CHAPTER VI

HER AUNT'S CONFIDENCES

SUCH a lovely morning! Adrienne got up and threw open her windows and shutters. Annette brought her coffee and petit pain at eight o'clock, and told her that Madame would like to see her at ten.

Adrienne lay in her comfortable bed, and looked out upon the flowering chestnuts, and at the tiny village clustering round the church on the green knoll. She heard the bells of the oxen as they passed along the lanes, and the scent of the lilacs close to the house was wafted upwards to her.

She wondered what her uncles were doing, and how they would like having breakfast alone together.

And then her thoughts focused themselves upon her aunt.

She began to see that this French home of hers might have a fascination for her, and would make it difficult for her to leave it.

"I could be happy here myself," Adrienne murmured to herself, "if only the uncles were with me. I wonder if I could get them to come over, and see it. I might say I would not come back unless they came to fetch me!"

She dawdled over her dressing, then sat down at her writing-table and commenced a long letter to her uncles. She heard an outside clock strike ten, and, shutting up her writing-case, she made her way to her aunt's room.

The Countess's room was more English in its furniture than any other part of the Château. She had pretty chintz curtains and covers for her couches and chairs, photos and knickknacks were in profusion upon tables and cabinets. Madame herself, in a blue satin tea-gown with a boudoir cap, was sitting in an easy-chair by the open window.

She looked older in the morning light, and the fretful lines in her face were more discernible.

"Don't kiss me," she said; "I am not too fond of it at any time. Have you slept well? Ah! You have youth and strength, both of which I have lost!"

"Yes, I have slept splendidly, and feel ready for anything," Adrienne said brightly.

Then Madame began to give her a list of things she wanted her to do—things which her daughter had always done, and which had suffered since her departure.

The salon was to be dusted carefully, and the china in the corridor; flowers could be gathered from the garden. Fanchette was to be interviewed; and if anything were wanted from the village, would she see to it? Also, would she get the salads and vegetables from the garden? Louis or Gaston would accompany her, but they were not to be trusted to do it alone. Would she do a little gardening round the house? There were seeds to be sown, and weeding to be done. It was too much for Jacques, as he was cutting the grass in the big meadow for the cows. Would she return to the house before eleven to assist Madame in the last stages of her toilet. Déjeuner was at half-past eleven.

Adrienne saw that her morning would be fully occupied, but she went off cheerfully at once to her duties, and very soon Madame heard her singing in the gardens.

At eleven o'clock she was back in Madame's room, helping her arrange her hair, and tidying up generally. And while she was so employed, she was hearing for the twentieth time an account of all Madame's illnesses since her husband's death. The one person who was sincerely appreciated by her aunt was her doctor, Monsieur Caillot. He came to see her pretty frequently. Monsieur Bouverie was mentioned with bated breath.

"If he comes here, my dear, you must be very, very polite and pleasant. He is a little man, but he is a great power here; his wife is my abomination, but I dare not quarrel with her. I will tell you all my troubles one day. I feel sometimes like a tangled ball of silk—impossible, quite impossible to be disentangled and unknotted! Monsieur pulls here and there, but for a little smooth bit, there appears more knots and tangles to come. Ah! It's a weary world for a forlorn and lonely woman!"

"I should think," said Adrienne tentatively, "that Cousin Guy is a very good one for disentangling tangles."

Madame threw up her hands:

"Ah! No! He is an American, hard and keen and implacable! Everything with him is black or white. No mellowing greys, no misty uncertainties. He terrifies me; though I am his stepmother, I am afraid of him. He bends everyone to his will. He is a mass of steel and iron, and does not possess a heart."

"Oh, Aunt Cecily, think of his music! A man with such music at his fingers' end must possess feeling!"

"Tut! Tut! Music is an accomplishment. He is clever. He takes after his father in that. My dear Philippe—ah!" Out came the scented handkerchief; tears began to fall.

Then Adrienne listened to a long account of her Uncle Philippe's perfections. She was relieved when the bell sounded for déjeuner.

It was a long meal, but her aunt talked incessantly, and Adrienne vainly tried to get her away from herself.

After it was over, Adrienne accompanied her back to her room, made her comfortable for her afternoon siesta, and was given a quantity of old lace to mend.

"We have tea at four, and then we will walk for a little in the garden or wood."

Adrienne took her lace into the garden. The sun was so hot that she looked about for a shady nook, and found it under a chestnut tree just below the terrace. Here on a seat she got out her work-basket, and here it was that an hour later Guy found her.

His eyes rested upon her with satisfaction.

"You have very quickly fitted yourself into your niche here," he said, as he drew up a lounge chair and seated himself in it. "Well, how do you find your aunt? Win her confidence if you can. I have failed to do so."

"She is afraid of you," said Adrienne, regarding him with frank steady eyes; "I wonder why?"

His eyes met hers for an instant, with a glint of sternness in them, then they softened and a sparkle of amusement shone in them.

"I am always reading between the lines, and discovering more than I am meant to discover," he said; "ma mère does not like her defences to be pierced."

"Perhaps you do it triumphantly," said Adrienne; "nobody likes to be triumphed over."

"Would you like to come and see your steed?" he asked, waiving the subject.

Adrienne rose at once.

"I should love to," she said, "but how and when I am to ride is the problem."

"In the early morning," he responded; "as early as you like. Six, seven or eight. Will either of those hours suit you?"

Adrienne smiled.

"Yes. Make it seven. I feel that time will be mine. But will you be able to come with me? I am quite accustomed to ride about alone."

"I want to show you our country. I will bring the horses round at seven to-morrow morning."

They arrived at the stables; Adrienne was introduced to Sultan, a coal-black horse, with a coat like satin, and a gentle chastened mien. He lifted his head and looked at Adrienne with two rather sad and weary eyes. She caressed his nose, and he lifted his head, and pricked his ears when he felt the touch of her soft fingers.

Then Guy called out for Gaston, who was groom as well as house-boy, and a brand-new lady's saddle was produced.

Adrienne protested:

"You have bought this new for me?"

"I saw it in Orleans this morning," said Guy.

Then he busied himself with it; and when Sultan was satisfactorily adorned with it, Adrienne was invited to mount.

She rode round the yard and out into the paddock, and was delighted with Sultan's smooth, easy paces.

"He has been a good horse in his time," said Guy; "you won't be too hard on him. And for gentle exercise you won't beat him."

Then, looking at her watch, Adrienne found it was just four.

"I must go," she said; "are you coming in for a cup of tea?"

He shook his head.

"I shall be ready for your aunt in the library at five," he said. "That is our business-room; have you seen it? No? Then come now, I will show it to you. It used to be a hall of justice, and the ceiling is worth looking at."

They returned to the house; he took her to the end of the hall up a few steps along a corridor, and then opened the door into a big panelled room with beautifully carved ceiling. The coat of arms of the Beaudesserts was carved over the great mantelpiece. A long table with an imposing-looking carved chair at the head of it was in the centre of the room. The walls were lined with books behind glass doors. In a corner of the room was a big writing-table, covered with books and papers, and it was in this corner that Guy seated himself when Adrienne had duly admired the ceiling and the room.

She left him there, and went upstairs to her aunt.

Tea was brought to them in her boudoir adjoining her bedroom.

She made a little moue, when Adrienne mentioned Guy.

"Oh, yes, I have to be called over the coals by him, my perfect irreproachable prig of a stepson! But as to any help or assistance, it is useless to expect it of him."

"He always speaks so sympathetically of you," said Adrienne, feeling she must defend the absent one.

"Oh, là!"

Madame shrugged her shoulders in French fashion, and Adrienne said no more.

It was with very slow steps that Madame descended the stairs to the library.

"I shall not be long. We will go for a little walk; will you put out my hat and coat for me? You will find them in my wardrobe."

But it was three-quarters of an hour before Madame joined her again, and when she did so, Adrienne saw at once that she had been crying.

"He is an inquisitor, my stepson," she said angrily to Adrienne; "he questions and cross-examines, and ferrets out every minute detail that I would keep to myself. But we will not talk of him; we will take the air."

They walked in the grounds of the Château, afterwards had a quiet dinner together, and then in the salon, over their bright wood fire, Madame suddenly made a confidante of Adrienne. She poured out in a torrent of talk all her trials and money troubles, and Adrienne listened and tried to advise and comfort. Monsieur Bouverie, the notary, figured largely in the background.

"What can a woman do without a man to assist her? Monsieur Bouverie manages all for me. He is like an agent as well as a lawyer; he knows the ins and outs of all my husband's estate; he comes to me for necessary repairs. Guy is angry because he says that the new fences I have paid for on paper are not in existence; he says I ought to walk round and see that the repairs I pay for are done. How can I? Then he wants me to give up my pretty fiat in Orleans. I am there most of the winter. I entertain, and enjoy myself. How could I stagnate here through the snow? Monsieur Bouverie has helped me pay my bills again and again. He has taken the shooting, he rents it, also the fishing—and—but promise me you will not tell Guy this. I was in such straits a few years ago—I am very fond of Bridge, but I had been unlucky, and could not find the ready money to pay my debts, and there were many bills that were pressing from Orleans tradesmen, you know, so I borrowed money from Monsieur Bouverie and he has taken the Château as security."

"Does that mean you have mortgaged it?" asked Adrienne.

"Well, yes—but I must have ready money."

"I thought the Château belonged to Guy, and that you were only living here for your lifetime?"

"Oh, some years ago, he presented it to me as a deed of gift. He does not care about it. He is not married; it is not as if he has a son to succeed."

"But he may marry; he may have children."

"My dear Adrienne, I cannot plan and live for the future. I have been cheated and taken in on all sides; I have had no income to speak of, and Monsieur Bouverie has been my mainstay through these difficult years."

"I wonder if he is quite honest."

Adrienne's frank comment displeased her aunt.

"My dear, he is my man of business; he has invested for me; he pays my bills; he does all he can to help and support me. He has helped me in selling the old china and some of the old plate—I was forced to part with them. I have been living from hand to mouth. Guy is very angry because my account is overdrawn at the Bank. How can I help it? I have not enough to live upon. The last time he was over, he put me straight and left me something to go on with. I hoped he would do it this time. He must. After all, I am his father's widow."

"Is he very wealthy himself?"

"I do not know, he is so secretive; his hobby over here is the farm—he makes it pay, I believe, but he is not civil to Monsieur Bouverie; they look at each other like angry dogs. I dread them meeting. The thing I am worried about now is, that I am not able to pay Monsieur Bouverie his interest. How can I do so? I can barely make my income feed myself and the servants, and he dropped a hint the other day, or rather she did—she's an atrocious woman—she hinted that they would soon take possession here. It is this that troubles me. Her one ambition is to own a Château and she eggs her husband on. It would kill me if I had to leave this. It has wound itself round my heart."

"I should tell Cousin Guy the whole thing," advised Adrienne. "He is a strong man. Leave him to deal with this lawyer of yours."

"No, no, I could not. He must never know it. He does not know things are so serious. He would blame me for it."

Adrienne sighed. It seemed hopeless to comfort her aunt. And she could not understand her. At one moment she would talk as if ruin were close to her; at another, of all the gaieties and amusements she hoped to enjoy, when she returned to Orleans for the winter.

"You must stay on with me, and come with me to Orleans. There will be young people there and plenty of gaiety. I stay here in the summer for my health; I get patched up for my festivities in the winter."

When Adrienne eventually got to bed, she felt as if this day had been the longest in her life. Her aunt's confidences had depressed and tired her. But sleep came to her, and with it refreshment and rest.

When the morning dawned, she faced life once more with courage and cheerfulness.

She had her coffee early, and at seven was down on the terrace in her riding habit which she fortunately had brought with her.

Guy was there with the two horses. He mounted her, and then they rode off in the fresh morning air.

He took her through the village, up a steep lane, under flowering limes, and then they came to some green turf beside the pine woods upon which they had a good canter.

Adrienne's pink colour and sparkling eyes showed how much she enjoyed it.

And presently they began to talk about her aunt.

"Have you won her confidence yet?" he asked her.

"Not entirely," said Adrienne; "I cannot understand many things. She seems to have plenty of money and yet is always in difficulties."

"I want you to help her," said Guy earnestly; "you are young and happy, get her to be interested in the simple things of life. As regards money, she has a way of letting it filter through her fingers; her flat in Orleans costs her more for six months than a year's sojourn here. And Bouverie is quietly, determinedly and systematically robbing her. I have come to her rescue more than once, but I'm going on another tack now. I'm allowing him enough rope to hang himself."

"I wonder how much you know," said Adrienne, looking at him thoughtfully.

"More than you do," he retorted pleasantly.

Adrienne was silent.

"Broaden her outlook. Get her interested in others. What did your song say:

"'Give as the fresh air, and sunshine are given, Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give.'

"You can give her so much and she has so little."

"But you are quite mistaken in me," said Adrienne. "I have nothing worth passing on."

"You must make little Agatha's acquaintance," he said; "she will show you what can be done. All of us who come in contact with Agatha are strengthened, and bucked up to do, and to give. You're meant to be one of the givers in life; you show it in your face."

Adrienne laughed.

"What do I show?" she asked.

"Sunshine," he replied tersely.

"I've always been so happy," Adrienne said almost apologetically; "but then my circumstances have been bright. If I were Aunt Cecily, I dare say I should be quite as miserable, for I'm perfectly certain I should cling to this old Château as she does. I think it's quite enchanting. I love every bit of it—the waxed floors, the wood fires, the big spacious rooms; the blue shutters, and windows down to the floor, and the mellow colour of its wood and decorations. And outside it the chestnut avenue and the gardens and the wood, and the darling little village! It all bewitches me. I long to be able to spend money on it, and give Aunt Cecily a happy old age in it."

"You and I will work to do the last bit; but unless our good notary departs this life, the spending money on it will be a problem."

Then he pointed to a distant Château, and began to give her some historic reminiscences of the part through which they were riding.

When later they were returning through the village, he showed her the little white house in which Agatha lived.

"I will introduce you to her one day. She's altered my whole view of life. She did it three years ago when I was home. I was hopeless, was surrounded by a maze of intricate obstacles and intrigues, and was just about washing my hands of the whole concern, and going off to the wilds again, when I struck against her."

"How wonderful she must be!" said Adrienne.

"You've only to be with her for half an hour to feel her power—or," he added in a low voice, "the Power that dwells with her. That's what she considers it. You wouldn't imagine a little peasant girl in an out-of-way village like this could have any influence on men, would you? Yet I've seen the biggest blackguard in the place on his knees before her, and her little hands laid softly on his head. And not only has he been reduced to tears, but sent off to the Curé, and then to make restitution to the one he has wronged."

They had reached the Château; then, as she was dismounting, Adrienne said:

"I wonder if Aunt Cecily rides? It is such a good receipt for the dumps. And if she doesn't ride, isn't there a carriage for her?"

"There's an old pony chaise in the coach-house, I believe. Get her out and about by all means."

Adrienne found plenty to employ her hands that morning, but she sang as she worked, and met her aunt with a sunny face. The Countess scouted the idea of driving out in the pony chaise.

"I hire the car from the inn when I need it—the one that met you at the station. I ought to have one of my own, of course. Madame Bouverie rolls about in her Daimler, but it is the lower classes who ride now. We walk. I have asked my friend Madame Nicholas to tea this afternoon. We will have it on the terrace."

"I hope I shan't disgrace you by my French," said Adrienne.

"Oh, she understands and speaks English; she is much in England, for a sister of hers lives there."

Madame Nicholas arrived at half-past three. She was a handsome, vivacious little woman, and the Countess visibly brightened when talking to her. Not knowing the neighbours round, Adrienne did not feel much interested in the conversation, for it was entirely about them, and their sayings and doings. She poured out tea for her aunt instead of Pierre, who was thankful to be spared the task, and let her gaze wander over the tree-tops in the distance. Her thoughts were in England, when she suddenly heard an ejaculation from her aunt, and looking up saw a smart car gliding up the avenue.

"It is that hateful woman; she has seen us. We cannot get away."

In another moment Pierre was conducting a very stout, short woman along the terrace to them. She was dressed in the extreme fashion of the moment. Very tight short skirts from which two enormously fat legs in flesh-coloured stockings appeared. Her shoes with their tiny heels and big buckles seemed unable to contain her feet. Her hat was very small, her face very big, and Adrienne felt a feeling of distaste sweep over her as she saw her.

But her face radiated with cheerful good humour.

"Ah, Madame," she said, taking the Countess's hand in hers as if she were her dearest friend, "how delighted I am to see you look so well and charmante. And is this your English niece? I have come to make her acquaintance. I said to Henri that I must be one of the first to pay my respects to our English visitor. And how do you like us, Mademoiselle? Do you not find our Château enchanting?"

She waved her hand at the old building as she spoke.

For a moment her fluent French made Adrienne a little shy of airing her own. The Countess and her friend resumed their seats.

Madame Nicholas had only given a stiff little bow to the new-comer, which was returned with an air of affable condescension by the notary's wife. Then Madame Nicholas and the Countess went on talking confidentially to one another, whilst Adrienne was left to entertain Madame Bouverie, who with raised voice made every word of hers audible to the two elder ladies.

"You must come and see my flowers. Your poor aunt has not health to garden, and every true gardener knows that it cannot be left to village men or boys. They know all about vegetables, but flowers—bah! They serve them cruelly. If I had this garden—" she gazed over the terrace with a greedy look in her eyes—"I would make a perfect dream of it. Can you not see glowing beds of scarlet and white in front of us, and vases with drooping pink and mauve, and long winding borders of every colour under the sun?"

Then Adrienne said rather naughtily:

"But I love the cows under the shady trees, and the buttercups and the flowering grass. I think they are so restful and pastoral."

Madame Bouverie shrugged her shoulders.

"And how do you find your dear aunt? We tell her she ought not to shut herself up so, it is so bad for her nerves; she should spend more time in Orleans, and only come here for the very hot weather. There is really, entre nous, no society here, a few old fossils, who from pecuniary reasons cannot leave their tumbledown places, and just vegetate with the cows and goats."

Madame Nicholas was rising to go. She took an affectionate leave of the Countess, then turned to Adrienne, asking her the next day to come with her aunt "pour passer l'après midi avec moi."

And Adrienne, after a quick glance towards her aunt, accepted the invitation with her pretty grace.

Before Madame Nicholas had passed out of hearing, Madame Bouverie's shrill voice made itself heard:

"Now, Madame, we can be happy together; I have something good and confidential to tell you. My husband is following me to bring you the good news. Is your niece in your confidence, may I ask? She looks so sweet and sympathetic I am sure she must be."

Adrienne had made a movement as if she were going to leave her aunt alone with her visitor, but the Countess signed to her to remain.