"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 butterflies in June; then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just assuring 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 Loiré 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 Thérèse replied at some length, without being called upon; and it was getting quite late before the two "noble preservers" retired to their own home.
When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loiré 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 assist, 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 Thérèse 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 Thérèse 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 Loiré 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 Thérèse 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 Thérèse 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."