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Barbara in Brittany

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<h3> CHAPTER XVII. </h3> <h3> A MEMORY AND A "MANOIR." </h3> 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 Th�r�se, "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 Vir� 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 she would have felt the comfort more if some one 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 Vir�, 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 Vir�, will you come for a drive with me?" A delicate flush coloured 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 fiacre. 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 Jeannette 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 Vir� 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 sorrows and labour with me, that it is but fair she should share my pleasures, and I should have felt grieved 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 Th�r�se, whom she felt she could not leave out; but she was unfeignedly 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 Vir�'s choice towards La Guimorais, 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 past the old farms and cottages, Mademoiselle Vir�'s face alone, Barbara thought, being worth watching, while Jeannette sat opposite, her hands folded in her lap. Just before reaching La Guimorais 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-for garden nor ruined beauty could destroy. "May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Vir� asked, and Barbara turning 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, wandering 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 their 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 manoir— "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 old Jeannette'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," Mademoiselle Vir� said, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at the door?" They slipped the reins through a ring in 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, Mademoiselle Vir� 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. "Then 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 Jeannette 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 the realities to begin soon." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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