On one side of the passage there were rows of little bathrooms, containing what Barbara thought the narrowest most uncomfortable baths imaginable. A boy in felt slippers1 ran up and down, turning on the water, and a woman sat working at a little table at one end—"to see you did not steal the towels," Barbara declared. It was here she met Alice Meynell, under the care of an old attendant, whom the girl said she knew was a spy sent to report everything she said or did.
"Mademoiselle, who came with me to call the other day, has taken a great dislike to you," Alice whispered hurriedly in passing; "and when I asked if I might go to see you again, said, 'No, it was such a pity to talk English when I was here to learn French.' I am quite determined2 to run away."
The boy announced that the bath was ready, and the old attendant, putting her watch on the table, said—
"Be quick, mademoiselle. Only twenty minutes, you know."
Before leaving the place, Barbara managed to get a moment's speech, in which she begged Alice not to do anything until they met again, and meanwhile she would try hard to think of some plan to make things easier; for the girl really looked very desperate, and Barbara had so often acted as the confidante of her own brother and sister that she was accustomed to playing the part of comforter.
It seemed to her that if Alice wanted to run away, she had better do it as well as possible, for the girl was wilful3 enough to try to carry out any wild plan she might conceive. Barbara thought of many things, but they all seemed silly or impossible, and finally got no further than making up her mind to meet Alice again at the bath-house.
The events of the afternoon, moreover, put her countrywoman out of her head for the time being, for she found what she had been longing4 for ever since she came—a riding-master.
Mademoiselle Thérèse had long talked of taking her across the bay to Dinard, to visit some friends there, but hitherto no suitable occasion had been found. The delights of a boot and shoe sale, of which mademoiselle had received notice, reminded her of her intentions of showing Barbara "that famous seaside resort," and after an early lunch they set out for Dinard.
"Business first," mademoiselle said on landing; "we will hasten to the sale, and when I have made my purchases we will stroll into the park, and then visit my friend."
"If you don't mind I will stay outside and watch the people," Barbara proposed, on reaching the shop and seeing the crowds inside. "I won't stray from just near the window, so you may leave me quite safely—and it looks so hot in there."
Her companion demurred5 for a moment, but finally agreed, and Barbara with relief turned round to watch the people passing to and fro.
Dinard seemed very gay and fashionable, she thought, and there was quite a number of English and Americans there. Surely in such a place one might find a riding-school. There was a row of fiacres quite close to the pavement, and, seized by this new idea, she hurried up to one of the drivers and asked him if he knew of any horses to be hired in the town.
She had feared her French might not be equal to the explanation, and was very glad when he understood, and still more pleased to hear that there was an excellent manège,[1] which many people visited. After inquiring the name of the street, she returned to her shop window, longing for mademoiselle to come out. Her patience was nearly exhausted6 when that lady finally appeared, having bought nothing.
"I tried on a great many boots and some shoes," she explained, "and did not care for any. Indeed, I really did not need new ones; but I have seen samples of much of their stock."
In the midst of the intense satisfaction of this performance, the girl brought her news of a riding-school, which evidently was not very welcome to her companion. She had, as a matter of fact, known of the existence of such a place, but did not approve of "equestrian7 exercise for women "; moreover, she had pictured so much exertion8 to herself in connection with the idea of riding lessons, that she had been very undesirous of Barbara's beginning them, and had, therefore, not encouraged the idea. But the secret of the school being out, she resolved to make the best of it, and agreed to go round at once and see the place.
They had little difficulty in finding it, and were ushered9 into an office, where a very immaculate Frenchman received them, and inquired how he could serve them. On hearing their errand he smiled still more pleasantly, and in a few minutes everything was settled. Barbara was to come over twice a week and have lessons, and, if she cared, might begin that afternoon. The only drawback was that she had no skirt, which, he assured her with a sweeping10 bow, he could easily remedy, for he had an almost new one on the premises11, and would think it an honour to lend it to her.
He was politeness itself, and seemed not in the least damped by Mademoiselle Thérèse's evident gloom. He conducted her up to the gallery at one end of the school, and explained that she could watch every movement from that vantage-point.
"It will be almost as good as having a lesson yourself, madame," he said politely, twirling his fierce gray mustachios.
At the other end of the school was a large looking-glass, which he told Barbara was to enable the pupils to observe their deportment; but she noticed that he always stood in the middle of the ring, where he watched his own actions with great pleasure.
The girl thought it a little dull at first, for she had been given an amiable12 old horse who knew the words of command so well that the reins13 were almost useless, and who ambled14 along in a slow and peaceful manner. But Monsieur Pirenne was entirely15 satisfied with his pupil, and he assured her, "if she continued to make such stupendous progress in the next lesson, he would have the felicity of taking her out in the following one."
"Then I must take a carriage and follow you," she said.
Barbara laughed.
"Oh, dear, mademoiselle, do think how impossible that would be," she explained, seeing the lady looked somewhat offended. "If we took to the fields how could you follow us in a carriage? No; just think how nice it will be to see so much of your friend while I am out."
This view of the case somewhat reconciled Mademoiselle Thérèse to the idea, though her contentment vanished when she found that the wind had increased considerably17 during the afternoon, and that the mouth of the river was beginning to look a little disturbed.
They stood on the end of the quay18, waiting the arrival of the steamboat, and mademoiselle shook her head gloomily.
"It is not that I am a bad sailor, you know," she explained; "but, when there is much movement, it affects my nerves and makes me feel faint."
Barbara looked steadfastly19 out to sea. She did not want to hurt Mademoiselle Thérèse's feelings by openly showing her amusement.
"It is very unpleasant to have such delicate nerves," her companion continued; "but I was ever thus—from a child."
"But at this time of year we shall not often have a stormy passage," comforted Barbara.
At that moment a gust20 of wind, more sudden than usual, playfully caught Mademoiselle Thérèse's hat, and bore it over the quay into the water.
Barbara ran forward to the edge, but it had been carried too far for her to reach even with a stick or umbrella.
"My hat!" mademoiselle cried again, turning to the people on the pier22, who were waiting for the ferry. "Rescue my hat—my best hat!"
At this stirring appeal several moved forward and looked smilingly at the doomed23 head-gear; and one kind little Frenchman stooped down and tried to catch it with the end of his stick, but failed. Mademoiselle grew desperate.
"If you cannot get the hat, get the hat-pins," she wailed24. "They are silver-gilt—and presents. Four fine large hat-pins."
Then, seeing that several people were laughing, she grew angry.
"And you call yourselves men, and Frenchmen! Can none of you swim? Why do you stand there mocking?"
"It is such an ugly hat," an Englishman murmured near Barbara. "It would be a sin to save such an inartistic creation."
"But she will get another just as bad," Barbara said, with dancing eyes. "And—it is her best one!"
"Cowards!" mademoiselle cried again, leaning futilely25 over the quay. "I tell you, it is not only the hat, but the hat-pins. Oh! to see it drown before my eyes, and none brave enough to bring it back!"
This piece of rhetoric26 seemed to move one French youth, who slowly began to unlace his boots, though with what object one could not be quite sure.
"It is such a particularly ugly hat," the Englishman continued critically. "Those great roses like staring eyes on each side, with no regard for colour or anything else."
"But the colour won't be nearly so bright after this bath," Barbara suggested; then added persuasively27, "And really, you know, she took a long time over it. Couldn't you reach it easily from that boat—the ferry is so near now, and it would drive her distracted to see the roses churned up by the paddle-wheels."
The Englishman looked from the agitated28 Frenchwoman to the blots29 of colour on the water, that were becoming pale and shapeless; then he moved lazily towards the boat. Just as he was getting into it he looked back at Barbara.
"She won't embrace me—will she?" he asked. "If so——"
"Well," he said, unshipping one, "it is against my conscience to save anything so hideous31. But the fault lies with you, and as you will probably go on seeing it, you will have punishment enough."
A few minutes later Mademoiselle Thérèse received the sodden32 hat with rapture33, anxiously counting over the hat-pins, while the French youth, with some relief, laced up his boot again.
"How noble!" mademoiselle exclaimed. "How kind! Your countryman too, Miss Barbara! Where is he that I may thank him?"
"If you linger you will miss the ferry," Barbara interposed. "See, here it is, mademoiselle," and her companion reluctantly turned from the pursuit of the stranger to go on board, clasping her hat in triumph. Barbara thought, as she followed her, that if the fastidious rescuer had but seen her joy in her recovered treasure, he would have felt rewarded for his exertions34 in saving a thing so ugly.
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1
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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7
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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9
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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14
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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23
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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26
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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30
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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31
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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32
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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33
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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34
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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