“And I’ll go up with you to Coldbrooks as if nothing had happened? I confess I have a curiosity to see how Mrs. Barney takes me.”
“She’s very good at taking things, you know,” said Nancy.
Mrs. Averil cast a glance upon him. “It may be really something of a relief to their minds, Roger,” she said, “if you turn up as if nothing had happened. They are in need of distractions. They are all dreadfully on edge, though they won’t own to it, about Meg. The case is coming on quite soon now. Mrs. Hayward has lost no time, and poor Eleanor only keeps up because Adrienne is there to hold her up.”
“Where is Meg? Do they hear from her?”
“They hear from her constantly. She’s still on the Continent. She writes very easily and confidently. I can’t help imagining, all the same, that Adrienne is holding her up, too. She’s written to Nancy and Nancy hasn’t shown me her letters.”
“There is nothing to hide, Mother,” said Nancy, and Oldmeadow had never seen her look so dejected. “Nothing at all, except that she’s not as easy and confident as she wants to appear. Adrienne does hold her up. Poor Meg.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE picture of Adrienne holding them up was spread before Oldmeadow’s eyes on the hot July day when Mrs. Averil drove him up from the Little House to Coldbrooks. The shade of the great lime-tree on the lawn was like a canvas, only old Johnson, as he moved to and fro with tea-table, silver and strawberries, stepping from its cool green atmosphere into the framing sunshine. The Chadwick family, seated or lying in the shade, were all nearly as still as in a picture, and Adrienne was its centre. She sat in a high-backed wicker chair, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, a scarf about her shoulders, and in her black-veiled white, her wide, transparent hat, she was like a clouded moon. There was something even of daring, to Oldmeadow’s imagination, in their approach across the sunny spaces. Her eyes had so rested upon them from the moment that they had driven up, that they might have been bold wayfarers challenging the magic of a Circe in her web. Palgrave, in his white flannels, lay stretched at her feet, and he had been reading aloud to her; Barbara and Mrs. Chadwick sat listening while they worked on either hand. Only Barney was removed, sitting at some little distance, his back half turned, a pipe between his teeth and his eyes on a magazine that lay upon his knee. But the influence, the magic, was upon him too. He was consciously removed.
Mrs. Chadwick sprang up to greet them. “This is nice!” she cried, and her knitting trailed behind her as she came so that Barbara, laughing, stooped to catch and pick it up as she followed her; “I was expecting you! How nice and dear of you! On this hot day! I always think the very fishes must feel warm on a day like this! Or could they, do you think?—Dear Roger!” There was an evident altering in Mrs. Chadwick’s manner towards him since the meeting in the Park. She was, with all her fluster, manifestly glad to see him.
Palgrave had hoisted himself to his feet and now stood beside Adrienne, eyeing them as a faithful hound eyes suspicious visitors.