Helen was pained. Did she not understand? and yet it seemed so entirely simple. She did not insist any more, feeling that her father looked ill; that it was unkind to press him for the moment. “If any of the people to whom he owes money should come here,” she said to herself, “I should know what to do.” It was with this feeling that she set out to see his friends. Janey was in the garden with Margot’s children, perfectly happy; her sister was not sorry on this day of emotion to be alone. She walked away quickly to the château, and her story about the tirage and those upon whom the bad numbers had fallen, was full of interest for the ladies; they wanted to hear every name, and how the unfortunates had borne it.
“Pierre Courvoye! Oh, it will not do any harm to Pierre; and I think a few years’ steady service and discipline will be of use to Jean too.”
“But poor old Elisabeth!” cried Cécile.
“She will be better without him; at least she will not see him going wrong; and perhaps he will do better in the regiment.”
“But Baptiste? it will ruin Baptiste and poor Mère Dupré, and break little Blanchette’s heart,” the girls cried.
When they heard that Mr Goulburn had bought him a substitute there were no bounds to their enthusiasm. “Your papa, then, is a saint, he is a benefactor, he has a heart of gold!” they cried.
“But, mon enfant,” said the Comtesse, “I fear you must have allowed him to be exposed to emotion. Never forget that there must be no emotion; you must avoid it as you would avoid poison.”
This flutter of interest and kind, pleasant talk and praise sent all that was melancholy out of Helen’s head. She was to return home early, but this was the evening of Madame la Comtesse’s dinner, and they were then to meet again. “Shall I tell her?” whispered Cécile.
“Oh no, no; let it be a surprise!” cried the more mischievous Thérèse. They went out with her to show her how all the young larches were pushing out their tassels, and the crocuses coming up by hundreds in the grass. Helen returned to the village by the longer way. There was a grand entrance to the château which was scarcely ever used; a short avenue with two curious tall bits of building on either side of the gate, half towers, half houses, three storeys high, giving a half-ludicrous air of defence in the midst of a line of low and innocent hedges. When important visitors came this was how they went in; and, as it happened, she had scarcely emerged from between the two obelisks of houses which blocked the gateway, when she saw the Comtesse’s great lumbering old family coach, the berline, as they called it, swaying along the road, drawn by the two long-tailed horses from the farm, with old Léon on the box, who was called Monsieur l’Intendant in the village when the people wanted to please him. Helen’s heart began to beat. She felt sure that the occupants of the berline must be the English strangers whom she looked for with so much expectation, yet fear. She gave a hurried glance at them as they lumbered past. She saw two heads, but her eyes were hazy with over-anxiety, and her excitement confused her. She could not tell who they were, or if she had seen them before. The carriage passed her. She breathed more freely. How foolish! she said to herself. Was she disappointed that after all it was not Charley Ashton? or was she relieved? or what was it? She could not tell. Her life had been full of a vague expectation, which had gone to her head, which had kept her amused, excited, disturbed, alive to everything. And now it had failed. Was not she glad? She ought to have been; it would keep safe her father’s secret, and save him from all disturbance. But Helen’s first sensation was as if she had fallen out of the clouds. The earth is a very steady, very satisfactory thing to come down upon, and by far the safest footing; but still, when you drop from a height there is apt to be a momentary jar.
She was so full of this really involuntary, unwilling sensation, and so anxious to feel glad that all cause for apprehension on her father’s part was over, that she did not hear the much louder jarring and grinding of the wheels with which the big berline, as soon as it had passed her, was stopped. Helen felt slightly unsteady so far as she herself was concerned. Her steps wavered; there was a ringing in her ears. It had been, she said to herself, something to look forward to, and it was over; and she was very glad it was over, and papa happily escaped from all annoyance. Things were getting steadier before her eyes every moment, her step was getting more assured. Then all at once she heard voices in the air. “I certainly will not wait for you,” in a somewhat severe tone, and in familiar English accents.