CHAPTER XVII.
A MEMORY AND A "MANOIR."
No amount of wishing on Barbara's part could do away with the necessityfor 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 joinedhis sister and that he "had never been so happy in his life." He wasgoing to be a farmer, he said, and Barbara wondered why, of alloccupations, 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 tenshillings of the money she had lent him, and promised to forward therest as soon as he could. It was some comfort also, as MademoiselleVire pointed out, that the man would be safely out of the way of doingfurther harm for the present.
Barbara quite agreed with her, but thought she would have felt thecomfort more if some one else had played her part. But when the wholeunpleasant business was over, and Barbara had vowed that nothing wouldever prevail upon her to go into court again--even if it were toreceive sentence herself--she sought out Mademoiselle Vire, with aproposal to do something to "take away the bad feeling."
"Make music," the little lady said. "That is, I think, the only thingI 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 along 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 flush coloured the old lady's cheeks, and Barbara watchedher anxiously. She knew she was very poor, and could not afford to dosuch things for herself, and she was too frail to walk beyond thegarden, but she also greatly feared that she might have made the offerin a way to hurt her friend's feelings.
The little lady did not answer for some time, then she looked into theeager 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. "Ishall not ask you to go in a donkey-cart, nor yet in a _fiacre_. Ihave found out quite a nice low chaise and a quiet pony that can behired, and I will drive you myself."
It took only a little consideration after that, and then mademoisellegave her consent to go next day if it were fine.
"If Jeannette would care to come," Barbara said, before leaving; andthe old woman, who had been sitting very quietly in her corner whilethe arrangements were being made, looked at her mistress with a beamingface, and read her pleasure in the plan before she spoke.
"I am so glad you thought of her," Mademoiselle Vire whispered as shesaid good-bye to her visitor, "for though, of course, I should neverhave asked you to include her, yet she has been so patient and faithfulin going through sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair sheshould share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieved to leave herat home on such a day."
Barbara had one more invitation to give, which went rather against thegrain, and that was to Mademoiselle Therese, whom she felt she couldnot leave out; but she was unfeignedly glad when the lady refused onthe score of too much English correspondence.
The following day being gloriously fine, they started for the drive ingreat contentment, going by Mademoiselle Vire's choice towards LaGuimorais, a little village some seven kilometres away on the coast.The pony was tractable and well behaved, and they rolled along slowlyunder the shady trees and past the old farms and cottages, MademoiselleVire's face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, whileJeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap.
Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards alonely _manoir_, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse.Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for gardennor ruined beauty could destroy.
"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Vire asked, andBarbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside thehigh gray walls.
"The master once, the servant now, but still noble," the old ladywhispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered atlast 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 inthe 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 youto have them."
"He would surely spare them to me," madame repeated, and buried herface in their fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap.
"Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish," she said. She was silenttill they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with abackward look at the _manoir_--
"I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and awell-beloved friend. They are both in Paradise now, and I hope, byGod's good grace and the intercessions of our Lady, I am nearer themeach year."
Her face was perfectly serene, but poor old Jeannette's was allpuckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As forBarbara, she did not speak for a time.
The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses droppedtogether beside the sea, which sang to them for ever.
"Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air," Mademoiselle Viresaid, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at thedoor?"
They slipped the reins through a ring in the flags in front of thehouse, and sipped their tea, while the children of the place came andstared solemnly at the strangers.
They drove home in the evening sunlight between the orchards, where theapples hung heavy on the trees, Mademoiselle Vire talking in her happyway as usual, entertaining Barbara with tales of what she had seen andheard. 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 tiringfor her?
"You are thinking I may be tired!" the old lady said, smiling at her."Then I will tell you, my dear. I am just tired enough to go to bedand have dreams, happy dreams. When one is so old, one is so near theend of memory, so near the beginning of realities, that the formerceases to be sad. I thank you for the pleasure you have givenJeannette and myself, it will last us long; and now, good-night."
She kissed her, and Barbara turned back to the pony chaise.
"For her sake," she said softly to herself, "one would like therealities to begin soon."