Barbara in Brittany Part 15

As soon as Barbara had a.s.sured 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 Mademoiselle 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 Loires' window, and bid it to proceed on its way.

"I think," he said pensively, after some moments' 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 Mademoiselle 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," said Jean, drawing himself up, "I will accompany you."

"n.o.ble 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 Loires 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 son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.

"Our n.o.ble 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;" and Barbara regretted exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had missed it.

Compliments continued to fly for some time, like b.u.t.terflies in June; then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just a.s.suring 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 dispelling 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 Loire 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 healths 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 "n.o.ble preservers" retired to their own home.

When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loire suggested that all danger might not yet be past, 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 in to a.s.sist, 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 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 Loire 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 Frances 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 any one 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 live so near 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 experiences for me, by which I hope I profited. I got on extremely well with your countrywomen, too, and the girls all loved me, and, indeed, so did your countrymen, for I received a 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 fraulein----"

Barbara sighed, wondering if it were the tenth or eleventh time she had heard the tale of the "German fraulein"; 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, _Au 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 _table d'hote_, 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 through the gra.s.s beside her, and the next moment her startled eyes fell upon the solicitor's son of Neuilly remembrance!

She got rather a fright at first, but he certainly got a much worse one; and before he had recovered it had 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 Neuilly--a widow's family too--and what a life he seemed to have led 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 wrung 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 realised 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.