dines, and even the working man calls this meal–which an English laborer would call supper–his dinner. The Barclays' meals, therefore, differed more in name than in reality from those of their neighbors.
Louis and Philippe Duburg came in at five o'clock, but brought a message that their sisters would come in with their father and mother, later. Melanie was neither surprised nor disappointed at the non-arrival of her cousins. She greatly preferred being with the boys, and always felt uncomfortable with Julie and Justine; who, although little older than herself, were already as prim, decorous, and properly behaved as if they had been women of thirty years old. After tea was over, the four boys returned to their work of gathering plums; while Melanie–or Milly, as her father called her, to distinguish her from her mother–picked up the plums that fell, handed up fresh baskets and received the full ones, and laughed and chattered with her brothers and cousins.
While so engaged, Monsieur and Madame Duburg arrived, with their daughters, Julie and Justine. Monsieur Duburg–Mrs. Barclay's brother–was proprietor of a considerable estate, planted almost entirely with vines. His income was a large one, for the soil was favorable, and he carried on the culture with such care and attention that the wines fetched a higher price than any in the district. He was a clear-headed, sensible man, with a keen eye to a bargain. He was fond of his sister and her English husband, and had offered no opposition to his boys entering into the games and amusements of their cousins–although his wife was constantly urging him to do so. It was, to Madame Duburg, a terrible thing that her boys–instead of being always tidy and orderly, and ready, when at home, to accompany her for a walk–should come home flushed, hot, and untidy, with perhaps a swelled cheek or a black eye, from the effects of a blow from a cricket ball or boxing glove.
Upon their arrival at Captain Barclay's, the two gentlemen strolled out to smoke a cigar together, and to discuss the prospects of the war and its effect upon prices.
Mrs. Barclay had asked Julie and Justine if they would like to go down to the orchard; but Madame Duburg had so hurriedly answered in their name, in a negative–saying that they would stroll round the garden until Melanie returned–that Mrs. Barclay had no resource but to ask them, when they passed near the orchard, to call Milly–in her name–to join them in the garden.
"My dear Melanie," Madame Duburg began, when her daughters had walked away in a quiet, prim manner, hand in hand, "I was really quite shocked, as we came along. There was Melanie, laughing and calling out as loudly as the boys themselves, handing up baskets and lifting others down, with her hair all in confusion, and looking–excuse my saying so–more like a peasant girl than a young lady."
Mrs. Barclay smiled quietly.
"Milly is enjoying herself, no doubt, sister-in-law; and I do not see that her laughing, or calling out, or handing baskets will do her any serious harm. As for her hair, five minutes' brushing will set that right."
"But, my dear sister-in-law," Madame Duburg said, earnestly, "do you recall to yourself that Milly is nearly fourteen years old; that she will soon be becoming a woman, that in another three years you will be searching for a husband for her? My faith, it is terrible–and she has yet no figure, no manner;" and Madame Duburg looked, with an air of gratified pride, at the stiff figures of her own two girls.
"Her figure is not a bad one, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, composedly; "she is taller than Julie–who is six months her senior–she is as straight as an arrow. Her health is admirable; she has never had a day's illness."
"But she cannot walk; she absolutely cannot walk!" Madame Duburg said, lifting up her hands in horror.
"She walked upwards of twelve miles with her father, yesterday," Mrs. Barclay said, pretending to misunderstand her sister-in-law's meaning.
"I did not mean that," Madame Duburg said, impatiently, "but she walks like a peasant girl. My faith, it is shocking to say, but she walks like a boy. I should be desolated to see my daughter step out in that way.
"Then, look at her manners. My word, she has no manners at all. The other day when I was here, and Monsieur de Riviere with his sons called, she was awkward and shy; yes, indeed, she was positively awkward and shy. It is dreadful for me to have to say so, sister-in-law, but it is true. No manners, no ease! Julie, and even Justine, can receive visitors even as I could do, myself."
"Her manners are not formed yet, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly, "nor do I care that they should be. She is a young girl at present, and I do not wish to see her a woman before her time. In three years it will be time enough for her to mend her manners."
"But in three years, sister-in-law, you will be looking for a husband for her."
"I shall be doing nothing of the sort," Mrs. Barclay said, steadily. "In that, as in many other matters, I greatly prefer the English ways. As you know, we give up our house in two years, and go to England to reside. We have economized greatly, during the seventeen years since our marriage. We can afford to live in England, now.
"At sixteen, therefore, Milly will have good masters; and for two years her education will be carried on, and her walk and manner will, no doubt, improve. In England, fathers and mothers do not arrange the marriage of their children; and Milly will have to do as other girls do–that is–wait until someone falls in love with her, and she falls in love with him. Then, if he is a proper person, and has enough to keep her, they will be married."
Madame Duburg was too much shocked at the expression of these sentiments to answer at once. She only sighed, shook her head, and looked upwards.
"It is strange," she said at last, "to hear you, sister-in-law–a Frenchwoman–speak so lightly of marriage. As if a young girl could know, as well as her parents, who is a fit and proper person for her to marry. Besides, the idea of a young girl falling in love, before she marries, is shocking, quite shocking!"
"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, "we have talked this matter over before, and I have always stated my opinion, frankly. I have been a good deal in England; and have seen, therefore, and know the result of English marriages. I know also what French marriages are; and no one, who does know the state of things in the two countries, can hesitate for a moment in declaring that married life in England is infinitely happier, in every respect, than it is in France. The idea of telling your daughter that she is to marry a man whom she has never seen–as we do in France–is, to my mind, simply monstrous. Fortunately, I myself married for love; and I have been happy, ever since. I intend Milly, when the time comes, to do the same thing."
Before Madame Duburg had time to answer, the gentlemen joined them, and the conversation turned upon the war. In a short time the three girls came up.
"What a rosy little thing you are, Milly," her uncle said; "where do you get your plump cheeks, and your bright color? I wish you could give the receipt to Julie and Justine. Why, if you were to blow very hard, I do think you would blow them both down."
"I am really surprised at you, Monsieur Duburg," his wife said, angrily. "I am sure I do not wish Julie and Justine to have as much color as their cousin. I consider it quite a misfortune for poor Milly. It is so very commonplace. Poor child, she looks as if she had been working at the vintage."
"That is right, madame; stand up for your own," and her husband, who was accustomed to his wife's speeches, laughed. "But for all that, commonplace or not commonplace, I should like to see some of Milly's bright, healthy color in my girls' cheeks; and I should like to see them walk as if they had forgotten, for a moment, their tight boots and high heels."
His wife was about to make an angry reply, when the arrival of the four boys–bearing in triumph the last basket of plums–changed the conversation; and shortly afterwards, Madame Duburg remarking that the evening was damp, and that she did not like Julie and Justine to be out in it any later, the Du burgs took their leave.
Chapter 2: Terrible News
The ten days succeeding the declaration of war were days of excitement, and anticipation. The troops quartered at Dijon moved forward at once; and scarcely an hour passed but long trains, filled with soldiers from Lyons and the South, were on their way up towards Metz. The people of Dijon spent half their time in and around the station. The platform was kept clear; but bands of ladies