The clock was striking five when after an uneventful journey Evereld found herself outside the station at Clermont-Ferrand, giving orders to a somewhat rough-looking Auvergnat to drive her to the Château de Mabillon. The man seemed inclined to hold out for a certain sum for the journey and as Evereld had no notion of the distance, she was determined to make no rash promises. It would never do to be extravagant now, for there was no saying how long her last allowance would have to supply her wants.
“M. Magnay will settle with you when we reach the château,” she said with a little touch of dignity in her manner. The man instantly subsided, feeling that he had no stranger to deal with, but a friend of the family. And Claude Magnay’s name was quite sufficient to assure him that he would receive his rightful fare, but not the extortionate sum he had demanded of the new comer.
The little incident had however depressed Evereld. She had spoken confidently to the man but now a qualm of doubt came over her. She was about to cast herself on the mercy of Aimée’s parents, and after all she knew little about them: on their occasional visits to Southbourne, she had gone with Aimée and Bride to spend Saturday afternoon with them, and she had been three or four times to their London house, but she realised now that she was going to ask a very great favour of them, and that possibly they might not care to shelter her from her lawful guardian.
These thoughts lasted all the time they were driving through the narrow and dingy streets of Clermont-Ferrand, and she fancied that the lava built houses seemed to frown upon her and to assure her that she was an unwelcome visitor. Before long however they had left the town behind them and were driving through the most beautiful country, and in that sunny smiling landscape it was impossible to give way to anxious thoughts. The glowing colours of the autumn leaves, the picturesque vineyards, the river with its gleaming water reflecting the blue sky, and the strange irregular mountains which rose on every hand filled her with delight.
The sun had set when at length they reached a narrower and more secluded valley; Evereld fancied they must be getting near to Mabillon and inquired of her driver.
“It is two kilometres to the chateau,” said the Auvergnat. Then after a few minutes he again turned round from the box seat. “Madame Magnay and her daughter are down at the mill yonder,” he said.
“Oh, stop then, and let me speak to them,” said Evereld eagerly; and springing from the carriage she hastened towards Aimée who quickly perceived her and ran forward with a cry of joyful astonishment.
“This is a delightful surprise. Are you travelling back through France? Mother, you remember Evereld?”
Mrs. Magnay gave her a charming greeting, containing all the warmth and animation which English greetings so often lack.
“I remember Evereld very well, and am more delighted than I can say to welcome her to my dear old home.”