BARBARA TURNS PLOTTER.
The day after her expedition to Dol, Barbara saw Alice Meynell again,
and in rather a strange meeting-place--namely, the public bath-house.
The house in which the Loirés lived was an old-fashioned one, and had
no bath, and at first Barbara had looked with horror upon the
bath-house. She had become more reconciled to it of late, and, as it
was the only means of obtaining a hot bath, had tried to make the best
of it. It was a funny little place, entered by a narrow passage, at
one end of which there was a booking-office, and a swing door, where
you could buy a "season-ticket," or pay for each visit separately.
On one side of the passage there were rows of little bathrooms,
containing what Barbara thought the narrowest most uncomfortable baths
imaginable. A boy in felt slippers ran up and down, turning on the
water, and a woman sat working at a little table at one end--"to see
you did not steal the towels," Barbara declared. It was here she met
Alice Meynell, under the care of an old attendant, whom the girl said
she knew was a spy sent to report everything she said or did.
"Mademoiselle, who came with me to call the other day, has taken a
great dislike to you," Alice whispered hurriedly in passing; "and when
I asked if I might go to see you again, said, 'No, it was such a pity
to talk English when I was here to learn French.' I am _quite_
determined to run away."
The boy announced that the bath was ready, and the old attendant,
putting her watch on the table, said--
"Be quick, mademoiselle. Only twenty minutes, you know."
Before leaving the place, Barbara managed to get a moment's speech, in
which she begged Alice not to do anything until they met again, and
meanwhile she would try hard to think of some plan to make things
easier; for the girl really looked very desperate, and Barbara had so
often acted as the confidante of her own brother and sister that she
was accustomed to playing the part of comforter.
It seemed to her that if Alice wanted to run away, she had better do it
as well as possible, for the girl was wilful enough to try to carry out
any wild plan she might conceive. Barbara thought of many things, but
they all seemed silly or impossible, and finally got no further than
making up her mind to meet Alice again at the bath-house.
The events of the afternoon, moreover, put her countrywoman out of her
head for the time being, for she found what she had been longing for
ever since she came--a riding-master.
Mademoiselle Thérèse had long talked of taking her across the bay to
Dinard, to visit some friends there, but hitherto no suitable occasion
had been found. The delights of a boot and shoe sale, of which
mademoiselle had received notice, reminded her of her intentions of
showing Barbara "that famous seaside resort," and after an early lunch
they set out for Dinard.
"Business first," mademoiselle said on landing; "we will hasten to the
sale, and when I have made my purchases we will stroll into the park,
and then visit my friend."
"If you don't mind I will stay outside and watch the people," Barbara
proposed, on reaching the shop and seeing the crowds inside. "I won't
stray from just near the window, so you may leave me quite safely--and
it looks so hot in there."
Her companion demurred for a moment, but finally agreed, and Barbara
with relief turned round to watch the people passing to and fro.
Dinard seemed very gay and fashionable, she thought, and there was
quite a number of English and Americans there. Surely in such a place
one might find a riding-school. There was a row of _fiacres_ quite
close to the pavement, and, seized by this new idea, she hurried up to
one of the drivers and asked him if he knew of any horses to be hired
in the town.
She had feared her French might not be equal to the explanation, and
was very glad when he understood, and still more pleased to hear that
there was an excellent _manège_,[1] which many people visited. After
inquiring the name of the street, she returned to her shop window,
longing for mademoiselle to come out. Her patience was nearly
exhausted when that lady finally appeared, having bought nothing.
"I tried on a great many boots and some shoes," she explained, "and did
not care for any. Indeed, I really did not need new ones; but I have
seen samples of much of their stock."
In the midst of the intense satisfaction of this performance, the girl
brought her news of a riding-school, which evidently was not very
welcome to her companion. She had, as a matter of fact, known of the
existence of such a place, but did not approve of "equestrian exercise
for women "; moreover, she had pictured so much exertion to herself in
connection with the idea of riding lessons, that she had been very
undesirous of Barbara's beginning them, and had, therefore, not
encouraged the idea. But the secret of the school being out, she
resolved to make the best of it, and agreed to go round at once and see
the place.
They had little difficulty in finding it, and were ushered into an
office, where a very immaculate Frenchman received them, and inquired
how he could serve them. On hearing their errand he smiled still more
pleasantly, and in a few minutes everything was settled. Barbara was
to come over twice a week and have lessons, and, if she cared, might
begin that afternoon. The only drawback was that she had no skirt,
which, he assured her with a sweeping bow, he could easily remedy, for
he had an almost new one on the premises, and would think it an honour
to lend it to her.
He was politeness itself, and seemed not in the least damped by
Mademoiselle Thérèse's evident gloom. He conducted her up to the
gallery at one end of the school, and explained that she could watch
every movement from that vantage-point.
"It will be almost as good as having a lesson yourself, madame," he
said politely, twirling his fierce gray mustachios.
At the other end of the school was a large looking-glass, which he told
Barbara was to enable the pupils to observe their deportment; but she
noticed that he always stood in the middle of the ring, where he
watched his own actions with great pleasure.
The girl thought it a little dull at first, for she had been given an
amiable old horse who knew the words of command so well that the reins
were almost useless, and who ambled along in a slow and peaceful
manner. But Monsieur Pirenne was entirely satisfied with his pupil,
and he assured her, "if she continued to make such stupendous progress
in the next lesson, he would have the felicity of taking her out in the
following one."
At this Mademoiselle Thérèse shook her head pensively.
"Then I must take a carriage and follow you," she said.
Barbara laughed.
"Oh, dear, mademoiselle, do think how impossible that would be," she
explained, seeing the lady looked somewhat offended. "If we took to
the fields how could you follow us in a carriage? No; just think how
nice it will be to see so much of your friend while I am out."
This view of the case somewhat reconciled Mademoiselle Thérèse to the
idea, though her contentment vanished when she found that the wind had
increased considerably during the afternoon, and that the mouth of the
river was beginning to look a little disturbed.
They stood on the end of the quay, waiting the arrival of the
steamboat, and mademoiselle shook her head gloomily.
"It is not that I am a bad sailor, you know," she explained; "but, when
there is much movement, it affects my nerves and makes me feel faint."
Barbara looked steadfastly out to sea. She did not want to hurt
Mademoiselle Thérèse's feelings by openly showing her amusement.
"It is very unpleasant to have such delicate nerves," her companion
continued; "but I was ever thus--from a child."
"But at this time of year we shall not often have a stormy passage,"
comforted Barbara.
At that moment a gust of wind, more sudden than usual, playfully caught
Mademoiselle Thérèse's hat, and bore it over the quay into the water.
"My hat!" she shrieked. "Oh, save my hat!"
Barbara ran forward to the edge, but it had been carried too far for
her to reach even with a stick or umbrella.
"My hat!" mademoiselle cried again, turning to the people on the pier,
who were waiting for the ferry. "Rescue my hat--my _best_ hat!"
At this stirring appeal several moved forward and looked smilingly at
the doomed head-gear; and one kind little Frenchman stooped down and
tried to catch it with the end of his stick, but failed. Mademoiselle
grew desperate.
"If you cannot get the hat, get the hat-pins," she wailed. "They are
silver-gilt--and presents. Four fine large hat-pins."
Then, seeing that several people were laughing, she grew angry.
"And you call yourselves _men_, and Frenchmen! Can none of you swim?
Why do you stand there mocking?"
"It is such an ugly hat," an Englishman murmured near Barbara. "It
would be a sin to save such an inartistic creation."
"But she will get another just as bad," Barbara said, with dancing
eyes. "And--it is her best one!"
"Cowards!" mademoiselle cried again, leaning futilely over the quay.
"I tell you, it is not only the hat, but the hat-pins. Oh! to see it
drown before my eyes, and none brave enough to bring it back!"
This piece of rhetoric seemed to move one French youth, who slowly
began to unlace his boots, though with what object one could not be
quite sure.
"It is such a particularly ugly hat," the Englishman continued
critically. "Those great roses like staring eyes on each side, with no
regard for colour or anything else."
"But the colour won't be nearly so bright after this bath," Barbara
suggested; then added persuasively, "And really, you know, she took a
long time over it. Couldn't you reach it easily from that boat--the
ferry is so near now, and it would drive her distracted to see the
roses churned up by the paddle-wheels."
The Englishman looked from the agitated Frenchwoman to the blots of
colour on the water, that were becoming pale and shapeless; then he
moved lazily towards the boat. Just as he was getting into it he
looked back at Barbara.
"She won't embrace me--will she?" he asked. "If so----"
"Oh, no," Barbara assured him. "Hand it up to her on the end of the
oar."
"Well," he said, unshipping one, "it is against my conscience to save
anything so hideous. But the fault lies with you, and as you will
probably go on seeing it, you will have punishment enough."
A few minutes later Mademoiselle Thérèse received the sodden hat with
rapture, anxiously counting over the hat-pins, while the French youth,
with some relief, laced up his boot again.
"How noble!" mademoiselle exclaimed. "How kind! Your countryman too,
Miss Barbara! Where is he that I may thank him?"
"If you linger you will miss the ferry," Barbara interposed. "See,
here it is, mademoiselle," and her companion reluctantly turned from
the pursuit of the stranger to go on board, clasping her hat in
triumph. Barbara thought, as she followed her, that if the fastidious
rescuer had but seen her joy in her recovered treasure, he would have
felt rewarded for his exertions in saving a thing so ugly.
[1] Riding-School.