Part 15 (1/2)
As soon as Barbara had a.s.sured him that this was not an attack in the rear, he flung open the door, and welcomed her most cordially. Barbara wondered where he had been not to have heard Mademoiselle Loire's wailings, and suspected that perhaps he _had_ heard them and had retired hastily in consequence! He certainly looked a little depressed when he received the message, which was to the effect that he should come and address the crowd from the Loires' window, and bid it to proceed on its way.
”I think,” he said pensively, after some moments' consideration, ”that if I am to go at all, I had better go out by my own front door and speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen to me there, than if they thought I was one of Mademoiselle Loire's household.”
”That is _very_ brave of you, monsieur,” Barbara said, and the little man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as he certainly was rather timid by nature.
”If _you_ are going out to face that mob,” said Jean, drawing himself up, ”I will accompany you.”
”n.o.ble boy!” cried the little man, embracing him. ”We will live or die together. Come!” And off they went, while Barbara hurried across the garden and over the wall again, not wis.h.i.+ng to miss the spectacle in the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and, as it took her some time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression, for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loires had not heard much either.
But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight, and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door.
”Enter!” Mademoiselle Loire cried. ”Enter, our preserver--our rescuer!” and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle Therese seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her part by the son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.
”Our n.o.ble preserver, what do we not owe to you!” shouted Mademoiselle Therese, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear.
”Facing the mob like a lion at bay--one man against a thousand!”
Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical imagination must be allowed free play.
”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 b.u.t.terflies in June; then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just a.s.suring 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 Loire 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 Therese replied at some length, without being called upon; and it was getting quite late before the two ”n.o.ble preservers” retired to their own home.
When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loire 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 a.s.sist, 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 Therese 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 Therese 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 Loire 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 Therese 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 Therese 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.”
And, though Mademoiselle Therese looked at her sharply, the girl's face was so sedate that the lady supposed she was treating the matter with seriousness.
CHAPTER XVI.
BARBARA PLAYS DETECTIVE.
The morning lesson was over, and Mademoiselle Therese had betaken herself to Barbara's couch, which the girl knew always meant that she was going to make her an indefinite visit, and tell her some long story. This time, it was about her visit to England and what she had done when teaching there; and, as Barbara had heard it all before more than once, it was a little difficult to show a proper interest in it.