dubois is a
_very_ fashionable lady."
She stroked down her mauve skirt complacently, and Barbara thought that
she could not fail to make an impression of some kind. She was
entertained as they went along, by stories about the cleverness and
position of the lawyer, and the charms of his wife, and the delights of
his daughter, till Barbara felt quite nervous at the idea of meeting
such an amount of goodness, fashion, and wit in its own house.
Mademoiselle Thérèse allowed herself just a little time to give
directions as to the route the girl was to take on leaving her, and
Barbara repeated the turnings she had to take again and again till
there seemed no possibility of making a mistake.
"After the first short distance you reach the highroad," mademoiselle
called after her as she left the carriage, "so I have no fear about
allowing you to go; it is a well-trodden highroad, too, and not many
kilometres."
"I shall be all right, thank you," Barbara said gleefully, thinking how
nice it was to escape into the fresh, sunny air after the close
third-class carriage. "There is no sea to catch me _this_ time, you
know."
Mademoiselle shook her finger at her. "Naughty, naughty! to remind me
of that terrible time--it almost makes me fear to let you go." At
which Barbara mounted hastily, in case she should be called back,
although the train had begun to move.
"Repeat your directions," her companion shrieked after her, and the
girl, with a laugh, murmured to herself, "Turn to the right, then the
left, by a large house, then through a narrow lane, and _voilà_ the
high-road!" She had no doubt at all about knowing them perfectly.
Unfortunately for her calculations, when she came to the turning-point
there were _two_ lanes leading off right and left, and on this point
Mademoiselle Thérèse had given her no instructions. There was nobody
near to ask. So, after considering them both, she decided to take the
one that looked widest. After all, if it were wrong, she could easily
turn back.
She had gone but a little way, however, when she saw another cyclist
approaching, and, thinking that here was a chance to find out if she
were right before going any farther, she jumped off her machine and
stood waiting. When the new-comer was quite close to her she noticed
that he was not a very prepossessing individual, and remembered that
she had been warned in foreign countries always to look at people
before speaking to them. But it was too late then. So making the best
of it, she asked boldly which was the nearest way to Dol. The man
stared at her for a moment, then said she should go straight on, and
would soon arrive at the highroad.
"But I will conduct you so far if you like, madame," he added.
Barbara had seen him looking rather intently at her watch and chain,
however, and began to feel a little uneasy.
"Oh, no, thank you," she rejoined hastily. "I can manage very well
myself," and, springing on to her bicycle, set off at a good speed. He
stood in the road for a few minutes as if meditating; but, when she
looked back at the corner, she saw that he had mounted too, and was
coming down the road after her. There might be no harm in that; but it
did not add to her happiness; and the watch and chain, which had been
Aunt Anne's last gift to her, seemed to weigh heavily upon her neck.
There was no thought now of turning; but, though she pedalled her
hardest, she could not see any signs of a highroad in front of her, and
was sure she must have taken the wrong lane. Indeed, to her dismay,
when she got a little farther down the road, it narrowed still more and
ran through a wood. She was quite sure now that the man was chasing
her, and wondered if she would ever get to Dol at all. It seemed to be
her fate to be chased by something on her excursions, and she was not
quite sure whether she preferred escaping on her own feet or a bicycle.
At first he did not gain upon her much, and, if she had had her own
machine, and had been in good training, perhaps she might have
outdistanced him; but there did not appear to be much chance of that at
present. She was thankful to see a sharp descent in front of her, and
let herself go at a break-neck speed; but, unfortunately, there was an
equally steep hill to climb on the other side, and she would have to
get off and walk.
She was just making up her mind to turn round and brave it out, and
keep her watch--if possible--when she saw something on the grass by the
roadside, a little ahead of her, that made her heart leap with relief
and pleasure--namely, a puff of smoke, and a figure clad in a brown
tweed suit. She was sure, even after a mere hurried glance, that the
owner of the suit must be English, for it bore the stamp of an English
tailor, and the breeze bore her unmistakable whiffs of "Harris."
She did not wait a moment, but leaped from her bicycle and sank down
panting on the grass near, alarming the stranger--who had been nearly
asleep--considerably. He jerked himself into a sitting position, and
burned himself with his cigarette.
"Who the dickens----" he began; then hastily took off his cap and
begged the girl's pardon, to which she could not reply for
breathlessness. But he seemed to understand what was needed at once,
for, after a swift glance from her to the man who was close at hand
now, he said in loud, cheerful tones--
"Ah! Here you are at last. I am glad you caught me up. We'll just
have a little rest, then go calmly on our way. You should not ride so
quickly on a hot day."
The man was abreast of them now, and looked very hard at both as he
passed, but did not stop, and Barbara heaved a long sigh of relief.
"I'm so very sorry," she said at last. "Please understand I am not in
the habit of leaping down beside people like that, only I've had this
watch and chain such a _very_ short time, and I was so afraid he'd take
them."
"And how do you know that they will be any safer with me?" he asked,
with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
"Because I saw you were an Englishman, of course," she rejoined calmly.
The young man laughed.
"Pardon me, you are wrong, for I am an American."
Barbara's cheeks could hardly grow more flushed, but she felt
uncomfortably hot.
"I am so sorry," she stammered, getting up hurriedly; "I really thought
it was an Englishman, and felt--at home, you know."
"Please continue to think so if it makes you any happier; and--I think
you had better stay a little longer before going on--the fellow might
be waiting farther down the road."
Barbara subsided again. She had no desire to have any further
encounter with the French cyclist.
Meanwhile, the stranger had taken one or two rapid glances at her, and
the surprise on his face grew. "Where are the rest of the party?" he
asked presently.
"The rest of the party has gone on by train," and Barbara laughed.
"Poor party, it would be so horribly alarmed if it could see me now. I
always seem to be alarming it."
"I don't wonder, if it is always as careless as on the present
occasion. Whatever possessed he, she, or it, to let you come along by
yourself like this? It was most culpably careless."
"Oh, no, indeed. It is what I have been begging for since I came to
Brittany--indeed it is. She gave me _most_ careful directions as to
what turnings to take"--and Barbara repeated them merrily--"it was only
that I was silly enough to take the wrong one. And now I really must
be getting on, or poor Mademoiselle Thérèse will be distracted.
Please, does this road lead to Dol?"
"Dol?" he repeated quickly. "Yes, certainly. I am just going there,
and--and intend to pass the night in the place. I'm on a walking tour,
and--if you don't mind walking--I know there's a short cut that would
be almost as quick as cycling; the high road is a good distance off
yet."
Barbara hesitated. The fear of meeting any more tramps was strong upon
her, and her present companion had a frank, honest face, and steady
gray eyes.
"I don't want Mademoiselle Thérèse to be frightened by being any later
than necessary," she said doubtfully.
"I really think this will be as quick as the other road--if you will
trust me," he returned. And Barbara yielded.
It certainly was a very pretty way, leading across the fields and
through a beech wood, and they managed to lift the bicycle over the
gates without any difficulty. The girl was a little surprised by the
unerring manner in which her companion seemed to go forward without
even once consulting a map; but when she complimented him on the fact
he looked a little uncomfortable, and assured her that he had an
excellent head for "direction."
It was very nice meeting some one who was "almost an Englishman," and
they talked gaily all the time, till the square tower of Dol Cathedral
came into view--one of the grandest, her guide assured her, that he had
seen in Brittany. They had just entered the outskirts of the town when
they passed a little _auberge_, where the innkeeper was standing at the
door. He stared very hard at them, then lifted his hat, and cried with
surprise, "Back again, monsieur; why, I thought you were half way to
St. Malo by this time."
Then the truth struck Barbara in a flash, and she had only to look at
her companion's face to know she was right.
"You were going the other way," she cried--"of course you were--and you
turned back on my account. No wonder you knew your way through the
wood!"
He gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry--I really did not mean to
deceive you exactly. I _have_ a good head for 'direction.'"
"And you came all that long way back with me I It _was_ good of you. I
really----"
But he interrupted her. "Please don't give me thanks when I don't
deserve them. This town is such a quaint old place I am quite glad to
spend the night here. And--I really think you ought not to go hither
and thither without the rest of the party--I don't think your aunt
would like it. The house you want is straight ahead." Then he took
off his cap and turned away, and Barbara never remembered, until he had
gone, that though he had seen her name on the label on her bicycle she
did not know his.
She christened him, therefore, the "American Pretender," firstly,
because he looked like an Englishman, and secondly, because he
pretended to be going where he was not. After all, she was not very
much behind her time, and, fortunately, Mademoiselle Thérèse had been
so interested in the lawyer's conversation that she had not worried
about her. Barbara did not speak of her encounter with the cyclist,
but merely said she had got out of her way a little, and had found a
kind American who had helped her to find it; which explanation quite
satisfied "the party."
The lawyer's château, as it was called, seemed to Barbara to be very
like what French houses must have been long ago, and she imagined grand
ladies of the Empire time sweeping up the long flight of steps to the
terrace, and across the polished floors. The _salon_, with its thick
terra-cotta paper, and gilded chairs set in stiff rows along the walls,
fascinated her too, and she half expected the lady of the house to come
in, clad in heavy brocade of ancient pattern. But everything about the
lady of the house was very modern, and Barbara thought Mademoiselle
Thérèse's garments had never looked so ugly. The girl enjoyed sitting
down to a meal which was really well served, and she found that the
lawyer, though clever, was by no means alarming, and that his wife made
a very charming hostess.
Mademoiselle Thérèse was radiating pride and triumph at having been
able to introduce her charge into such a "distinguished" family, and as
each dish was brought upon the table, she shot a glance across at
Barbara as much as to say, "See what we can do!--these are _my_
friends!"
Poor Mademoiselle Thérèse! After all, when she enjoyed such things so
much, it was a pity, Barbara thought, that she could not have them at
home.
She was enjoying, too, discussing various matters with the lawyer, for
discussion was to her like the very breath of life.
"She will discuss with the cat if there is no one else by," her sister
had once said dryly, "and will argue with Death when he comes to fetch
her."
At present the topic was schools, and Barbara and Madame Dubois sat
quietly by, listening.
"I am not learned," madame whispered to the girl, with a little shrug,
"and I know that nothing she can say will shake my husband's
opinion--therefore, I let her speak."
Mademoiselle was very anxious that his little girl should go to school,
and was pointing out the advantages of such education to the lawyer.
The latter smiled incredulously. "Would you have me send her to the
convent school, where they use the same-knife and fork all the week
round, and wash them only once a week?" he asked contemptuously.
"No," mademoiselle agreed. "As you know, Marie used to be there, and
learned very little--nothing much, except to sew. No, I would not send
her to the convent school. But there are others. A young English
friend of mine, now--Mademoiselle Barbara knows her too--she is at a
very select establishment--just about six girls--and so well watched
and cared for."
Barbara looked up quickly. She wondered if she dared interrupt and say
she did not think it was such an ideal place, when the lawyer spoke
before her.
"_Parbleu!_" he said with a laugh, "I should prefer the convent! There
at least the religion is honest, but--with those ladies you
mention--there is deceit. They pretend to be what they are not."
"Oh, but no!" Mademoiselle Thérèse exclaimed. "Why, they _are_
Protestants."
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
"Believe it if you will, my dear friend, but we lawyers know most
things, and I know that what I say is true. When my little Hélène goes
to school she shall not go to such. Meanwhile, I am content to keep
her at home."
"So am I," murmured Madame Dubois. "Schools are such vulgar places,
are they not?"
But Barbara, to whom the remark was addressed, was too much interested
in this last piece of news to do more than answer shortly. For if what
the lawyer said were true--and he did not seem a man likely to make
mistakes--then Alice Meynell might really have sufficient cause to be
miserable, and Barbara wondered when she would see her again, which was
to be sooner than she expected.