 CHAPTER X. THE AMERICAN PROTENTER. An invitation has come from Monsieur Dubois to visit them at Dull, Mademoiselle Therese exclaimed with pride, on opening her letters one morning. It is really particularly kind and nice of him. He includes you," he 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 Oire 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 Oire 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 Therese'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 neighborhood. That 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 Therese arrayed in her best, which always produced a feeling of wonderment in Barbara. The ladies certainly had not a French woman's usual taste, and her choice of colors was not always happy, though she herself was blissfully content about her appearance. I'm 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 Dull, 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 Therese 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 turning she had to make again and again till there seemed no possibility of making a mistake. After the first short distance you reached the high road Mademoiselle called after her as she left the carriage, so I have no fear about allowing you to go. It is a well trodden high road 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. That which Barbara mounted hastily, in case she should be called back, although the train had begun to move. Repeat your directions," her companions shrieked after her, and the girl with a laugh murmured to herself, turn to the right, then the left, by a large house, through a narrow lane, and voila, 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 Therese had given her no instructions. There was nobody near to ask. So after considering them both she decided to take the one that looked the 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 newcomer 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 dull. The man stared at her for a moment, then said she should go straight on, and would soon arrive at the high road. 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 two, 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 peddled her hardest she could not see any signs of a high road 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 dull at all. It seemed 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 out-distance him, but there did not appear to be much chance to that at the present. She was thankful to see a sharp descent in front of her and let herself go at a breakneck 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 more 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 panty 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 he said in loud, cheerful tones, "'Ah, here you are at last. I'm 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 alongside relief. "'I'm so very sorry,' she said at last. Please understand that I'm not in the habit of leaping down beside people like that. Only I've had this watch and change 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'm 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'd 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. For a 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 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 man was altarese will be distracted. Please, does this road lead to Dull?' "'Dull?' he repeated quickly. "'Yes, certainly. I am just going there, and—and intend to pass the night in the place. I am on a walking tour, and—if you don't mind walking, I know there's a shortcut 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 Tarese to be frightened by being any later than necessary,' she said, doubtfully. "'I really think that 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 someone who was almost an Englishman, and they talked gaily all the time, till the square tower of Dull 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 looked at his hat, and cried with surprise, back again, Monsieur, why, I thought she were half-way to Saint Molo 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 she 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. It was really 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.' Annie 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 Therese 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 that she had got out of her way a little and had found a kind American who helped her to find it, which explanation quite satisfied the party. The lawyer's chateau, 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 flights of steps to the terrace and across the polished floors. The salon, with its thick terracotta 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 Therese'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 Therese 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 to say, See what we can do, these are my friends. Poor Mademoiselle Therese. 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 was no one else nearby, her sister had once said dryly, and will argue with death when he comes to fetch her. At present the topic was books, 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 mind. 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 she 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-washed 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. Parblues, he said with a laugh, I should prefer the convent. There at least the religion is honest. But, with those ladies you mentioned, there is deceit. They pretend to be what they are not. Oh! But no, Mademoiselle 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 Anne-Anne goes to school, she shall not go to such. Meanwhile, I am content to keep her at home. So am I, mademois d'Obois. 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 like a man likely to make mistakes, then Alice Maynell 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. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI. BARBER TURNS PLOTTER. The day after her expedition to Dull, Barbara saw Alice Maynell again, and in rather a strange meeting-place, namely the public bath-house. The house in which the Loires 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 little rows of bathrooms, understanding 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 Maynell, under the care of an old attendant, whom the girl said she knew was a spy sent to report on everything she said or did. Manoiselle, who came with me to call the other day, has taken a great dislike to you. Alice whispered hurriedly and passing. And when I asked if I might go 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, Manoiselle, 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, but meanwhile she would try really 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 confidant 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 willful 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 at the time being, for she found what she had been longing for ever since she came, a riding-master. Manoiselle Therese had long talked of taking her across the bay to Denard to visit some friends there, but hitherto no suitable occasion had been found. The delights of a boot and shoe sale, of which Manoiselle had received notice, reminded her of her intentions of showing Barbara that famous seaside resort, and after an early lunch they set out for Denard. 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. Denard seemed very gay and fashionable, she thought, and there were quite a number of English and Americans there. Surely in such a place one might find a riding school. There was a row of fiakras 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 monnaige, or riding school, 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 barbers 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 it 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 she might begin that afternoon. The only drawback was that she had no skirt, which she assured her with a sweeping bow he could easily remedy, for he had an almost new one on the premises, and would think at an honour to lend it to her. He was politeness itself, and seemed not in the least amped by Mademoiselle Therese'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 lessons 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 at 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 Perren 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 Therese 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 Therese 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. It stood on the end of the key, wading 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 so much movement it affects my nerves and makes me feel faint. Barbara looked steadfastly out to sea. She did not want to hurt Mademoiselle Therese'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 Therese's hat, and bore it over the key 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 headgear, 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. There 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 key. 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 color or anything else. But the color 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 out by the paddle-wheels. The Englishwoman looked from the agitated Frenchman to the blots of color 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, handed 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 Therese received the sodden hat with rapture, anxiously counting over the hatpins, while the French youth, with some relief, laced up his boot again. How noble, Mademoiselle exclaimed, how kind! Your countrymen 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. CHAPTER XII of Barbara in Brittany by E. A. Gilley The next time Barbara went to the baths she chose the day and the hour at which Alice had told her she was usually taken, and was greatly pleased when she saw the girl waiting in the passage. But as soon as the old servant saw her she edged farther off with her charge, who lifted her eyebrows in a suggestive manner, as if to say, you see, my spy has been warned. It seemed as if it would be impossible to hold any conversation at all, but fortunately they were put into adjoining cubicles, and Barbara found a crack, which she enlarged with her pocket-knife. She felt as if she might be Guy Fox, or some such plotter from olden times, and wondered what he would have done if he really had been present. But having seen how difficult it was even to speak to Alice, she was afraid the girl would take things into her own hands and do something silly. Probably it was this feeling of urgency that stimulated her, and the vague ideas which had been floating in her brain suddenly crystallized, and a plan took shape which she promptly communicated to Alice. The latter she proposed should go to Paris, to the pastor's family at Newly, Barbara lending her the necessary money, for the girl was only given a very little at a time. From Paris she could ride to her father and explain things without any danger of having the letter examined or altered. The only and certainly most important difficulty in the carrying out of this plan was that there seemed no opportunity to escape except at night, and even then it would need great care to slip past Mademoiselle Eugenie, who slept at one end of the dormitory. Barbara did not like the night plan because it would mean climbing out of the window and wandering about in the dark, or supposing there were a train traveling to Paris, and either alternative was too risky for a girl in a foreign country who did not know her way about. Going up at the ceiling in perplexity over this new hitch, Barbara discovered a way out of it, for there was a glazed window not so high but that Alice could manage to climb up, and if she got safely out, this was another inspiration. She was to run to the widower's house and hide there till the time for a train to Paris. Once safely in that city Barbara felt it would be a weight lifted from her mind, for she really was not very happy at sharing in an enterprise which, even to her inexperience, seemed more fitted for some desperado than a sane English girl. Having begun, however, she felt she must go through with it to the best of her ability, and undertook to write to Newly to arrange with the widower's son and to bribe the bath-boy to give the girl the only cubicle with a window. As a matter of fact Barbara would have rather sent the girl to Mademoiselle V.A.'s, but the latter was so frail that the excitement might be injurious to her, and it was hardly fair to introduce such a whirlwind into her haven of peace. She had an opportunity of speaking to Jean that very day, for he had offered to give her some lessons in photography, and she was going to have her first one in the afternoon. The boy was quite delighted with the thought of having something to break the monotony of existence, and declared that it was an honour to share in any plan for the secure of the unoppressed. We will enclose her in the photographic cupboard, Mademoiselle, he said eagerly, so that none can see her. Oh, we will manage it well, I assure you. For aside, fearing she was doing almost as mean a thing as Marie, and was very doubtful as to what her mother and Aunt Anne would say when they heard of the adventure, I shall go to the look-out station and blow away these mysteries, she said to herself, when the photography lesson was over, and the very sight and smell of the sea made her feel better. The steamer from Denard had just unloaded its passengers, and was steaming hurriedly back again with a fresh load, when, among those who had landed, she noticed one that seemed not altogether strange to her. She drew nearer, and was sure of it, and the visitor turning round at the same moment, the recognition was mutual. It was the American pretender. I was just going to ask where Mademoiselle Loire lived, he said gaily, with the intent of calling upon you. How obliging of you to be here when the steamboat arrived! Barbara laughed. I often come here to look across at Dears St. Malo, and get the breeze from the sea, she explained. Besides, I like watching the fairies, they are so fussy, and the people in them too sometimes. But how did you get here? Not having met any more rash and runaway damsels whom I had to escort back to Dull, I succeeded in reaching St. Malo, and it is not unusual for visitors to go to Denard and St. Servant from there. But apart from that, he went on, I found out something so interesting that I thought I must call and tell you, being in the neighborhood. That was awfully nice of you, said Barbara, gratefully, and I'm so curious to hear. Please begin at once. You have plenty of time to tell me before we reach the house, and mademoiselle must excuse me talking just a little English. I think the occasion justifies it, he agreed, smiling, then added apologetically. I hope you won't mind it being a little personal. I told you I'd come to Europe with my uncle, didn't I? My father left me, to his care, when I was quite a little chap, and he has been immensely good to me. We are great friends, and always share things, when we can. He could not share this walking tour because he had business in Paris, but I write him long screeds to keep him up in my friends. In answer to the letter about our dull adventure, my uncle wrote back to say that he had known an English lady long ago called Miss Anne Britton, and he wondered if this were any relation. The name was rather uncommon. The American paused and looked at his companion. Please go on, she cried. It is so very exciting, and surely it must have been Aunt Anne. He knew her so well, the young man continued slowly, that he asked her to marry him, and she refused. Barbara drew her long breath. Oh! Fancy Aunt Anne having a romantic story like that. I should like to write an asker about it. But of course I can't, she might not like it. Then, turning quickly to the Americans, she added, I suppose your uncle won't mind your having told me, will he? The young man flushed. I hope not. He doesn't often speak of such things, and though I knew there had been something of the kind, I didn't know her name. Of course—he hesitated. Yes, said Barbara. Of course I know you will consider it a story to think about, and not to speak of. But I thought, as it was your aunt, it would interest you. It does. I'm very glad you told me, because it makes me understand Aunt Anne better, I think. Poor Aunt Anne, although perhaps you think your uncle is the one to be sorryest for. I'm going to join him in Paris tomorrow, he replied, a little irrelevantly. To Paris, to-morrow, echoed Barbara, the thought of Alice rushing into her mind. Oh, I wonder—it would be much better. I wonder if you could do me a favour. It would be such a relief to tell an English person about it. An American, he corrected, but perhaps that would do as well. I hope it is not another runaway bicycle. But it is just another runaway expedition, though not a bicycle, said the girl, and thereupon poured into his ears the story of Alice Maynell and her woes. At first he laughed, and said she was in danger of becoming quite an accomplished plotter, but as the story went on he grew grave. It is a mad idea, Miss Britton, he said. I'm sorry you were mixed up in the matter. Would it not have been better for you to write to the girl's father and tell him all this? Barbara looked vexed. How silly of me, she exclaimed. Do you know I never thought of that? And of course it would have been quite simple. It was foolish. Never mind now, he said consolingly, seeing how downcast she looked. I'm sure it must have been difficult to decide, and now that the enterprise is fairly embarked on, we must carry it through as well as possible. I think the station here would be one of the first places they would send to when they found she had gone, but we can cycle to the next one and send the machines back by train. She will be so much sooner out of St. Servant. Barbara agreed gratefully. She was glad that there would be no need for the dark cupboard, and felt much happier now that the immediate carrying out of the plan was in someone else's hands. So she fixed an approximate hour for the pretender to be ready next day, and then said good-bye. I will postpone my call on Mademoiselle Loire till another time, he remarked. I only hope that nothing will prevent that terrible young lady of yours getting off to-morrow. I hope not, sighed Barbara. She may not even manage to get to the bads at all. If so, we'll have to think of something else. Comte-a-g, com-rat, he said cheerily as he turned away. Perhaps we may yet want the cupboard. Barbara hoped not, although Jean was greatly disappointed when he heard of the alteration in the plans, and the only way the girl could console him was by telling him that, if she ever wanted to hide, she would remember the cupboard, which, she thought, was a very safe promise. CHAPTER XIII of Barbara and Brittany by E. A. Gilly read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER XIII. THE ESCAPE. The following day was damp and dark, and the weather showed no signs of improving, which was depressing for those who had great plans afoot. Man was el-teraze thought Barbara was showing signs of madness when she proposed going to the bads, and not a little annoyed when her disapproval failed to turn the girl from her purpose. Barbara had grave doubts about Alice being allowed to go, but she felt she, at least, must at all costs be there. She had time to remind the bath-boy of his bargain and to promise him something extra when next she came, if he were true to his word, and was just ready to return home when Alice arrived with the old maid. She succeeded in giving her a little piece of paper with some directions on it, but was able to say nothing, and after a mere nod left the bath-house. She was very curious to see where the window by which the girl was to escape opened, and going down the passage that ran along the side of the building found that it opened into a yard, which seemed the storehouse for old rubbish, a safe enough place to alight in. When she returned to the street she saw the pretender coming along, wheeling two bicycles, and her relief at seeing him was mingled with compunction at having given him such a lot of trouble. It really was rather cool to drag a comparative stranger into such a matter, even if his good nature had prompted him to offer his assistance. But somehow the mere fact of his talking English had seemed to do away with the need of formal introduction, and the knowledge that his uncle had known Miss Britain in bygone days would be a certificate of respectability sufficient to satisfy her mother, she thought. I am so sorry it's wet, she said. It makes it so much worse for you to be hanging about. It is hardly the day one would choose for a bicycle ride, he returned cheerfully, but like the conductors in Cook's tours I feel I have been chartered for the run, and weather must make no difference. But you should go straight home. It would be too conspicuous to have two people loitering about. I will let you know as soon as possible how things go, and if you don't hear till tomorrow it will mean we are safely on our journey. Barbara saw the wisdom of returning it once, but did so with reluctance, and finding that she was quite unable to give proper attention to her work, wrote a long letter home, relieving her mind by recounting the adventure in full. It was a good thing that the first plan, of hiding Alice in the neighboring house, had not been carried out. For about three-quarters of an hour later, Manoiselle Eugenie came hurrying up to see if the girl was with them, and on hearing she was not, at once proposed, with a suspicious glance at Barbara, that she should inquire with the next house. She asked the girl no questions, however, perhaps guessing that if she did know any things she would not be very likely to tell. It was Manoiselle Therese, who in the wildest state of excitement questioned everyone in the house, Barbara included, and the latter felt a little guilty when she replied that the last time she had seen the missing girl was in the baths. Before very long the bellman was going around proclaiming her loss, and describing the exact clothes she wore, and Barbara was afraid when she heard him that there would soon be news of her, for she had been wearing the little black hat and coat that all the girls at Manoiselle Eugenie's were dressed in. But the evening came, and apparently nothing had been heard of the truant. Manoiselle Loire and Marie did hardly any lessons, such was the general excitement in the house, but discussed instead the various possibilities in connection with the escape. Perhaps there was a little triumph in the hearts of the two elder women, for they had always felt rather jealous that Manoiselle Eugenie had more borders than they, even although they did not lay any claim to being a school. They would have given a great deal to be able to read Barbara's thoughts, but she looked so very unapproachable that they shrugged their shoulders and resigned themselves with whatever patience they could to wait. Barbara's anxiety was greatly relieved the next evening by letters which she received from both the pretender and Alice. The first wrote briefly and to the point. He said he had delivered the girls safely to the people at Newly, whom Alice had taken to, and that there seemed to be good stuff in her too, for he had given her some very straight advice about making the best of things, which she had not resented. Further, that Barbara in need have no more anxiety, as he had cable to her father to get permission for her to stay at Newly, in case of any trouble arising when it was discovered where she was. Barbara folded up the letter with a sigh of relief that the matter had gone so well thus far, and opened Alice's communication, which was largely made up of exclamation marks and dashes. She was very enthusiastic about Newly, and was sure she would be quite happy there, and that the heat would only make her feel at home. She had smiled with delight at intervals all day, she said, when she thought of the rage of Mademoiselle Eugenie and her futile efforts to trace her. She supposed a full description of her clothes had been given, but that would be no good, as the American had brought her a tweed cap and a cycling cape, and they had thrown her had away by the roadside. She concluded by saying that Mr. Morton had been very kind, although he did not seem to have a very high opinion of her character, and had given her enough grandfatherly advice to last her a lifetime, and made her promise to write to Mademoiselle Eugenie. Barbara tore up both letters, and then went out to visit Mademoiselle Vire, and relieved her mind by telling her all about it. It seemed so deceptive and horrid to keep quiet when they are discussing things and wondering where she is, she concluded, but she was to write to Mademoiselle Eugenie to-day, and I really don't feel inclined to tell her or the Loire's the share I had in it. I hardly think you need, my child, Mademoiselle Vire said, patting her on the shoulder. Sometimes silence is wisest, and of course you tell your own people. I do not know, indeed, if I had been young like you, that I should not have done just the same, and perhaps even if I had been Alice, I might have done as she did. Barbara laughed and shook her head. She could never imagine the elegant little Mademoiselle Vire conniving at anybody's escape, especially through a bath-house window. But it cheered her to think that the little lady was not shocked at the Excapade, and she went back quite fortified, and ready for supper in the garden with the widow or in his family, whom Mademoiselle Therese had been magnanimous enough to invite. End of CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV AWAY SIDE IN It was wonderful how quickly the excitement about Alice Maynell died down. Mademoiselle Therese went to call upon her former instructor, who told her, with evident reluctance, that the girl had gone to Paris with a friend who had appeared unexpectedly, and her father wished her to remain there for the present. Of course Mademoiselle Therese said, in retailing her visit, she will wish to keep it quiet. Such things are not good advertisement, and they will speak of it no more. I think indeed that Mademoiselle Eugenie will call here no more. She suspects that we helped to make the child discontented. I am thankful that we have no such unpleasant matters in our establishment. We have always had an excellent reputation. And the sisters congratulated each other for some time on the successful way in which they had always arranged matters for their borders. It was while her sister was still in this pleasant mood of self-satisfaction that Mademoiselle Loire proposed to go down to Saint-Sauveur, a little town about twelve miles away, and collect the rent from one or two houses they owned there. As Mademoiselle Therese talked English best, and had the care of the English visitors, she had most of the pleasant excursions, so that Barbara was quite glad to think the elder sister was now to have a turn. Marie always went to Saint-Sauveur with her aunt, as she had a cousin living in the town, with whom they usually dined in the evening, and an invitation was graciously given to Barbara to accompany them both. The girl often thought, in making these excursions here and there, how nice it would have been could she have shared them with her mother and the children, and then she used to make up her mind more firmly than ever that she would begin teaching French directly before she got home, so that some day she could help to give the pleasures to Frances that her aunt was giving to her. Donald had written on one occasion that in view of so many excursions he wondered when the work came in, to which she had replied that it was all work, as she had to talk in French hard the whole time. And indeed a day never passed without her getting in her lesson and some grammatical work, though it sometimes had to come before breakfast or after supper. On this occasion they were to start very early, as Mademoiselle Loire explained that they would stop for a little while at a wayside in, where an old nurse of theirs had settled down. It was therefore arranged to drive so far and take the train the rest of the way, and Barbara, who had heard a great deal about the carriage, pictured to herself a little pony and trap, and was looking forward to the drive immensely. What was her astonishment, therefore, when she saw drawn up before the door next day a little spring cart with a brown donkey in it? The carriage, she gasped, and hastily climbed into the cart lest Mademoiselle Loire should see her face. The all three sat close together in one backless seat, and drove gaily off, Mademoiselle Loire handling the ribbons, and all the little boys in the street shouting encouragement in the rear. The donkey went along at an excellent, though somewhat erratic pace, for every now and then he sprang forward with a lurch that was somewhat disconcerting to the occupants of the cart. The first time, indeed, that he did so, Barbara was quite unprepared, and after clutching wildly at the side of the cart and missing it, she subsided into the straw at the back, from which she was extricated by her companions amid much laughter. "'Would you prefer to sit between us?' Mademoiselle Loire asked her, when she was once more reinstated in her position. You would perhaps feel firmer.' "'Oh, no, thank you,' said Barbara hastily. I will hold on to the side now and be prepared.' "'He does have a rather queer emotion,' Mademoiselle Loire remarked complacently. But he's swift, and that is a great matter, and you soon get used to his leaps. I should think, she went on, looking at the donkey's long great ears critically, he would make a good jumper. "'I should think he might,' replied Barbara, subduing her merriment. "'I don't think our English donkeys jump much, as a rule, but the Brittany ones seem much more accomplished.' "'Undoubtedly,' her companion continued calmly. My sister says, when she was in England she tried to drive a donkey, and it backed the carriage into the ditch. They must be an inferior breed.' To which remark Barbara was powerless to reply for the time being. The drive was a very pretty one, and the donkey certainly deserved his driver's praises, for he brought them to the inn in good time. It was a quaint little place, standing close to the roadside, but in spite of the fact, looking as if it were not greatly frequented. As they drove up they saw an old woman sitting outside under a tree, reading a newspaper, but on hearing the sound of wheels she jumped up and ran to the gate. As soon as Mademoiselle Loire had descended she flung herself upon her, and Barbara wondered how the latter, who was sparing thin, supported the substantial form of her nurse. She had time to look about her, for her three companions were making a great hubbub, and as they all spoke together at the top of their voices it took some minutes to understand what each was saying. Then Barbara was remembered and introduced, and for a moment she thought the nurse was going to embrace her too, and wondered if it would be worse than a rush at hockey, but fortunately she was spared the shock, and instead was led with the others into a musty parlor. I am so pleased to see you, the landlady said, beaming upon them all, for so few people pass this way now the trams and the railway go the other route, and since my dear second husband died it has seemed quieter than ever. Here she shook her head dolefully, and dabbed her bright black eyes, where Barbara could see no trace of tears. Sundays are the longest days, the woman went on, trying to make her hopelessly plump and cheery face look pathetic, because I am so far away from church, but I read my little newspaper and say my little prayer and mention all your names in it, which Barbara knew was impossible, as she had never heard hers before that morning, and think of my little priest. Man was eluare nodded to show she was listening, and Marie hastily stifled a yawn. I call him mine, the landlady explained, turning more particularly to Barbara, because he married me the last time, and my second husband the first time. Barbara thought of the guessing story about a blind beggar had a son, and decided she would try to find out later exactly whom the priest had married, for the explanation was still going on. Of course therefore he took an interest in his death, and the widow's voice grew pathetic, so he always keeps an eye on me and sends me little holy newspapers over which I always shed a tear. My second husband always loved his newspaper so, and his coffee. The word coffee had a magical effect, and her face becoming wreathed in smiles again, she sprang to her feet in a wonderfully agile way, considering her size, and ran to a cupboard in the corner, calling loudly for a maid as she went. You must have thirst, she exclaimed, terrible thirst and hunger, but I will give you a sip of a favorite beverage of mine that will restore you instantly. And she placed upon the table a black bottle, which proved to be full of cold coffee sweetened to such a degree that it resembled syrup. Poor Barbara, she was not very fond of hot coffee unsweetened, so that this cold concoction seemed to her most sickly. But she managed to drink the whole glassful, except a mouthful of extreme syrup at the end, though feeling afterwards that she could not bear even to look at coffee-caramels for a long time. They sat some time over the refreshments provided for them, and their donkey was stabled at the inn to await their returning in the evening. Then bidding a temporary adieu to their hostess, they went on to the town by the train. Mademoiselle Loire went at once to get her rent, which she explained always took her some time, for the people were not good at paying, and left the girls to look at the church, which was a very old one. After they were rejoined by Mademoiselle they strolled along to Marie's relations. The husband was a seller of cider, which, Marie explained to Barbara, was quite a different occupation from keeping an inn, and much more respectable. Both he and his wife were very hospitable and kind, and especially attentive to the English miss. It was quite a unique experience for her, for they dined behind a trellis-work at one end of the shop, and during the whole of dinner either the father or daughter was kept jumping up to serve the customers with cider. The son was present, too, but no one would allow him to rise to serve anybody, for he was at college in Paris, and had taken one of the first prizes in France for literature. It was quite touching to see how proud his parents and sister were of him, and he seemed to Barbara to be wonderfully unspoiled, considering the attention he received. It seemed to her fate to have strange food offered her that day, and when the first dish that appeared proved to be stewed eels, Barbara began to dread what the rest of the menu might reveal. Fortunately, there was nothing worse than beans boiled in cream, though it was with some relief that she saw the long meal draw to a close. Coffee and sweet-meats were served in a room upstairs, in which all the young man's prizes were kept, and which were displayed with most loving pride and reverence by the mother and sister, while the owner of them looked on rather bashfully from a corner. The young man was one of the type of Frenchmen who wear their hair cut and brushed the wrong way, like a clothesbrush. Barbara was beginning to divide all Frenchmen into two classes according to their fraîchure, those that wore their hair brush fashion, and those that had it long and oiled, sometimes curled. This latter sometimes allowed it to fall in locks upon their foreheads, tossing it back every now and then with an abstracted air and easy grace that fascinated Barbara. They were usually engaged in the fine arts, and she could never quite decide whether the hair had been the result of the profession or vice versa. After talking for some time, Barbara had her first lesson in écarte, which she welcomed gladly as helping keep her awake. Then the whole family escorted their visitors to the station, where they stood in a row and waved hats and hands for a long time after the train had left. It was getting rather late when they reached the little inn once more, and Barbara was thankful that she had the excuse of a substantial dinner to fall back upon when she was offered more of the landlady's pleasant beverage. When the good-byes had been said it was growing dark, and the girl, thinking of their last adventurous drive, wondered if man was a l'orey was any more reliable. However, after the first mile she cast dignity aside and begged to be allowed to sit down in the hay at the back of the cart and go to sleep, either the eel or her efforts to make herself agreeable having created an overpowering desire for slumber, and she was still dreaming peacefully when they drove into Saint Servant and rattled up the narrow street to their own door. End of CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. THE STRIKE. It was now the beginning of August, and just grilling, as Donald would have expressed it. It seemed almost as difficult to Barbara to leave the sea as it is to get out of bed on a winter morning. It must be so very nice to be a mermaid in summer, she said, looking back at the water, as she and Marie went up the beach one morning. Yes, returned Marie, if they had short hair, it must take such a lot of combing. Marie was not so enthusiastic about bathing as her companion. Perhaps her want of enthusiasm was due to the fact that she was not allowed to bathe every day, because it took up so much time that might be devoted to her studies. At first Man was el-terres had tried to persuade Barbara that it would be much better for her to go only once or twice a week too. There are so many English at the plage, she complained, that I know you will talk with them, and it is a pity to come to France to learn the language and waste your time talking with English, whom you can meet in your own country. But I won't talk with them, Barbara had assured her. You know how very careful I have been always to speak English, even when I could hardly make myself understood. The girl's eyes twinkled, for Mademois el-terres had a mania for speaking English whenever possible, and at first had always used that language when with her pupil, until Barbara had asked her if she had got so accustomed to speaking English that it was more familiar to her than French. Since then, she only used English in public places, or when she thought English people were near. It is such a good advertisement, she explained complacently. You never know what introductions it may make for you. Barbara had used the same argument in favor of bathing every day, that had prevailed, though she had really been very particular about speaking French, not I fear from the desire of pleasing Mademois el-terres, but because the thought of the home people and what she meant to do for them. I can't understand how you can bear riding in this weather, Marie remarked, as they toiled slowly home in the sun. It would kill me to jog up and down on a horse in a sun as hot as this. Not when you're accustomed to it, Barbara assured her. You would want to do it every day, then. I'm going to ride to St. Lunaire this afternoon. Then Aunt Therese won't go for the walk after supper. What a happiness! Marie cried, for Mademois el-Lawari was not so strict as her sister. The latter had grown quite reconciled to her journeys to Dinard now, and as a matter of fact was looking forward with regret to the time they must cease. She found the afternoons in the casino gardens with her friend very pleasant, and came back each time full of ideas for altering everybody's clothes. As she was not permitted to do, however, for Mademois el-Lawari had an unpleasant remembrance of similar plans on a previous occasion, which had resulted in many garments being unpipped, and then left in a dismembered condition until Marie and she had laboriously sewed them up again. This particular afternoon Mademois el-Terese was in a very complacent mood, having just retrimmed her hat for the second time since its immersion, and feeling that it was wonderfully successful. If I had not been acquainted with the English language, and had so many pressing offers to teach it, she said, as they were walking up to the riding school, I should have made a wonderful success as a modiste. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if it might not have been less trying work. That would depend on the customers, wouldn't it? Barbara returned, but did not hear a reply, for she had caught sight of Monsieur Perren at the menage-door, and knew that he did not like to be kept waiting. Mademois el-Terese always waited to see them mounted, feeling that thereby she ensured a certain amount of safety on the ride. Moreover, there was a ceremony about the matter that appealed to her. Monsieur Perren always liked to mount Barbara in the street, and before getting on to his own horse, he lingered a while to see that there were a few people present to witness the departure, for like Mademois el-Terese he had a great feeling for effect. After seeing Barbara safely up, he glanced carelessly round, flicked a little dust from his elegantly cut coat, twirled his moustachios, and leaped nimbly onto the saddle, without the help of the stirrup. A flutter of approval went round the bystanders, and Mademois el-Terese called out a parting word of warning to Barbara, just to show she was connected with the couple before they moved on. Their progress down the street was as picturesque as Monsieur Perren could make it, for whatever horse he might be on he succeeded in making it carole and carvet, saying it intervals with a careless smile. Not too near Mademois el, Manon is not to be trusted. I believe he would do the same on a rocking horse, Barbara had once written home, but she admired and liked him in spite of these little effectations, admired him for his skill in horsemanship, and liked him for his patience as a master. This ride was one of the nicest she had yet had, as the road, being bordered for a great part of the way by the links, made capital going. It was when they had turned their faces homeward and were just entering the town that something very exciting happened. They had fallen into a walk, and Barbara was watching the people idly, when she recognized, among the passers-by, the face of the solicitor of Newly. She felt sure it was he, although he was just turning down a side street, and after the shock of surprise she followed her first impulse, and putting her horse at a gallop dashed after him. Monsieur Perren, who was in the middle of saying something, received a great fright, and wondered whether she or the horse had gone mad. He followed her at once, calling after her anxiously, Pull up, mademoiselle, pull up! You will be killed!" The solicitor did not see her, but just before she reached him he stepped onto a passing tram, and was whirled away, and before Barbara had decided whether to pursue an electric tram or not, Monsieur Perren had reached her side and had seized her reins. He looked really frightened and annoyed, too, but when Barbara told him that the horse had only been running in accordance with the will of her mistress, he composed himself a little, merely remarking that it was hardly come ill foe to gallop in the streets like that. But, Monsieur Perren, Barbara said eagerly, I know you would have done the same if you had known the story, and therewith she began to tell it to him. He was immensely interested, for there is nothing a Frenchman enjoys more than an adventure, and at the end of the tale he was almost as excited as she was. Could we trace him now? He questioned eagerly. But I fear the chance is small, the description is so vague, and you did not even see the name on the tram, and we have no proofs. Yet, mademoiselle, if you will go to the prefecture with me, I will do my best. But Barbara shook her head decidedly. The thought of police courts, especially the French ones, alarmed her, and the warnings she had received, to keep out of any more complications, were still very fresh in her mind. I think I should rather not go to the prefecture, monsieur, she said quickly. I do not think it would be any good, either. I agree with you perfectly, and Monsieur Perren bowed gallantly. Therefore shall we proceed on our way? Was mademoiselle regret that she did not catch him? he asked after a while. I am sorry he is not caught, but I am not sorry I did not catch him, though that seems rather contradictory, doesn't it? By which mademoiselle means that she does not know what she would have done with one hand on the miscreant's collar, the other on the reins, and a crowd around her, the Frenchman inquired politely. That's just it, laughed Barbara. You have exactly described it, though I should be glad if someone caught him and made him give back the money. I will keep my eyes open on your behalf, and shall let you know if anything happens," he said sympathetically, and Barbara, remembering his kindness, did not like to remind him that, never having seen the man, he could not possibly be of much service to her. When mademoiselle Therese heard that she had seen the solicitor again, she was almost as excited as Barbara had been, and it once proposed that they should spend the rest of the evening in Dynard looking for him, and it was not until the girl pointed out that he might now be on his way to England, or a long way off in another direction, that she became reconciled to returning home. Excitement seemed in the air that evening, and when they arrived at the St. Servant Key there were more idlers than usual. They wondered what was the cause, and when mademoiselle Therese, with her customary desire to get at the bottom of everything, asked the reason, she was told that the strike among the timber-yard men, which had been threatened for some time, had begun that afternoon, and that work was suspended. It was all the more astonishing because it had come so suddenly, and Barbara could hardly tear mademoiselle away from the spot until she suggested that those at home might not have heard of it yet, and that she might be the first to tell it to them. Hurrying through the town, they heard great shouting from the other side of the key, which made mademoiselle nearly break into a run with eagerness. As it happened, however, news had already spread to their street, and they found mademoiselle Loire equally anxious to tell the newcomers what she knew of the matter. As it was the first strike for many years, the townspeople looked upon it with a strange mingling of pride and fear. It was stirred up by an agitator called Mars, and had broken out simultaneously in other ports, too. More gendarmes were sent for in case of need, though mademoiselle Loire said it was hoped matters might be arranged amicably by a meeting between masters and men. They were still discussing the subject when a loud shouting was heard, and they all ran to a disused bedroom in the front of the house and looked out. A crowd of men, marching in fours, were coming up the street, led by one beating a drum, and another carrying a dirty banner with liberté, equality, fraternité upon it. Barbara's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she felt almost as if she were back in the times of the Revolution, for they looked a rather fierce and vicious crew. They are some of the strikers, mademoiselle Therese cried. We must withdraw our heads from the windows in case the men get annoyed with us for staring. But she promptly leaned still further out, and began making loud remarks to her sister on the disgracefulness of such behaviour. You will be heard, mademoiselle Loire returned, shaking her head at her sister. You are a silly woman to say such things so loudly when the strikers are marching beneath. But the remonstrance had no effect, and the sight of all the other windows in the street full of spectators encouraged and inspired mademoiselle Therese, and made her long for fame and glory. It is ridiculous of the mayor to allow such things, she said loudly, with an evident desire to be heard. The men should be sharply dealt with and sent back to their work. The result of her words was unexpected. For several of the crowd, annoyed at the little serious attention they had hitherto received, and worked up to considerable excitement by the shouting and drumming, began to pick up stones and fling them at the house. At first they were merely thrown against the house, then, the spirit of mischief increasing, they were sent with better aim, and one crashed through the window above mademoiselle Therese's head. We shall all be killed, shrieked her sister, and just because of your meddling ways, Therese. But she called to deaf ears, for now mademoiselle Therese, enjoying notoriety, kept popping her head in and out of the window, dodging the stones and shouting out threats and menaces, which were returned by the crowd, till at last mademoiselle Loire cried out pitifully that someone must go and fetch the widower. One man even might be a protection, she moaned, though how and whether against her sister or the strikers did not seem very clear to Barbara. But as that seemed to be mademoiselle Loire's one idea, and as Marie and the maid-servants were all crying in a corner, she thought she had better fetch him. Running downstairs and across the garden, she climbed over the wall by the wood-pile, and boldly knocked at the widower's back door, thereby frightening him not a little. He came very cautiously along the passage, and inquired in rather shaking tones who was there. As soon as Barbara had assured him that this was not an attack in the rear, he flung open the door and welcomed her most cordially. Barbara wondered where he had been not to have heard mamoiselle Loire's wailings, and suspected that perhaps he had heard them, and had retired hastily in consequence. He certainly looked a little depressed when he received the message, which was to the effect that he should come and address the crowd from the Loire's window and bid it to proceed on its way. I think, he said pensively, after some moment's consideration, that if I am to go at all I had better go out by my own front door and speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen to me there, than if they thought I was one of mamoiselle Loire's household. That is very brave of you, monsieur, Barbara said, and the little man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as he certainly was rather timid by nature. If you are going out to face that mob, says Jean, drawing himself up, I will accompany you. Noble boy, cried the little man, embracing him, we will live or die together. Come!" and off they went, while Barbara hurried across the garden and over the wall again, not wishing to miss the spectacle in the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and as it took her some time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression, for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loire's had not heard much either. But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight, and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door. Enter! Mademoiselle Loire cried. Enter our preserver, our rescuer! And as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle Therese seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her part by the sun, and as they all spoke at once, there was almost as much noise in the house as previously there had been outside. Our noble preserver, what do we not owe to you? shouted Mademoiselle Therese, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear. Facing the mob like a lion at bay, one man against a thousand. Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical imagination must be allowed free play. He stood there as calmly as in church, Marie interpolated, though she knew that the widower never went there, with a cool smile playing about his lips. It was a beautiful sight. Barbara regretted exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had missed it. Compliments continued to fly for some time, like butterflies in June. Then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just assuring herself that the widower's arms did seem to be all right, when he turned round and seizing both her hands began to shake them as violently as his had been shaken a few minutes before. Barbara was much bewildered, not knowing what she had done to deserve this tribute, and wondering if the widower were doing it out of a spirit of revenge and a desire to make somebody else's hands as tired as his own. But one glance at his glowing, kindly face dispelled that idea. Barbara concentrated all her attention on the best way to free herself and avoid going through a similar ordeal with all the others, which, she began to fear, might be her fate. She escaped it, however, for Mademoiselle Oary had hastened away to bring up some wine from the cellar, in honour of the occasion, and they were all invited into the salon to drink to each other's health before parting. The widower was called upon to give a speech, to which Mademoiselle Therese replied at some length, without being called upon, and it was getting quite late before the two noble preservers retired to their own home. When they had gone, Mademoiselle Oary suggested that all danger might not yet be passed, and as the men might return again later, she thought it would be wiser to make preparations. So the two frightened maid-servants being called into assist, the shutters were closed before all the windows, and heavy furniture dragged in front of them. When this was done, and all the doors bolted and barred, Mademoiselle Therese proposed to take turns in sitting up and keeping watch. Barbara promptly vetoed the motion, declaring she was going to bed at once, and as no one else seemed inclined to take the part of a sentinel they all retired. I hope we may be spared to see the morning light, Mademoiselle Therese said solemnly. I feel there is great risk in our going to bed in this manner. Then why don't you sit up, sister, Mademoiselle Oary said crossly, for the last hour or two had really been very tiring. But to this her sister did not deign to reply, and taking up her candle went up to bed. When Barbara gained the safe precincts of her own room, she laughed long and heartily, and longed that Donald or Francis could have been there to see the meeting between rescuer and rescued. In spite of their fears of evil they all spent a peaceful night, the only result of their careful barricading being that it made the servants cross, as they had to restore things to their places. The town was apparently quiet enough, too, though Mademoiselle Therese would not allow anyone to go out in case of riot, and when the additional gendarmes came in the evening there was little for them to do. It was supposed that the men and employers had come to some understanding and that the strikers would soon return to their work. But you see, Mademoiselle Therese said to Barbara, how easily a revolution arises in our country, with a little more provocation there would have been barricades and the guillotine just as before. But while the widower and his son lived so near to us, Barbara replied, we need surely have no fear. And though Mademoiselle Therese looked at her sharply, the girl's face was so sedate that the lady supposed she was treating the matter with seriousness. CHAPTER XVI. Barbara plays detective. The morning lesson was over, and Mademoiselle Therese had betaken herself to Barbara's couch, which the girl knew always meant that she was going to make her an indefinite visit, and tell her some long story. This time it was about her visit to England, and what she had done when teaching there, and as Barbara had heard it all before more than once, it was a little difficult to show a proper interest in it. Yes, Mademoiselle went on, it was a time full of new experience for me, by which I hope I profited. I got on extremely well with your country-women, too, and the girls all loved me, and indeed so did your countrymen, for I received great many offers of marriage while there. I grew weary of refusing them, and was so afraid of hurting their feelings. But one cannot marry every one, can one? Certainly not, Mademoiselle, Barbara returned gravely. It would be most unwise. That is just what I felt. Now, the German Frauline, Barbara sighed, wondering if it were the tenth or eleventh time she had heard the tale of the German Frauline. But before she had decided the point there was a knock at the door, and the maid-servant brought up the message that Mademoiselle was wanted below by a visitor. She rose at once, shook out her skirt, and patted her hair. That is just the way, she said, I am never allowed much time for rest. You would not believe how many people seek me to obtain my advice. I will return in a few minutes and finish my story. When she had gone, Barbara looked longingly at the couch. It was such a hot day, and the lesson had been a long one, but she was afraid it was not much good to settle down with the promise of the story hanging over her head. The result proved she was right, for very soon Mademoiselle Therese came hurrying back again, full of smiles and importance. The landlady of the inn, O-Jacques Cartier, wished her to go there, she said, to act as interpreter between herself and an Englishman, who could speak hardly any French. Would Barbara like to come, too? Thinking it might be entertaining, Barbara got ready hastily and ran down to join Mademoiselle Therese and the landlady, who had come in person to better make clear matters. This Englishman and his son, she explained as they went along, have only been with us a day or two, but already we wish them to go, yet cannot make them understand. Of course I do not wish to hurt his feelings, but now in August I could let the room twice over to people who would be much less trouble, and whom the other guests would like better. But what is wrong with these, asked Mademoiselle Therese critically, I must know all the affair or I cannot act in it. She drew herself up very straight, and Barbara wondered if she were thinking of Portia in the Merchant of Venice. Well, this gentleman asked for a bath every morning, the landlady replied in an injured tone, and after we procured for him a nice little washing-tub with much trouble he said it was too small. That is not sufficient reason to send him away, and Mademoiselle Therese shook her head. No, but then he cannot understand what goes on at Tableaut, and he and his son are such silent companions that it casts a gloom over the rest. Of course, with an apologetic glance at Barbara, some Englishmen are very nice to have, but this one, she shook her head as if the matter were quite beyond her, this one I do not like, and perhaps without hurting his feelings, you, Mademoiselle, could make quite clear to him that he must go. By this time they had arrived at the hotel, which was close to the Rosalba bathing-place, and overlooked that little bay. Barbara, thinking the interview would be a delicate one, and that she would, but add to the unpleasantness of the situation, said she would wait in the orchard till she was called. From it one could get a beautiful view across the river Rance, to the wooded slopes beside Dinard, and finding a seat beneath a lime-tree Barbara sat down. She had been there about a quarter of an hour, and was almost asleep, when she heard stealthy footsteps coming across the grass beside her, and the next moment her startled eyes fell upon the solicitor's son of newly remembrance. She got rather affright at first, but he certainly got a much worse one, and before he had recovered it flashed across her mind quite clearly that the man who was, at that moment, talking to Mademoiselle Therese, was the solicitor himself. Before she could move from her place the son had cast himself down on his knees, and was begging her incoherently to spare him and his father, not to inform against them. The thought of going to prison, he said, would kill him, as it had his mother, as it nearly had his sister, and if she would spare them he would take his father away at once. To see the boy crying there, like a child, almost made Barbara give way and let things go as they liked, but then she remembered how meanly his father had cheated the people in New Lee, a widow's family, too, and what a life he seemed to have let his own wife and children. Then, calling to mind his horrid manner and cruel, sensuous face, she steeled herself against him. I shall certainly inform against your father, she said gravely, and I think the best thing that you and your sister can do is to get away at once, before it is too late. The boy rung his hands. My sister has gone already, he moaned, to some scotch relations. Simple people, who said they would take her in if she would have nothing more to do with our father. But I could not go. There was money only for one. Barbara looked at the pathetic figure before her, and suddenly forgot all her promises not to get entangled in any more plots or other dangerous enterprises, and almost before she realized what she was doing, she was scribbling a message in French on the back of an envelope. From where they stood they could see the little house of Mademoiselle Vire and the entrance to the lane in which it stood. Pointing out the roof of the house to her companion, she told him to run there with the note, and if the people let him in to wait until she came. She felt it was a very bold and perhaps an impertinent thing to do, but she was almost sure that Mademoiselle Vire would do as she asked. As soon as she saw him so far on his way she ran to the inn and went through the kitchen where a maid was cooking. Bring your master to me as quickly as possible, the girl said peremptorily. You need not be afraid, seeing that the woman, not unnaturally, looked upon her with suspicion. I will touch nothing, and the quicker you come back the better I shall be pleased. The maid eyed her doubtfully for a few minutes, then shrugged her shoulders and ran out of the room. Her master would at least be able to get rid of this obnoxious stranger, she thought. He came quickly enough, with an anxious expression on his rosy face, and Barbara had to tell the story twice or thrice before he seemed to understand. It was rather unpleasant work telling a foreigner about the evil deeds of a fellow countryman, but it seemed the right thing to do, though the thought of it haunted the girl for some time. When once the landlord understood matters he acted very promptly, sending someone for the police, and then with a telegram to Newly. He said he had had his doubts all along, because the gentleman had seemed queer, and the people sleeping next to him had complained that there was sure he beat his son, for they used to hear the boy crying. The landlord then went down into the hall to wait until Mademoiselle Therese's interview was over, and Barbara, leaving a message to the effect that she had grown tired and had gone on, ran back to their house. Having succeeded in entering unobserved, she got her purse and hurried off to Mademoiselle Vire. The old maid looked at her with a mingling of relief and curiosity, but was much too polite to ask any questions. The young man is here, she said, and led the way into the little dining room where her mistress was sitting opposite the boy with a very puzzled face, but doing her best to make him take some wine and biscuit. Mademoiselle Vire had always appeared to Barbara as the most courteous woman she had ever met, and in presence of the frightened, awkward youth her gracious air impressed the girl more than ever. Knowing that he could not understand French she told his story at once, and her listener never showed by glance in his direction that he was the subject of conversation. They both came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to go to St. Molo and take the first boat to England. It left in the evening about seven, so that by next morning he would be safe at Southampton. Then Barbara said, in the way she had been want to advise Donald, I think you should go straight to your sister and take counsel with her as to what you should do. I will lend you money enough for what you need. You are kind, the boy said, with tears in his eyes. I'll pay you back as soon as I get any money, as soon as ever I can, I do promise you, if I only get safely to England. He had such a pitiful, frightened way of looking over his shoulder as if he expected to see his father behind him all the time that Barbara's wrath against the man arose anew, and she felt she could not be sorry whatever his punishment might be. Good-bye, she said kindly, I must go away now. I think when you arrive in England you might write to Mademoiselle Vire and say you arrived safely. I shall be anxious till I hear. The boy almost embarrassed Barbara by the assurances of his gratitude, and she breathed more freely when she got into the open air. How glad I ought to be that Donald isn't like that, she thought, the remembrance of her frank, sturdy brother rising in vivid contrast in her mind. When she got back, Mademoiselle Therese was enjoying herself thoroughly, recounting the adventure to her own household and to the widower and his sons, whom she had called in to add to her audience. She described the whole scene most graphically and with much gesticulation, perhaps also with a little exaggeration. The anger of the man when he found he must accompany the officers was Herculean, she said, casting up her eyes. He stormed, he raged, he tore his hair. Barbara remembered him almost as quite bald, and he insisted that his son must come too. How mean! the girl cried indignantly. But the son, Mademoiselle paused, and looked round to her The son, she concluded, in a thrilling whisper, had gone, fled, disappeared. One moment he was there, the next he was nowhere, whereupon the papa was still more angry, and with hasty words gave an exact and particular description of him in every detail. He must be caught, he shouted, he must keep me company. Such a father! Mademoiselle rolled her eyes wildly. Such an inhuman monster repelled me, and I fled. Barbara, feeling as if they should applaud, looked round vaguely to see if the others were thinking of beginning, but at that moment she was overpowered by Mademoiselle Therese suddenly flinging herself upon her and kissing her on both cheeks. This, she said solemnly, holding Barbara with one hand and gesticulating with the other, this is the one we must thank for the capture. She directed the landlord. Her brains planned the arrest. She will appear against him in court. Oh, no! Barbara cried in distress. I really can't do that. They have telegraphed for Mademoiselle's son from Nulee. He will do. I really should not appear in court. But you can speak French quite well enough now. You need not mind about that. And it will be quite an event to appear in court. It is not every girl of your age you can do that. Mademoiselle spoke almost enviously, but the idea was abhorrent to Barbara, who determined if possible to avoid such an ordeal. The next afternoon they had a visit from one of Madame Belvois's sons, who had come across to see what was to be done about the solicitor. Barbara was very glad to see him, for it brought back remembrances of the first happy fortnight in Paris. It was rather comforting to know, too, that the result of one of the plots she had been concerned in had been satisfactory, for the news about Alice was good. She was getting on well with French, and all the Belvois liked her very much. The American gentleman had been to see her twice, and her father had not only given her permission to stay, but had written to Mademoiselle Eugenie to that effect, and was coming over himself to see her. CHAPTER XVII. A MEMORY AND A MANOIS. No amount of wishing on Barbara's part could do away with the necessity for her appearing in court, and the ordeal had to be gone through. If I were a novelist now, she said ruefully to Mademoiselle Therese, I might be able to make some use of it. But as I am just a plain, ordinary person, her chief consolation was that the boy had written saying he had joined his sister, and that he had never been so happy in his life. He was going to be a farmer, he said, and Barbara wondered why, of all occupations, he had fixed upon one that appeared to be so unsuitable. But as a proof of his good intentions, poor boy, he had sent her ten shillings of the money she had lent him, and promised to forward the rest as soon as he could. It was some comfort, also, as Mademoiselle Vire pointed out, that the man would be safely out of the way of doing further harm for the present. Barbara quite agreed with her, but thought that she would have felt the comfort more if someone else had played her part. But when the whole unpleasant business was over, and Barbara had vowed that nothing would ever prevail upon her to go into court again, even if it were to receive sentence herself, she sought out Mademoiselle Vire, with a proposal to do something to take away the bad feeling. Make music, the little lady said. That is, I think, the only thing I can offer you, my child. Music is very good for bad feelings. Yes, oh yes it is, but this is something I have been wanting for a long time, and now I feel it is the right time for it. Dear Mademoiselle Vire, will you come for a drive with me? A delicate flesh colored the old lady's cheeks, and Barbara watched her anxiously. She knew she was very poor, and could not afford to do such things for herself, and she was too frail to walk beyond the garden, but she also greatly feared that she might have made the offer in a way to hurt her friend's feelings. The little lady did not answer for some time, then she looked into the eager face before her and smiled. If I said I would go, where could you get a carriage to take us? Oh, I have found out all about that, the girl replied joyfully. I shall not ask you to go in a donkey cart, nor yet in a fiacra. I have found out quite a nice low chaise and a quiet pony that can be hired, and I will drive you myself. It took only a little consideration after that, and then Mademoiselle gave her consent to go next day if it were fine. If Jeanette would care to come, Barbara said, before leaving, and the old woman, who had been sitting very quietly in her corner while the arrangements were being made, looked at her mistress with a beaming face, and read her pleasure in the plan before she spoke. I am so glad you thought of her, Mademoiselle Viree whispered, as she said good-bye to her visitor, for though, of course, I should never have asked you to include her, yet she has been so patient and faithful in going through my sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair she should share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieve to leave her at home on such a day. Barbara had one more invitation to give, which went rather against the grain, and that was to Mademoiselle to raise, whom she felt she could not leave out, but she was unfainably glad when the lady refused, on the score of too much English correspondence. The following day, being gloriously fine, they started for the drive in great contentment, going by Mademoiselle Viree's choice towards La Guimouraise, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast. The pony was tractable and well-behaved, and they rolled along slowly under the shady trees and passed the old farms and cottages. Mademoiselle Viree's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while Jeanette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap. Just before reaching La Guimouraise the road branched off towards a lonely manoir, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse. Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared foregarden nor ruined beauty could destroy. May we go close, quite close to it, Mademoiselle Viree asked, and Barbara turned the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the high gray walls. The master once, the servant now, but still noble, the old lady whispered, as her eyes, wondering lovingly over it all, lingered at last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild, through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in the little lady's own garden. But Barbara, noticing the longing look, slipped out and gathered a handful. The farmer would spare you those, I think, Madame, if it pleases you to have them. He would surely spare them to me, Madame repeated, and buried her face in the fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap. Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish, she said. She was silent till they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with a backward look at the Manois, I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and a well-beloved friend. They are both in paradise now, and I hope by God's good grace and the intercessions of our lady I am nearer them each year. Her face was perfectly serene, but poor Jeanette's was all puckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As for Barbara, she did not speak for a time. The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses dropped together beside the sea, which sang to them for ever. Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air, Manois Elvire said, as they stopped in front of the inn. May we drink tea at the door? They slipped the reins through a ring of the flags in front of the house, and sipped their tea, while the children of the place came and stared solemnly at the strangers. They drove home in the evening sunlight between the orchards, where the apples hung heavy on the trees. Manois Elvire talking in her happy way as usual, entertaining Barbara with tales of what she had seen and heard. But when they drew up at her door, and the girl helped her out, she looked anxiously into her friend's face. Had it been too tiring for her? You are thinking I may be tired, the old lady said, smiling at her. And I will tell you, my dear, I am just tired enough to go to bed and have dreams, happy dreams. When one is so old, one is so near the end of memory, so near the beginning of realities, that the former ceases to be sad. I thank you for the pleasure you have given Jeanette and myself. It will last us long, and now good night. She kissed her, and Barbara turned back to the pony-shays. For her sake, she said softly to herself, one would like the realities to begin soon. CHAPTER XVIII. And Anne again. Barbara had not been so frequently at the bath-house of late, the sea proving more attractive, and she was therefore surprised one day on going there to find a new bath-boy. She missed her old plain-faced friend and wondered what had become of him. Is he ill? she asked at the office on her way out. The woman pursed up her lips. No, he is not ill, she said, but we found that he was not of the character that we had thought. But he had been with you some years, Barbara expostulated, for the boy had confided that fact to her. He had, but he had degenerated, we found. A dreadful doubt seized Barbara that his dismissal might be due to the help he had given her in Alice's escape, and in that case she would be partly responsible for him. Will you kindly give me his address? She said, turning back again to the office. The woman looked doubtful, and said she was not sure if she had it. I think if he has been with you several years you must surely know where he lives. Barbara persisted, and seeing her determined look the woman apparently thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of her, and did as she was asked. Barbara repeated the name of the street and the number once or twice as she went out, and wondered how she should begin to find her way there, though consoling herself by thinking it was not the first time she had hunted up unknown addresses successfully since she had come to France. It was very hot, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she would not put off her search till another time. Then she decided it was her duty to look the boy up at once. Asking a kindly postman if he could direct her to the address, she found that the house was in one of the streets near the keys. So rather a long way off it was not difficult to find, and once found it was not easily forgotten, for the smells were mingled in many. Barbara wondered down between the high old houses, looking at the numbers, when she could see them, and finally found the one she sought. She had not long to wait after knocking, and the door was opened by the bath-boy himself, who stared at her in astonishment. Mamzell, he said doubtfully, as if uncertain whether she were a messenger of ill omen or not. I've come to call, Barbara explained. May I please come in? His face broadened into the familiar grin, and he shuffled down the passage before her, wearing the same heelless list-slippers that had first attracted Barbara's attention to him in the bath-house. The room he took her into spelt fresh and clean, and indeed was half full of clean clothes of all descriptions. My mother is Blanche Sous, the boy said, lifting a heap of pinafores from a chair. I am desolated that she is out. Yes. Guillaume, will you please tell me why you were sent away from the bath-house? Guillaume looked uncomfortable, and moved his foot in and out of his slipper. Why, Mamzell, I was dismissed. They said it was my character, but that is quite good. I do not drink, nor lie, nor steal. My mother was always a good bringer up. Then was it because of helping the English lady to escape? Was it that Guillaume? The boy swung his slipper dexterously to and fro on his bare toes. It was doubtless that, Mamzell, for it was after the visit of the lady she belonged to that I was dismissed. My mother warned me at the time. It is unwise, she said, for such as you to play thus. But the English lady looked so sad. I am sorry, Guillaume. I do wish it had not happened. So do we, Mamzell, said the boy simply, for my mother, who is Blanche Sous, has lost some customers since then, too, and I cannot get anything here. Tomorrow I must go to St. Mallow or Paramé to try, but they are much further away. Yet we must have money to keep the little Elaine. She is so beautiful and so tender. Who is Elaine? inquired Barbara, and at the question the boy's face glowed with pride and pleasure. I will bring her to you, Mamzell. She is now in the garden. She is with me while I am at home. She shuffled off, and returned in a few minutes with a little girl in his arms. So pretty a child that Barbara marveled at the contrast between them. She is not like me, hind, he asked, laughing. Elaine, greet the lady. And Barbara held out both hands to the little girl, who after a long stare ran across to her. In amusing her and being herself amused, Barbara forgot the reason of her visit, and only remembered it when the little girl asked her brother suddenly if he would fetch her a role that evening. The boy looked uncomfortable. Not to-night, he hastened to say, but the mamma, she will bring you something to-night for supper. I used to bring her a white roll on my way home from the baths, he explained to Barbara. May I give her one to-night, the girl asked quickly, putting her hand into her pocket? I would like to. But the boy shook his head. No, no, the mamma would not like it. The first time you were in the house. Some other time, if Mamzell does us the honour to come again. Of course I will. I want to see how you get on at St. Mala or Parame, she asked, and whether Elaine's doll gets better from the measles. Or whether she grows wings, put in Elaine in waving her hand farewell. Barbara was very thoughtful on her way back, and before reaching the house she had determined to give up her writing for the present. One more excursion she would have, in which to say good-bye to Monsieur Pirene, who had been very kind to her, but it seemed rather selfish to use up any more of the liberal fund which her aunts had supplied her with for that purpose. After all, it was hard that the bath-boy, through her fault, could not even supply his little sister with rolls for her supper. Manois El Therese was somewhat surprised at the sudden decision, and perhaps a little annoyed by it, for she had grown accustomed to the trips to Denard, and would miss them greatly. Monsieur Pirene was also disturbed, because he feared Manois El had grown tired of his moneige. Barbara assured him to the contrary, and tried to satisfy them both with explanations which were as satisfactory as such could be made when they are not the real ones. As to connecting the girls' visits to the ex-bath-boy, which Manois El Therese thought were due merely to a passing whim, and the cessation of rides, she never dreamed of such a thing. The result of the boy's inquiries at St. Molo and Parame were fruitless at first, and Barbara had paid several visits, and was beginning to feel almost as anxious as the mother and son themselves before the boy succeeded in his search. But one afternoon when she arrived she found him beaming with happiness, having found at least a temporary job at Parame, and one which probably would become permanent. That news, she said, saking the boy's hand warmly in congratulation, will send me home quite light-hearted. But somehow, though she was honestly glad, it did not make her feel as happy as it should have done, and she thought the road-back had never seemed so long nor the sun so hot. She would gladly have missed her evening lesson and supper, but she feared that of the two evils Manois El Therese's questions would probably be the worse. Indeed, when in the best of health that lady's conversation was apt to be wearysome, but when one felt, as Barbara had for the past few days, that bed was the only satisfactory place, and that even harder than it used to be, then Manois El's chatter became a penance not easily borne. You are getting tired of us, and beginning to want home, the French woman said in rather offended tones two days later, when Barbara declined to go with her to Dole. I am sorry we have not been able to amuse you sufficiently well. Oh, that isn't it at all, Barbara assured her. It is just that I have never known such hot weather before, and it makes me disinclined for things. You are looking whitish, but that is because you have been staying in the house too much lately. Dole would do you good and cheer you up. Another time, the girl pleaded, I think I won't go to-day. And the lady left her with a shrug, and the remark that she would not go either. She was evidently annoyed, and Barbara wondered what she should do to atone for it. But later in the day she had a visit that drove the thoughts of Dole from both her mind and Mademoiselle's. She was sitting in her room trying to read, and wondering why she could not understand the paragraph, though she had read it three or four times, when Mademoiselle Therese came running in excitedly to say that there were two American gentlemen downstairs in the salon to see her, one old, one young. Mr. Morton was the name on the card. Why, it must be the American pretender, cried Barbara, who seeing her companion's look of surprise added hastily, the elder one used to know my aunt Anne, and they have both been in Paris. It was the younger one who helped Alice Maynell there. Then, indeed, I must descend and inquire after her, said Mademoiselle joyfully. I will just run and make my toilette again. In the meanwhile, do you go down and entertain them till I come. But Barbara was already out of the room, for she thought she would like to have a few minutes' conversation before Mademoiselle Therese came in, as there might not be much opportunity afterwards. How nice of you to call on me, she said, as she entered the salon. I was just longing for one of the English-speaking race. The elder Mr. Morton was tall and thin, with something in his carriage that suggested a military upbringing. His hair and eyes grey, the latter very like his nephew's grown sad. The place does not suit you, the elder man inquired, looking at her face. Oh, yes, I think so. It is just very hot at present. Like the day you tried to ride to Dull, the nephew remarked, wondering if it were only the ride that had given her so much more colour the first time he had seen her, and the sea-brees that had reddened her cheeks the last time. But there were so many things the girl was anxious to hear about, that she did not allow the conversation to lapse to herself or the weather again, before Mademoiselle Therese, a raid in her best, made her appearance. She at once seized upon the younger man, and began to pour out questions about Alice. You need not fear any bad results, Mr. Morton said to Barbara. My nephew is very discreet. And Barbara, hearing scraps of the conversation, thought he was not only discreet, but lawyer-like in his replies. The visit was not a very long one. Mr. Morton declining an invitation to supper that evening, with promises to come some other time. But before they went, he seized a moment when Barbara's attention was engaged by his nephew to say something that his hostess rather resented. The young lady does not look so well as I had imagined she would. I suppose her health is quite good at present. She is complained of nothing, Mademoiselle Therese's return, bridling. Why should she be ill? The food is excellent and abundant, and we do everything imaginable for the comfort of our inmates. I am sure you do, madame," he replied, bowing. I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you again, I hope, before long. As I knew Miss Britton it is natural for me to take an interest in her niece when in a foreign land. Your aunt, I suppose, is now in England?" he added casually to Barbara. Yes, staying with us for a day or two, but I hope she will come here before I go, and we can make an excursion on our way home. That would be pleasant for both, I am sure, Mr. Morton replied, taking a ceremonious leave of Mademoiselle Therese, and a simple, though warmer one of Barbara. The young man said little in parting, but as soon as they were in the street he laid his hand hurriedly on his uncle's arm. The girl is ill, uncle, I am sure of it. She is not like the same person I met before, and that Mademoiselle Therese would drive me crazy if I weren't feeling up to the mark. No doubt, what a tongue the woman has! But what do you want to do, Dennis, for of course you have made up your mind to do something? Dennis frowned. Of course I don't want to seem interfering, but I won't say anything at home in case of frightening her mother. But he paused and looked up at his uncle. Do you think it would seem impertinent to write to the aunt? She might come a little sooner, perhaps, and being at Mrs. Britton's could use her judgment about telling her or not. Mr. Morton pondered, his mind not wholly on the girl whom they had just left. And remembering his nephew he brought his thoughts down to the present. I should risk the impertinent if I were you, Dennis, but what about the address? I know the village in the county, Dennis said eagerly. I should think that would find her. I will do it when I get back. But it proved more difficult to write than he imagined, and it was some time before, having succeeded to his satisfaction, he brought the letter to his uncle for criticism. It ran thus. Dear Madame, I am afraid you may think it rather impertinent on my part to write to you, but I hope you will forgive that and my apparent interference. I am Dennis Morton, whom your niece met some time ago on the way to Dole, and as my uncle and I were passing this way in returning from a little tour, we called on Mrs. Britton, and both thought her looking ill. The doctor here is, I believe, quite good, but Manuel Zelterez, though doubtless a worthy lady, would to me be rather trying in time of illness. I should not write to you, but I fear Mrs. Britton will not, being unwilling to worry you or any of those at home. My uncle made a suggestion on the matter to Mademois Zelterez, which was not very much liked by that lady. Therefore he thought I might write to you. He asks me, if you still remember him as a past acquaintance, to give you his regards, hoping you will forgive my officiousness. Yours truly, Dennis Morton. That is quite passable, Mr. Morton said when he had read it. I think you will hardly give offence. I wonder if she remembers me. She could hardly help doing that, and Dennis nodded affectionately at his uncle. But I shall be much happier when this letter arrives at his destination. The address is not very exact. However, we will see, and we can call again to-morrow. It would be kind, don't you think, to one of our kith, so to speak, and in a foreign land?" The uncle smiled. It would be kind, as you say, Dennis, so we will do it. But when they called the following afternoon they were told that Miss Britain was in bed, and Mademoiselle Therese engaged. As a matter of fact she was in the midst of composing a letter to Mrs. Britain, for when Barbara had said as carelessly as she could that she would stay in bed just for one day, Mademoiselle Therese, remembering her visitors, remarks the previous afternoon, had taken alarm and sent for the doctor, and now thought it would be wiser to write to Mrs. Britain. Having wasted a good many sheets of paper, and mourned the letter over several times to herself, she sought her sister out. Listen, she said proudly, I think I have succeeded admirably in telling Mrs. Britain the truth, and yet not alarming her, at the same time showing her that by my knowledge of her language I am not unfitted to teach others. Honoured Madam, I am permitting myself to write to you about your dear daughter, who has entwined herself much into our hearts. There are now some few days she has seemed a little indisposed, and at last we succeeded in persuading her to retire to bed, and called in the worthy and most respectable, not to say gifted, family doctor, who gives us his attention in times of illness. He expressed his opinion that it was a species of low fever, what the dear young lady had contracted, out of the kindness of her good heart, in visiting in time of sickness the small sister of the bath-boy, a profession which you do not have in England, that shows my knowledge of their customs you see, the reader could not refrain from interpolating, then she continued with a flourish, and the daughter of a worthy Blanche-Sous, who is in every respect very clean and orderly, therefore we thought to be trusted with the presence of your daughter, but whom in the future we will urge the advisability of leaving unvisited. Mademoiselle paused a moment for breath, for the sentence was a long one, and she had rolled it out with enjoyment. Of course, she said to her sister, I have not yet visited the house of this Blanche-Sous, but I inquired if it was clean, and would not have allowed the girl to go if the report had not been favourable. But to continue, your daughter, in the excellence of her heart, would not perhaps desire to rouse your anxieties by mentioning her in disposition, but we felt it incumbent upon us, in whose charge she lies, to inform her relatives, and above all her devoted mother. With affectious regards, yours respectively, Thérèse Loire. There, exclaimed the writer in conclusion, do you not think that is a fine letter? Her sister shrugged her shoulders. Surely it is, but you forget I cannot understand English. But pray do not trouble to translate it, she added hastily. I quite believe it is all you say. Yes, you may believe that, and Mademoiselle Thérèse closed the envelope. I think it will make an impression. In belief she was perfectly right, and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Aunt Anne was there to help remove the impression. For that lady, having already had Dennis Morton's letter, was prepared for this one, and was glad she had been able to tell the news in her own way to her sister-in-law the day before. Don't look so scared, Lucy, she said. I don't suppose there is anything much amiss, though I shall just pack up and go at once. What an irritating woman this must be! Quite enough to make anyone feel ill if she talks as she writes. With characteristic promptitude Miss Britton began to make her preparations immediately, and only halted over them once, and that was when she hesitated about packing a dress that had just come home, which she said was ridiculously young for her. It will get very crushed, she muttered discontentedly. But then— Oh, well, I might as well put it in, and in it went. Miss Britton hovered anxiously about her, and watched her proceedings wistfully. You don't think I should go too, do you, Anne? she asked. Not at present, certainly, Miss Britton returned promptly, regarding her with her head on one side. I promise I will let you know exactly how things are and whether you would be better there. I would say don't worry if I thought it were the least good, but, of course, she will. Then she stooped and fastened a strap of her trunk. It was a most sensible thing of the young Morton to write straight away, and probably, if they are there, they will be quite sure to see Barbara has all she wants. The uncle always was a kind-hearted man. Then she straightened her back and declared everything was ready. She crossed by night from Southampton to St. Malo, and was greatly afraid that she would arrive looking a wreck, and to prevent that she partook largely of a medicine she had seen advertised as a certain cure for seasickness. Her surprise equalled her delight when she awoke in the morning, having slept peacefully all night, and she refused to believe that her good night was probably owing to the calmness of the sea, and not to the medicine. She looked with a little dismay at the shouting, pushing crowd of porters and hotel touts waiting on the key, wondering how she would manage to keep hold of her bag among them all, and as she crossed the gangway, clutched it more tightly than before. No, she said, as someone took a hold of it as soon as her foot touched the key, you shall not take my bag, I would not trust it to any one of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves screaming like wild Indians. It was just then that Dennis Morton and his uncle came through the crowd. That is she there, the older man said, recognizing her after fourteen years. Go and help, I will wait here. It was at a crucial moment, when Miss Britton was really getting exasperated and rather desperate, that the young man came up, and she accepted his assistance and explanation with relief. My uncle is down there, he said, we have a fiacra waiting. There was always such a crush and rout on the key, we thought we had better come to pilot you through. The young man, in spite of his easy bearing, had been a little anxious as to how the two would meet again, and dreaded lest there might be some embarrassment. But beyond an air of shyness that sat strangely on both, and a kind of amused wonder at meeting after so many years, there was nothing to show that they had been more than mere acquaintances, and the talk centred chiefly on Barbara. She does not know you are coming yet, Dennis said. Man was el Therese got your telegram, but said it would be better not to tell your niece in case the ship went down on the way. What a cheerful person to live with, Miss Britton ejaculated. I am afraid I may be very rude to her. I hope not, Mr. Morton said. It would do no good, and she seems to be an excellent lady in many ways. We shall see, Miss Britton replied grimly, getting out of the fiacra, and Dennis felt rather sorry for Mademoiselle Therese. But Miss Britton was often worse in imagination than in reality, and she behaved with all due politeness to both sisters, who met her at the door and led her into the salon. She even bore a certain amount of Mademoiselle Therese's explanations with patience, then she got up. Well, well, I would rather hear all that afterwards, Mademoiselle, and if I may just take off my hat and coat I will go straight up to my niece. I had breakfast on board. A few minutes later Aunt Anne opened Barbara's door and entered, a little doubtful lest her sudden appearance might not be bad for her niece, but thinking that it could not be much worse than a preparation by that foolish woman. Barbara was lying with her back to the door, but something different in the step made her turn round, and she sprang up in bed. Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne! and dropping her face into the pillow began to cry. Aunt Anne stood a moment in doubt. It was such a rare thing to see any of the family cry that she was startled, but not for long, then she crossed the room and began to comfort her niece. It was dreadfully foolish of me, the girl said after a while, but it was so nice to see you again. Mademoiselle Therese is very kind, but she creaks about, you know, and fusses, and it is a little trying to have foreigners about when you are out of sorts. Trying! she would drive me distracted. Indeed, if I had only her to nurse me, I should die just to get rid of her. Oh, she's not quite so bad as that, Barbara returned. She has been very kind indeed, Aunt, and is a very good teacher, and you get used to her, you know. Perhaps, but now I'll just tell you how they are at home. Then you must be quiet, and as I crossed in the night I shall be glad of a rest, too. I can stay in here quietly beside you. Miss Britton, having a little experience in sickness, saw that, though probably there was no need for anxiety, Barbara was certainly ill. She felt more reassured after she had seen the doctor, who she allowed seemed sensible enough for a Frenchman, and wrote her sister-in-law a cheery letter, saying the girl had probably been doing too much, and had felt the strain of the affair of the solicitor more than they had realized. The doctor said it is a kind of low fever, she told the Mortons, but I say heat, smells, and fussiness. After a few days' experience she owned that the Loires were certainly not lacking in kindness, but still she did not care to stay there very long, and she told Dennis Morton that she had never been so polite under provocation in her life before. The uncle and nephew, who had not yet moved on, did not speak of continuing their travels for the present, and Miss Britton was very glad to know they were in the town. One of Barbara's regrets was that she had missed seeing the meeting between Mr. Morton and her aunt, and that she was perhaps keeping the latter from enjoying as much of his company as she might otherwise have done. There were many things she wanted to do with Miss Britton when allowed to get up, but in the meanwhile she had to content herself with talking about them. She was much touched by the attention of Mademoiselle Vire, who sent round by Jeannette wonderful homemade dainties that, as Barbara explained to her aunt, she ought to have been eating herself. A fortnight after Miss Britton's arrival Barbara was allowed to go downstairs, and after having once been out her health came back like a swallow's flight, as Mademoiselle toureze poetically, though a little ambiguously described it. She and her aunt spent as much time out of doors as possible, going for so many excursions that Barbara began to know the country round quite well, but though many of the drives were beautiful, none seemed to equal the one she had had with Mademoiselle Vire, which was a thing apart. They drove to La Guimarese again one afternoon, and on their return the girl told Dennis Morton who had been with them the story of the Manois. He was silent for a little of the clothes. Then as if it had suggested another story to his mind he looked towards where his uncle and Miss Britton were walking up and down. I would give anything, almost anything, at least, that he might be happy now. He has had a great deal of the other thing in the past, he said. So would I, Barbara agreed. You know, I couldn't quite understand it before, but I do now. When you're ill or supposed to be, you see quite another side of aunt Anne that she doesn't always show. Of course your uncle is just splendid. I can't understand how Aunt could have been so silly. Dennis laughed softly, then grew grave, and when they spoke again it was of other things, for both felt that it was a subject that must be touched with no rough everyday fingers. They would hate to have it discussed, was the thought in the mind of each. But the story of Mademoiselle Vire and all that he had heard about her made Dennis wish to see her, and as Aunt Anne felt at a duty to call there before leading St. Servan, Barbara took them all in turns, and was delighted because her old friend made a conquest of each one. Even Miss Britton, who did not as a rule like French people, told her niece she was glad she had not missed this visit. As neither Mademoiselle Vire nor Miss Britton knew the other's language, the interview had been rather amusing, and Barbara's powers as interpreter had been taxed to the uttermost, more especially as she felt anxious to do her part well so as to please both ladies. When Mademoiselle Vire saw that her pretty remarks were not understood, she said gracefully, Ah! I see that, as I am unfortunate enough to know no English, madam, that I can only use the language of the eyes. Barbara translated the remark with fear and trembling, afraid that her Aunt would look grim as she did when she thought other people were talking humbug. But instead she had been Barbara replied that Mademoiselle Vire would probably be as far beyond her in elegance in that language as in her own, and the girl thought that to draw such a speech from her Aunt's lips was indeed a triumph. The lady certainly did not smile at the inscription Mademoiselle Vire wrote on the fly-leaf of a book of poems she was giving the girl, and which, Miss Britton declared, was like an inscription on a tombstone. Ah! Mademoiselle Barbara Britton, connu trop tar, perdue trop tot. But she did not laugh when she heard what the little lady had said on Barbara's last visit. We are of different faiths, mon ami, but you will not mind if I put up a prayer for you sometimes. It can do you no harm, and if we do not meet here again, perhaps the good God will let us make music together up yonder. Miss Britton fixed the day of departure as soon as Barbara was ready for the journey, proposing to go home in easy stages by Rouen and Dieppe, so that they might see the churches of which Mr. Morton had talked so much. The uncle and nephew had just come from that town, and were now returning to Paris, and thence Denysaw to England. Mademoiselle Therese was desolated to hear that Barbara's visit was really drawing to a close, and assured her aunt that a few more months would make Barbara a perfect speaker, for I have never known one of your nation of such talent in our language, she declared. Of course that isn't true, Miss Britton said coolly to Barbara afterwards, though I think you have been diligent, and both Mademoiselle Therese and the queer little man next door say you speak fairly well. The queer little man next door asked them both in to supper before they went. To show Miss Britton he said what a Frenchman could do in the cooking line. Barbara had some little difficulty in persuading her aunt to go, though she relented at last, and the experience was certainly very funny, though pathetic enough too. He and his sons could talk very little English, and Barbara had to play interpreter, or correct the mistakes they made in English which was equally difficult. They had decorated the table gaily, and the father and son both looked so hot that Barbara was sure they had spent a long time over the cooking. The first item was a soup which the widower had often spoken of as being made better by himself than by many a chef, and consisted of what seemed to Barbara a kind of beef tea with pieces of bread floating in it. But on this occasion the bread seemed to have swelled to tremendous portions, and absorbed the soup so that there was hardly anything left but what seemed damp, swollen rolls. Aunt Anne, Barbara declared afterwards, was magnificent, and plotted her way through bread sponges flavored with soup, assuring the distressed cook that it was really quite a remarkable potage, and that she had never tasted anything like it before, all of which, of course, was perfectly true. The chicken, which came next, was cooked very well, only it had been stuffed with sage and onions, and Monsieur said, with pride, that they had thought it would be nice to give Manoiselle Britton and her niece one English dish, in case they did not like the other things. It was during this course that Barbara's gravity was a little tried, not so much because of the idea of chicken with sage and onions as because of the stillitity of her aunt's expression, the girl knowing that if there was one thing that lady was particular about, it was the correct cooking of poultry. There were various other items on the menu, and it was so evident that their host and his eldest son had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparation of the meal, that the visitors were really touched, and did their best to show their appreciation of the attentions paid them. In that they were successful, and when they left the house the widower and his sons were riveted in smiles. But when they had got to a safe distance, Aunt Anne exclaimed, What a silly man not to keep a servant! Oh, but Aunt, Barbara explained, he thinks he could not manage a servant, and he is really most devoted to his children. It's all nonsense about the servant, Miss Britton retorted. How can a man keep house? Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Loire began to question her rather curiously as to the dinner, she said they had been entertained very nicely, and that Monsieur must be an extremely clever man to manage things so well. One other visit Barbara made before leaving St. Servant, and that was to say good-bye to the bath-boy. It had needed some persuasion on her part to gain her aunt's permission for this visit. But Aunt, dear, Barbara said persuasively, he helped me with Alice and lost his place because of it. It would be so very kind to go away without seeing how they are getting on. Well, I suppose you must go, but if I had known what a capacity you had for getting entangled in such plots, Barbara, I really should have been afraid to trust you alone here. It was time I came out to put matters right. Yes, Aunt, Barbara agreed sedately, but with a twinkle in her eyes. I really think it was, and she went to get ready for her visit to the bath-boy. End of Chapter 18, read by Cibela Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.