THE END OF THE STORY.
When the day for parting came Barbara found that it cost her many pangs
to leave them all--Mademoiselle Viré first and foremost, and the others
in less degree, for she had grown fond even of Mademoiselle Thérèse.
The latter lady declared she and her household were inconsolable and
"unhappy enough to wear mourning," which remark Barbara took with a
grain of salt, as she did most things that lady said.
But the two sisters and Marie all went to the station to say good-bye,
and each of them kissed her on both cheeks, weeping the while. Barbara
was not very fond of kisses from outsiders in any case, but "weeping
kisses," as she called them, were certainly a trial! What finally
dried Mademoiselle Thérèse's tears was to see the widower and his two
sons entering the station, each carrying a bouquet of flowers.
"So pushing of them," she murmured in Barbara's ear, and turned coldly
upon them; but the girl and her aunt were touched by the kindness, and
the former felt horribly ashamed when she remembered that more than
once in private she had laughed at the quaint little man and his ways.
Barbara heard her aunt muttering something about a "dreadful humbug"
once or twice, but she was very gracious to every one, and smiled upon
them all until the train left the station, when she sank back with an
air of relief and exclaimed, "Thank goodness! That's over--though, of
course, they meant it kindly."
"They are very kind," Barbara said, looking down at the three bouquets
on the seat. "I really don't deserve that they should be so kind."
"Probably not," Miss Britton returned calmly. "We sometimes get more
than our deserts, sometimes less, so perhaps things adjust themselves
in the end. I was really rather astonished not to see the bath-boy at
the station too--your acquaintance seems so varied."
"Yes, I have learned a great deal since I went there," Barbara said
thoughtfully; "and just at the end I felt I didn't want to come away at
all."
"I have no such feelings," her aunt remarked, though, perhaps, a little
thoughtfully also. But when they arrived at Rouen, the remembrance of
their pleasant time in Paris returned to them, and they both felt ready
for the delights of seeing a new town.
Apart from the information given by the Mortons Barbara felt already
familiar with the great churches and quaint streets, and for her Rouen
never quite lost the halo of romance that Mademoiselle Viré had endowed
it with.
It was to be connected with yet another story of the past, however,
before they left it, one which, for romance, was fully equal to
Mademoiselle Viré's, though its conclusion was so much happier.
It was the second day of their stay, and after a morning of wandering
about the town, both Barbara and her aunt were resting, the former on
the balcony in front of her room, the latter on the terrace in the
garden. Although a book was in her lap, Barbara was not reading, but,
with hands clasped behind her head, was idly watching the passers-by,
when suddenly laziness vanished from her attitude, and her gaze became
intent on the figure of some one who had just turned into the portico
of the hotel. She rose from the low chair, her eyes shining with
excitement.
"It certainly was he!" she said. "Now, Barbara--it is time for you to
eliminate yourself--you must lie on the couch and try to look pale."
She pulled down the window blind, ran into her room, and had hardly
settled herself upon the couch when, as she had expected, a maid came
up with a message asking her to go down to the terrace.
"Please tell Miss Britton I have a headache, and am lying down for a
little," Barbara said, congratulating herself upon the possession of
what had annoyed her considerably a short time before, though in an
ordinary way she would have scoffed at the idea of lying down for a
headache. A few minutes afterwards up came her aunt, looking very
concerned, and fearing lest they had been doing too much. Barbara's
heart smote her, but she told herself that she must be firm.
"I sent for you to come to see Mr. Morton, senior," Aunt Anne
explained. "Strangely enough, he arrived this morning in Rouen, and
has put up at another hotel."
"How nice. How very nice! I shall come down later, aunt. I expect I
shall be _quite_ all right shortly."
She had a little difficulty in persuading her aunt that it was not
necessary to stay beside her, but at last succeeded in doing so, and
gave a chuckle of joy when the door closed.
She had intended to go down to the garden later on, but, strange to
say, fell fast asleep, and did not awaken until the man tapped at her
door, saying the tea had been ordered for four o'clock, but now,
although it was half-past, madame had not returned, having gone along
the river bank, he believed, with monsieur. So Barbara hastily
descended and had tea--very much brewed--all by herself, and then
returned to her room to read.
She had finished her book, and was thinking of getting ready for
dinner, when Aunt Anne came in--quite a different Aunt Anne from the
one she knew, with all her decision fled. She fidgeted about for some
time, saying nothing of importance, then at last turned round and began
hastily--
"I did a very silly thing once long ago, Barbara, and to-day I have
done what I am afraid people may think still sillier--I have promised
to marry Mr. Morton."
Whereupon Barbara seized her rapturously. "Oh, aunt," she cried, "I'm
so glad, just gladder than of anything else I could have heard."
"It--it is a great relief, Barbara," she said unsteadily, "to have you
take it so. I--was afraid you might laugh. You know, it needs some
courage for a person of my age to do a thing like that. It is
different for a girl like you, but I could not have done it, had I not
felt that since he desired it so urgently, I ought to right the wrong I
had done him long ago."
"You can't help being very happy, aunt," said Barbara, "I'm sure, with
such a nice man as Mr. Morton. The only regret _I_ have is that you've
lost so much of the time----"
Then, seeing her aunt's face, she felt inclined to strike herself for
having spoken foolishly.
"Mr. Morton is in the garden," her aunt said after a moment. "It would
be nice if you went down and saw him." And Barbara sped away.
That interview was apparently entirely satisfactory, for Miss Britton,
enjoining them later, found Barbara had just issued an invitation in
her mother's name and that it had been accepted. "And, of course, you
will come too, aunt," the girl added.
There was one part in the arrangements that Barbara begged to be left
to her, and that was the letter home telling the news.
"You see, Aunt Anne," she said, "I naturally feel as if I had rather a
big share in the matter."
"I think surely it was Denys Morton's letter that brought me," Miss
Britton corrected; "but write if you like, Barbara." And, indeed, she
was rather glad to be relieved from the responsibility.