As the barouche drew up outside the door of the Château, Barbara strolled out, with the tail of her habit caught up over one arm, and a glass of wine in her hand. She had taken off her hat, and her short red curls were clustering over her head in not unpleasing disorder. She looked rather mannish, and neither her eyes nor her glancing smile held a hint of the softness which Judith had seen in both the day before.
‘Have you had a pleasant drive?’ she called out. ‘We beat you, you observe.’
‘Yes, a delightful drive,’ replied Judith, stepping out of the carriage. ‘And I have now fallen quite in love with this pretty little Château! How cosy it is! There is nothing stiff, nothing at all formal about these Flemish country houses.’
Lavisse came out of the house at this moment, and while he welcomed the ladies, and directed the coachman where to stable his horses, Barbara stood leaning negligently against the doorpost, sipping her wine and blinking, catlike, at the sunshine.
The owner of the house was away, but Lavisse, who appeared to be quite at home, had advised the housekeeper of his advent, and a light luncheon had been prepared for the party. A fille de chambre conducted the ladies upstairs to a bedroom where they could leave their pelisses and bonnets, and when they were ready led them down again to a parlour overlooking a walled garden with an orchard beyond.
A table had been laid in the middle of the room, and a fire burned in the hearth. Barbara was lounging in the window, leaning her shoulders against the lintel. As Judith and Harriet came in, a burst of laughter from the two men indicated that she was in funning humour.
The Count at once came forward. He drew Harriet to a chair by the fire, declaring that she must be chilled from the long drive, and insisted on her taking a glass of wine. She accepted, and he stayed by her, engaging her in conversation, while Judith went to the window to admire the garden.
It was laid out in neat walks, much of it under cultivation for vegetables, but there were some flowerbeds as well, and the tops of the fruit trees beyond the mellow brick wall were heavy with blossom. From the window could be seen rose bushes, some fine fig trees, and several orange trees. Judith thought the garden must be enchanting in summer.
‘I daresay it is,’ agreed Barbara. ‘We might arrange another expedition here, perhaps in June.’
‘June! Who knows what may have happened by then?’
‘Oh, you are thinking of the war, are you? I am tired of it: we have heard too much of it, and nothing ever happens.’
‘It certainly seems out of place in this peaceful little Château,’ Judith remarked. ‘You must have had a delightful ride through the Forest. Such noble trees! I do not think there can be any tree to compare with the beech.’
‘Beech trees, are they? To tell you the truth, I did not notice them particularly,’ said Barbara. ‘Etienne, fill my glass, if you please!’
‘Ah, allow me!’ Peregrine said, hurrying to the table for the decanter that stood on it.
She held out her glass, smiling at him. He filled it, and his own, saying audaciously: ‘To your green eyes, Lady Bab!’
She laughed. ‘To your blue ones, Sir Peregrine!’
Luncheon was brought in at this moment, and soon the whole party was seated round the table, partaking of minced chicken and scalloped oysters.
Lady Barbara was in spirits, the Count scarcely less so, and everything might have gone off merrily enough had not Lady Taverner taken one of her rare dislikes to Barbara. Like many shy women, she had some strong prejudices. She had never liked Barbara. Until today, she had known her merely by sight and by repute, and, being a just little creature, had refused to condemn her. But from the moment of seeing Barbara come down the steps of her home in her hussar dress she had felt that gossip had not lied. Barbara was fast, and, since she chose deliberately to ride off alone with a dreadful rake, unprincipled into the bargain. She offended every canon of good taste: lounged like a man, tossed off her wine like a man, and (thought Harriet, in her innocence) swore like a trooper. Listening to her conversation at the luncheon table, Harriet decided that some of her sallies were a trifle warm. Shocked, and with a very prim expression on her face, she tried to give the conversation a more decorous turn. It was too pointed an attempt; Barbara looked at her, blankly at first, and then in frank amusement. She addressed an idle remark to Harriet, received the chilliest of monosyllables in reply, and openly laughed.
Judith intervened, and the awkward moment passed. But as Harriet, mortified by the laugh, remained for the rest of the meal apparently oblivious of Barbara’s presence, she began to wish that she had never hit upon the idea of arranging this pleasure party. The task of talking to Harriet without ignoring Barbara taxed her powers to the utmost, and by the time they rose from the table she would have been hard put to it to say which of the two ladies she most blamed.
Luncheon at an end, a walk in the orchard and wood was proposed. Harriet declined it, but when she had been comfortably settled with a book by the fire, the rest of the party strolled out into the garden, and after wandering about its paths for a little while, made their way into the orchard. Daffodils were growing under the fruit trees in great profusion. Judith could not resist the temptation of picking some. The Count gave instant permission: his cousin would be only too happy! had, in fact, written to beg that the visitors would consider the Château their own. She soon had an armful; he very considerately ran back to the house with them, to save her the trouble of carrying them; and returned to find her waiting for him under a gnarled old apple tree, Barbara having gone off to explore the wood with Peregrine.
Judith believed Peregrine to be too devoted to his Harriet to be in danger of succumbing to Barbara’s charms, but the light raillery that had been going on between them made her feel a little uneasy. Courtesy had obliged her to wait for Lavisse’s return, but when he joined her it was she, an
d not he, who suggested catching up with the others.
They made their way into the wood, but after they had been walking about for a time without seeing anything of the truants, the Count suggested that they should follow the track which led from the Château, through the wood, and over a slight hill to the Charleroi road.
‘I mentioned to Bab that there is a view to be obtained from the top of the hill. Without doubt they have gone there,’ he said. ‘You will not be too tired? It is perhaps a kilometre’s distance.’
‘I should enjoy it of all things. This spring weather is invigorating, don’t you agree?’
‘Certainly. But I fear my poor country must disappoint one accustomed to the varied scene in England.’
‘By no means. Perhaps there is a variety in England not elsewhere to be found: I myself am a native of Yorkshire, where, we flatter ourselves, we have unsurpassed grandeur. But there is something very taking about this country of yours. If you have none of the rugged beauty I could show you in Yorkshire, you have instead a homely, thriving scene which must inevitably please. So many rivers, so many neat farmsteads, shady copses, and rich fields!’
‘This is unexpected praise, madame. Bab declares my country to be too tame. Nothing can happen here, she says.’
‘She speaks lightly,’ Judith replied. ‘My knowledge of history, though not at all profound, reminds me that, in spite of every appearance to the contrary, stirring events have happened here.’
‘You are thinking of your Duke of Marlborough. It is true: this poor land of mine has been often the battlefield of Europe, and may be so yet again—perhaps many times: who knows?’