the great bell hanging inside the gates of gemosac was silent for two days after the return of juliette de gemosac from her fever-stricken convent school, at saintes.
but on the third day, soon after nightfall, it rang once more, breaking suddenly in on the silence of the shadowy courts and gardens, bidding the frogs in the tank be still with a soft, clear voice, only compassed by the artificers who worked in days when silver was little accounted of in the forging of a bell.
it was soon after eight o'clock, and darkness had not long covered the land and sent the workers home. there was no moon. indeed, the summons to the gate, coming so soon after nightfall, seemed to suggest the arrival of a traveller, who had not deemed it expedient to pass through the winding streets of gemosac by daylight.
the castle lies on a height, sufficiently removed from the little town to temper the stir of its streets to a pleasant and unobtrusive evidence of neighbourhood. had the traveller come in a carriage, the sound of its wheels would certainly have been heard; and nearer at hand, the tramp of horses on the hollow of the old drawbridge, not raised these hundred years, must have heralded the summons of the bell. but none of these sounds had warned juliette de gemosac, who sat alone in the little white room upstairs, nor marie and her husband, dumb and worn by the day's toil, who awaited bedtime on a stone seat by the stable door.
juliette, standing at the open window, heard jean stir himself, and shuffle, in his slippers, toward the gate.
“it is some one who comes on foot,” she heard marie say. “some beggar—the roads are full of them. see that he gets no farther than the gate.”
she heard jean draw back the bolts and answer gruffly, in a few words, through the interstice of a grudging door, what seemed to be inquiries made in a voice that was not the voice of a peasant. marie rose and went to the gate. in a few minutes they returned, and juliette drew back from the window, for they were accompanied by the new-comer, whose boots made a sharper, clearer sound on the cobble-stones.
“yes,” juliette heard him explain, “i am an englishman, but i come from monsieur de gemosac, for all that. and since mademoiselle is here, i must see her. it was by chance that i heard, on the road, that there is fever at saintes, and that she had returned home. i was on my way to saintes to see her and give her my news of her father.”
“but what news?” asked marie, and the answer was lost as the speakers passed into the doorway, the new-comer evidently leading the way, the peasant and his wife following without protest, and with that instinctive obedience to unconscious command which will survive all the iconoclasm of a hundred revolutions.
there followed a tramping on the stairs and a half-suppressed laugh as the new-comer stumbled upward. marie opened the door slowly.
“it is a gentleman,” she announced, “who does not give his name.”
juliette de gemosac was standing at the far side of the table, with the lamp throwing its full light upon her. she was dressed in white, with a blue ribbon at her waist and wrists. another ribbon of the same colour tied back her hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caught the light in a score of tendrils above her ears. no finished coquette could have planned a prettier surprise than that which awaited loo barebone, as he made marie stand aside, and came, hat in hand, into the room.
he paused for an instant, breathless, before juliette, who stood, with a little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. this child, fresh from the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise taken aback nor at a loss how to act. she did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting his explanation. and loo barebone, all untaught, who had never spoken to a french lady in his life, came forward with an assurance and a readiness which must have lain dormant in his blood, awaiting the magic of this moment.
“since my name would convey nothing to mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in farlingford, “it was useless to mention it. but it is at the disposal of mademoiselle, nevertheless. it is an english name—barebone. i am the englishman who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed to england to find me—and found me.”
he broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as it were, and ask indulgence.
“i have a heritage, it appears, in france,” he went on, “but know nothing of it, yet. for the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormy one. i was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time for that. and i know no more than you, mademoiselle.”
juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. she did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object.
“you do not speak like an englishman,” she said. “for i know one or two. one came to the school at saintes. he was a famous english prelate, and he had the manner—well, of a tree. and when he spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. but you—you are not like that.”
loo barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway.
“yes,” he said, “you have described them exactly. i know a hundred who are like great trees. many are so, but they are kind and still like trees—the english, when you know them, mademoiselle.”
“they?” she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high.
“we, i mean,” he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash. “i almost forgot that i was an englishman. it is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget—or yourself. it is so easy and natural to consider one's self a frenchman—and so pleasant.”
marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if to remind them that they were still far from the business in hand and were merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things—or may be the beginning of the inevitable end.
“but i forgot,” said barebone, at once. “and it is getting late. your father has had a slight misfortune. he has sprained his ankle. he is on board my ship, the ship of which i am—i have been—an officer, lying at anchor in the river near here, off the village of mortagne. i came from mortagne at your father's request, with certain messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for marie—if madame is marie.”
“yes,” replied the grim voice in the doorway. “madame is marie.”
loo had turned toward her. it seemed his happy fate to be able to disarm antagonism at the first pass. he looked at marie and smiled; and slowly, unwillingly, her grim face relaxed.
“well,” he said, “you are not to expect monsieur le marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. for he will go on to bordeaux, where he can obtain skilled treatment for his injured ankle, and remain there until he can put his foot to the ground. he is comfortable enough on board the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow morning to bordeaux. monsieur le marquis also told me to set your mind at rest on another point. he was to have brought with him a guest—”
loo paused and bowed to marie, with a gay grace.
“a humble one. but i am not to come to gemosac just now. i am going, instead, with monsieur dormer colville, to stay at royan with mrs. st. pierre lawrence. it is, i hope, a pleasure deferred. i cannot, it appears, show myself in bordeaux at present, and i quit the ship to-night. it is some question of myself and my heritage in france, which i do not understand.”
“is that so?” said marie. “one can hardly believe it.”
“what do you mean?”
“oh, nothing,” replied marie, looking at his face with a close scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her.
“and that is all that i had to tell you, madame marie,” concluded barebone.
and, strangely enough, marie smiled at him as he turned away, not unkindly.
“to you, mademoiselle,” he went on, turning again to juliette, whose hand was at her hair, for she had been taken by surprise, “my message is simpler. monsieur, your father, will be glad to have your society at bordeaux, while he stays there, if that is true which the gironde pilot told him—of fever at saintes, and the hurried dispersal of the schools.”
“it is true enough, monsieur,” answered juliette, in her low-pitched voice of the south, and with a light of anticipation in her eye; for it was dull enough at gemosac, all alone in this empty chateau. “but how am i to reach bordeaux?”
“your father did not specify the route or method. he seemed to leave that to you, mademoiselle. he seemed to have an entire faith in your judgment, and that is why i was so surprised when i saw you. i thought—well, i figured to myself that you were older, you understand.”
he broke off with a laugh and a deprecatory gesture of the hand, as if he had more in his mind but did not want to put it into words. his meaning was clear enough in his eyes, but juliette was fresh from a convent-school, where they seek earnestly to teach a woman not to be a woman.
“one may be young, and still have understanding, monsieur,” she said, with the composed little smile on her demure lips, which must only have been the composure of complete innocence: almost a monopoly of children, though some women move through life without losing it.
“yes,” answered loo, looking into her eyes. “so it appears. so, how will you go to bordeaux? how does one go from gemosac to bordeaux?”
“by carriage to mortagne, where a boat is always to be obtained. it is a short journey, if the tide is favourable,” broke in marie, who was practical before she was polite.
“then,” said loo, as quick as thought, “drive back with me now to mortagne. i have left my horse in the town, my boat at the pier at mortagne. it is an hour's drive. in an hour and a half you will be on board 'the last hope,' at anchor in the river. there is accommodation on board for both you and madame; for i, alas! leave the ship to-night with monsieur colville, and thus vacate two cabins.”
juliette reflected for a moment, but she did not consult, even by a glance, marie; who, in truth, appeared to expect no such confidences, but awaited the decision with a grim and grudging servitude which was as deeply pressed in upon her soul as was the habit of command in the soul of a de gemosac.
“yes,” said juliette, at length, “that will be best. it is, of course, important that my father should reach bordeaux as soon as possible.”
“he will be there at midday to-morrow, if you will come with me now,” answered loo, and his gay eyes said “come!” as clearly as his lips, though juliette could not, of course, be expected to read such signals.
the affair was soon settled, and jean ordered to put the horse into the high, old-fashioned carriage still in use at the chateau. for juliette de gemosac seemed to be an illustration of the fact, known to many much-tried parents, that one is never too young to know one's mind.
“there is a thunder-storm coming from the sea,” was jean's only comment.
there was some delay in starting; for marie had to change her own clothes as well as pack her young mistress's simple trunks. but the time did not hang heavily on the hands of the two waiting in the little drawing-room, and marie turned an uneasy glance toward the open door more than once at the sound of their laughter.
barebone was riding a horse hired in the village of mortagne, and quitted the chateau first, on foot, saying that the carriage must necessarily travel quicker than he, as his horse was tired. the night was dark, and darkest to the west, where lightning danced in and out among heavy clouds over the sea.
as in all lands that have been torn hither and thither by long wars, the peasants of guienne learnt, long ago, the wisdom of dwelling together in closely built villages, making a long journey to their fields or vineyards every day. in times past, gemosac had been a walled town, dominated, as usual, by the almost impregnable castle.
barebone rode on, alone, through the deserted vineyards, of which the scent, like that of a vinery in colder lands, was heavy and damp. the road runs straight, from point to point, and there was no chance of missing the way or losing his companions. he was more concerned with watching the clouds, which were rising in dark towers against the western sky. he had noted that others were watching them, also, standing at their doors in every street. it was the period of thunder and hailstorms—the deadly foe of the vine.
at length barebone pulled up and waited; for he could hear the sound of wheels behind him, and noted that it was not increasing in loudness.
“can you not go faster?” he shouted to jean, when, at length, the carriage approached.
jean made no answer, but lashed his horse and pointed upward to the sky with his whip. barebone rode in front to encourage the slower horse. at the village of mortagne he signed to jean to wait before the inn until he had taken his horse to the stable and paid for its hire. then he clambered to the box beside him and they rattled down the long street and out into the open road that led across the marshes to the port—a few wooden houses and a jetty, running out from the shallows to the channel.
when they reached the jetty, going slowly at the last through the heavy dust, the air was still and breathless. the rounded clouds still towered above them, making the river black with their deep shadows. a few lights twinkled across the waters. they were the lightships marking the middle bank of the gironde, which is many miles wide at this spot and rendered dangerous by innumerable sandbanks.
“in five minutes it will be upon us,” said jean. “you had better turn back.”
“oh, no,” was the reply, with a reassuring laugh. “in the country where i come from they do not turn back.”
