THE SILVER LINING


_A GUERNSEY STORY._


  BY

  JOHN ROUSSEL.


  Guernsey:
  FREDERICK BLONDEL GUERIN,
  "THE SUN" OFFICE, HIGH STREET.

  1894.




INDEX.


  CHAPTER    I.--THE RESULTS OF DISOBEDIENCE                       3
            II.--A LITTLE GIRL'S CHANGE OF LIFE                   15
           III.--THE BOARDING SCHOOL                              24
            IV.--THE INFLUENCES OF A GOOD HOME                    33
             V.--THE REWARD OF INORDINATE AMBITION                45
            VI.--NEW ACQUAINTANCES                                54
           VII.--AN ABRUPT DISMISSAL                              62
          VIII.--AN UNPLEASANT VISIT                              72
            IX.--DECEPTIONS                                       79
             X.--'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY                             84
            XI.--BUSINESS                                         91
           XII.--A STRANGE MEETING                                96
          XIII.--SUPERSTITION                                    102
           XIV.--FAILURE                                         107
            XV.--DARK DAYS                                       115
           XVI.--SHADOW AND SUNSHINE                             125
          XVII.--THE EFFECTS OF A SERMON                         130
         XVIII.--SUCCESS AFTER SUCCESS                           135
           XIX.--TOM'S INTERVIEW WITH MRS. VIDOUX                143
            XX.--TOM'S VISIT TO HIS UNCLE                        148
           XXI.--THE ENCOUNTER                                   153
          XXII.--FATHER AND DAUGHTER                             159
         XXIII.--A SECRET CORRESPONDENCE                         163
          XXIV.--MR. ROUGEANT GOES TO CHURCH                     169
           XXV.--LOVE TRIUMPHS                                   173
          XXVI.--WEDDED                                          183
         XXVII.--RECONCILIATION                                  189
        XXVIII.--A SAD END OF A MISPENT LIFE                     197
          XXIX.--DOMESTIC HAPPINESS                              205




THE SILVER LINING.

A GUERNSEY STORY.




CHAPTER I.

THE RESULTS OF DISOBEDIENCE.


One fine summer afternoon--it was the month of June--the sea was
calm, the air was still, and the sun was warm.

The mackerel boats from Cobo (a bay in the island of Guernsey) were
setting sail; an old woman was detaching limpets from the rocks, and
slowly, but steadily, filling up her basket. On the west side of the
bay, two air-starved Londoners were sitting on the sand, basking in
the sunshine, determined to return home, if not invigorated, at
least bronzed by the sea air. On the east side, a few little boys
were bathing. A middle-aged man, engaged in searching for sand-eels,
completed the picture.

A little boy, who might have been nine years of age, was standing in
the road gazing upon this scene. The way in which he was clothed,
betokened that he was not one of the lads that lived in the vicinity
of that bay. He was dressed in a well-fitting knickerbocker suit,
and his polished boots, his well combed hair, denoted that he was an
object of especial care at home. He possessed a very intelligent
air, a fine forehead, rather large eyes which were full of
expression, and his frowning look, the way in which he stamped his
little foot, denoted that he was of an impulsive temperament. This
little fellow had some very good ideas. He had determined to be
good, and unselfish; and he tried to learn as much as he possibly
could. His mother had told him that later on this would help him in
life.

Once, an inquisitive pedlar, noticing his intelligence, and his
garrulous disposition, asked him jokingly if he ever intended to
marry. Upon which Frank Mathers (this was the boy's name) assumed a
serious air, and giving his head a little toss he answered, "I do
not know yet, there are so many beautiful little girls everywhere,
one does not know which one to choose."

A physiognomist might easily have seen that in this little boy's
soul a struggle was going on. "Shall I go?" he was saying to
himself; "shall I go and amuse myself?" His conscience had a great
power over him; but the beautiful sea was tempting, each wave as it
fell produced a sound which was sweeter to his ears than the
sweetest music.

"Your mother has forbidden you to go;" said his conscience; "you
must obey her."

He continued to remain undecided between pleasure and duty, the
strife going on meanwhile within him. All at once, he espied on his
extreme left four small boys about his size, who were coming out of
the water. How they laughed; how joyful they seemed to be; how they
made the water splash and foam around them. Frank immediately began
to run at full speed towards them, and covered the space of sand
which separated him from the little boys in two minutes. He arrived
breathless near the group of children who were dressing themselves.
He looked at them, and was asking himself if he must go nearer to
them, when one of the group looked at him with a surly air. Little
Frank translated this into: "What business have you here?" and
retreated.

He began to examine the man who was looking for sand-eels. The
fisherman was digging in the gravel with a spade, and now and then a
few of the little fishes were dislodged from their hiding place.
They wriggled in such a lively fashion that Frank was greatly
amused, and forgot, for a time, all about his first desire of a run
in the sea.

He laughed aloud when he saw a big sand-eel, bigger than any which
the man had yet captured--for he took the trouble to go and see in
his basket--escape into the water and swim out of the man's reach.

The fisherman was evidently annoyed at having lost this fine
specimen, and when he saw this little fellow laughing, and standing
quite close to his basket, he grew angry, and in a rough tone of
voice, speaking in Guernsey French, he exclaimed: "Begone, you
impudent little rascal."

Now, little Frank did not know French, and consequently did not
understand a single word of what this man said, but he hastily
retreated. "He must have uttered something terrible," he said to
himself; "what an ugly face. Why is this man vexed with me? I have
done nothing to grieve him; only bent over his basket and laughed
when I saw that fish escape; but why did not the man laugh also? It
was so amusing."

He looked round to see whether he could discover any of those little
boys who had attracted his attention when he was in the road, but
none of them were visible. There were a few persons here and there,
but no one was near him. He made sure of this by directing his eyes
successively in the direction of every point of the compass. The
"sand-eel man" was still busy, but he was far enough. Frank hastened
behind a small rock and began to undress. As he did so, he
experienced a series of queer sensations. He was tasting pleasure at
the expense of his conscience, and, struggle as he would, he felt
unhappy. It was the first time that he thus openly disregarded his
mother's commands, and it cost him something to do so.

It did not take him long to divest himself of his clothing. He was
soon in the water, dancing and romping. The water around him
resembled that of Lodore.

He now felt happy, having forgotten all about his mother and the
errand which she had sent him to accomplish.

The water was warm; the little green crabs that walked sideways
passing quite close to him, amused him considerably. He passed a
portion of his time chasing them. Then he waded farther into the
water till it came up to his hips. Ah, this was pleasure indeed! He
would not have exchanged his place for a suite of rooms in
Buckingham Palace.

He had been in the water for about a quarter of an hour. He glanced
round to see if the fisherman was to be seen. No trace of him now.

"He has gone home," he thought. He began to feel cold. "I must go
and dress," he said to himself, "or I shall catch cold, and then
mamma will know that I have been bathing."

Frank proceeded towards the place where he had placed his clothes,
but as he approached the shore, he found that the water seemed to be
getting warmer. This discovery was the cause of his staying five
minutes longer in the water than he would otherwise have done.

Then he again betook himself towards _terra firma_. "Hullo,
what's this?" And he held up a boot. "How strange, it looks exactly
like mine," he muttered. Then a thought--a flash shot through his
brain, immediately followed by a pang through his heart. The
thought--"where are my clothes?"--the pang--the result of his
disappointing glance towards the place in which he had placed them.
He was out of the water in the twinkling of an eye. The boot which
he had found was in his hand. Where were his trousers? where was his
coat? There was his shirt being knocked about by the waves! He
rushed upon it, threw it on the gravel near his boot, and began
tremblingly to search for his other garments. He at last succeeded
in bringing together the following collection: One pair of trousers,
one stocking, one boot, one shirt. That was all.

He was now shivering from head to foot, his teeth chattered in his
mouth, his whole appearance was one of utter wretchedness. He did
not cry; he was too miserable; he only kept muttering: "I will never
disobey mamma any more; I will never do it, never, never."

He looked round to ascertain that no one was looking at him. What
was his vexation to discover the man with the sand-eels eyeing him,
a repulsive grin covering his whole face, and a small black pipe
stuck between his teeth.

This sight, instead of discouraging Frank, made him assume an air of
bravado. He took his shirt, wrung out the water, shook it and
proceeded to put it on. How cold it was; how it stuck to his little
body. It only made him shiver the more. He put his stocking on the
left foot; then he put on his trousers, and lastly, his boot. This
boot he put on the right foot so that his feet were both hidden from
view. Then with a heavy and repentant heart--what person is not
repentant when he sees himself in some nasty scrape caused by his
own sinfulness?--he directed his irregular steps towards his home. A
curious sight to gaze upon was this little fellow as he wearily
plodded on his way.

He had not advanced twenty yards when he took off his boot and put
it on the other foot. He could not endure the pain that it caused
him. He had not been accustomed to go without stockings, he had
never tried the experiment before, and he wondered why his feet were
so tender. He rose and began to walk once more. It was an unequal
walk, like that of a person with a short leg. He stopped again. Some
gravel had found its way into his boot, and the torture which it
caused him was unendurable. He carefully withdrew all the
pain-inflicting pebbles, brushed off the gravel that adhered to his
stocking, and resumed his laborious task of walking. When he came
into the road, the people which he met laughed at him. "Ah; what
nasty people there are in these places," he thought. He fancied he
was being punished. He had hoped to have had a lot of fun. He would
have returned home, invented some pretext for having been longer
than usual; and now, what a wretched plight he was in. Why was he
not punished in another way? this was too severe, he had never
sinned at that amount, he was receiving extra payment.

Thus soliloquized our little man when he arrived near a farm-house
called "Les Pins." He heard a pig squeak, and hastened along as fast
as his naked and now sore foot would allow him.

There, in the farmyard, was a sight which he had never before
witnessed. One man, a butcher, was pulling on a rope which was tied
around a porker's snout. Three other men were forcibly pushing the
animal along. They made but little progress however, for master
piggy placed his feet so firmly on the ground that it required all
the efforts of the four men to make him move.

At last he was with difficulty brought near the scaffold; the altar
upon which he was to be sacrificed to supply the voracious appetites
of man.

He was forcibly lifted upon the wooden bench and firmly held down.
Then the butcher twisted the piece of rope around his hand and the
pig's snout, and unsheathing a sharp knife, he plunged it in the
animal's throat. The porker's life-blood gushed out in a red stream.
Frank fairly danced with joy. He forgot all his troubles while
witnessing those of the pig. The latter tried to shake himself free.
He filled the air with protestations against the treatment to which
he was being subjected, he invoked his gods, but all in vain. Firmly
held down by the four men he soon ceased to struggle and lay quite
still.

"It does not seem to me," Frank heard one of the men remark, "that
he has given a very violent shake before dying, as porkers
generally do." "Oh, he is dead enough," said the butcher, "fetch the
water and let us make haste." The men obeyed the order which was
given rather peremptorily and the half drunk butcher followed them,
so did a lad of fourteen years (the heir to the estate), who,
according to a Guernsey custom, had been holding the pig's tail.

Frank was just considering whether he would go nearer to the animal
when the latter gave a jump. In a moment piggy got down and galloped
in an awkward fashion straight in the direction of Frank, who
uttered a cry of terror and ran away as fast as his legs would carry
him. He forgot all about his exposed foot, and received a few nasty
bruises and cuts against the sharp stones that were placed in the
road for macadamizing purposes.

He cast an anxious glance behind him to see if the porker was
following him, for he had now no other idea but that the pig was
being sent to complete the punishment which he thought had been
dealt out to him for his disobedience. But the porker was not to be
seen. He had fallen dead after having run a few yards. When Frank
came higher up the road, he proceeded to examine his foot. It hurt
him considerably. He tied his handkerchief around it and resumed his
walk. Seeing a great gap in the hedge he looked through it and saw
that the men were plunging the porker in a great tub full of
steaming water. Then followed a scraping with ormer shells, and, in
a few minutes, the black pig was divested of his hairy coat. His
skin was white and smooth, like those which Frank had seen at the
meat market.

Not caring to see more, and feeling very cold, he resumed his
journey homewards. He was so excited with what he had witnessed,
that he did not think so much about his wretched condition as he
would otherwise have done, and when he arrived in front of his
father's house, at the Rohais, he was almost cheerful.

But he suddenly stopped short. "If I go inside with this countenance
on, mamma will punish me severely," he thought.

He therefore called to his aid all the hypocrisy which his years
were able to muster, and assumed a most miserable expression. But
this was not enough to satisfy Frank's idea of the exigencies of the
present situation. He doubled his fists, rubbed his eyes vigorously,
and uttered a very plaintive and doleful cry.

Thus prepared, he entered the house by the back door, keeping a
sharp look out through the corner of his eyes for his mother. She
was not in the kitchen; he opened the door of the parlour; his eyes
reddened and moistened by the friction to which they were being
subjected, while his cries were heart-rending. Mrs. Mathers was not
in the parlour. He stopped his sham crying, sat himself on a chair
and listened eagerly for the sound of approaching footsteps; ready
to recommence his little game as soon as his mother entered the
house.

No sound of approaching footsteps were however heard. Frank Mathers
was now quite chilled, although the weather was very warm. His
excitement had abated and he was feeling down-hearted. There was no
fire in the room. Frank fetched a large coat (his father's) and
wrapped it around him. He was busily engaged in this operation when
his mother suddenly appeared upon the scene.

She wore slippers, which accounted for his not having heard her
footsteps.

"Well?" she said, wondering what her son was about, "what are you
wrapping yourself up for?"

Frank was taken by surprise. He looked up with a very confused air.
His mother misinterpreted his look. "Don't be silly, child," she
said, "have you carried that letter to Mr. Gavet."

"Yes, mamma," mumbled the little fellow, "but----" and he unbuttoned
his coat and exhibited his dilapidated state before the eyes of his
astonished mother. "What _have_ you been doing?" she questioned
anxiously. "My clothes were caught by the sea," he sobbed, and
genuine tears flowed down his cheeks.

Then he confessed everything to his mother; how he had been tempted
to enjoy himself despite her orders; how he had watched a man who
was catching sand-eels; and, finally, how his clothes had been
washed away by the rising tide.

When he had finished speaking, he raised his eyes to see what kind
of look his mother wore. Perceiving a cloud of sadness hanging over
her brow, he jumped up and exclaimed: "Oh, mamma, do not look at me
so; I will never disobey you any more."

The mother took the now repentant son upon her knees, and, after
having shown him the consequences of disobedience; after having
spoken to him of the pain which he caused her through showing a
disposition to do wrong and of the sin which he committed, she
instructed him tenderly, and made an impression on his soft heart,
such as a mother alone knows how to make. Then she kissed her son.
"You forgive me, then?" said the boy. "Yes, my dear, I forgive you."

Frank Mathers was so impressed with his mother's love that he
silently determined never again to grieve her. "Now let me change
your clothes. You might catch a severe cold and perhaps be ill for
weeks after this. Do you feel ill?"

"No, mamma, I am cold, that is all."

When Frank was eating his supper that evening, his heart was full of
thankfulness. "What a good mother I have," he thought, "I will never
do anything contrary to her orders any more." He suddenly stopped
eating. The thought of the porker struck him and he called out
gently: "Mamma."

"What is it my dear?"

"A dead pig came running after me."

Mrs. Mathers looked somewhat anxiously at her son. Was his mind
going out?

"They had killed a pig at a farm, and when they were gone to fetch
some water, the porker jumped down and came running after me," said
the little boy.

The slight shock which the mother had received, had sufficed to
flush her cheek.

There was something strange in that bright tint on her face, it
glowed with a strange light. Her eye had a kind, but far away
glance; an almost divine expression. It was full of tenderness and
melancholy. She seemed to belong to some other world then; her whole
soul seemed to shine in that sweet face. This was how she looked as
she gazed upon her son that evening, while he was finishing his
supper, seemingly not at all astonished at his mother's silence. He
had grown accustomed to these moments of pensiveness on his mother's
part. Of late, she often fell into a strange reverie, and little
Frank was yet too young to understand these symptoms always followed
by a short, hollow cough. His mother was attacked with phthisis.

When he had finished his supper, Frank again turned towards his
mother.

"How can a dead pig run?" he asked.

"The pig was not dead," said his mother; "now make haste and go to
bed. I don't want to have to nurse you to-morrow."

The little boy obeyed, muttering to himself: "The pig _was_ dead. I
believe what I have seen. Mamma must have misunderstood me."




CHAPTER II.

A LITTLE GIRL'S CHANGE OF LIFE.


Miss Rader was a tall, stiff, sour-faced lady of four-and-fifty. She
kept a school for young country ladies at a place called "Fardot,"
in one of the parishes adjoining the Forest.

Among the pupils who were unfortunate enough to fall under her harsh
rule was a certain little girl whose name was Adèle Rougeant. She
was the daughter of an avaricious farmer who lived at "Les Marches,"
in the parish of the Forest.

This little girl's mother had now been dead three years. Adèle was
then only four years of age.

"You will place our daughter at Miss Rader's school till she is
seven years of age," were the instructions of Mrs. Rougeant to her
husband on her death-bed.

This was not all; Mr. Rougeant was solicited by his wife to place
Adèle for ten years at a boarding-school in "the town," where she
would receive an education such as pertained to her rank and
fortune.

Mr. Rougeant would gladly have sent his daughter to the parish
school, till the age of fourteen. Afterwards, he would have had her
taught to work. He would have had to pay only one penny a week at
the parish school, whereas he now paid five pence. Soon, he would
have to disburse from fifty to sixty pounds a year for Adèle's
sake. "What extravagance," he muttered between his teeth. But he
dared not go against his promises to his dying wife. Mr. Rougeant
was superstitious. "If I fail to fulfil my promises to my dying
wife, I shall most certainly see her ghost;" he said to himself. So
he preferred to part with a portion of his income in exchange for a
life unmolested by apparitions.

It was the month of August of the same year in which the events
narrated in the preceding chapter occurred. The pupils of Miss Rader
were all assembled to receive the prizes which they were supposed to
have won.

The reward-books were handed to the pupils by an elderly lady--Mrs.
Lebours. She was standing in front of the row of young girls,
surrounded by half-a-dozen satellites of her own sex. Miss Rader was
sitting near the group of "young ladies."

Mrs. Lebours began: "First prize for French has been won by Adèle
Rougeant, but the committee of ladies have decided that as she is
about to pursue her studies elsewhere, she will not receive the
prize. It will be given to the one next to her, who is going to
remain under Miss Rader's excellent tuition."

This little speech having been delivered by Mrs. Lebours, who
meanwhile flourished the reward-book; Miss Rader approached Adèle,
and tapping her unkindly on the shoulder, she whispered to her in a
whistling tone, her snaky eyes expressing the kindliness of a tiger:
"You see what you gain through wanting to leave my school; you lose
a beautiful book."

Adèle was not unhappy. On the contrary; she experienced an
elevating, martyr-like sensation. She turned towards Miss Rader.

"I have earned it?" she questioned.

"Yes, but----."

"I am satisfied," she said; then, quoting as near as she could a
phrase which had attracted her attention in one of the rare books
which she had cast her childish eyes upon, she added, "We do not go
to school to obtain prizes, but to acquire knowledge."

Miss Rader was seated in her former place when Adèle finished. Her
upper lip was slightly curled up, she was gazing upon Adèle with a
look of supreme contempt.

The distribution of prizes was soon finished. The children were
dismissed for the holidays and sent home. Adèle bore her little head
up proudly. She had been wronged. She felt a thrill of pleasure as
she entered her home at "Les Marches."

In acting as they had done, the committee of ladies had placed
themselves lower than her. She felt it, and prided herself upon
being ever so much better than they were. When her father came in
she called out to him: "I earned a prize, but they would not give it
me as I was going to leave school."

"Humph!" he said moodily, "I am afraid you over-estimate your
intellectual capacities. Carry this letter to your uncle Tom at the
'Prenoms.'"

And he handed his daughter a scrap of paper.

Adèle did immediately as she was bid, not daring to speak when she
heard her father's gruff tone.

The farm of the "Prenoms" was only half a mile distant from "Les
Marches," and Adèle did the distance in ten minutes.

She gave the letter to her uncle. "You will have to wait for a
reply," he said.

Her uncle was a man who never said more than was absolutely
necessary.

"Seat yourself; here is a chair for you," said her aunt.

Adèle took the preferred chair, and her aunt began to question her.

"So you are going to a boarding school," she said; and Adèle felt
that there was something sarcastic in her tone.

"Papa wants me to," she mumbled timidly.

"Oh, it is not so much Alfred's wish," significantly said Mrs. Soher
(Adèle's aunt), as she turned towards her step-mother who was seated
on a "_jonquière_," engaged in mending a pair of stockings.

Near her sat a young boy who looked a little older than Adèle. He
was mischievously occupied in knotting the skein of thread which his
grandmother was using.

Adèle resented what she knew to be a slight cast upon her dead
mother's memory, but she did not speak. Her aunt had always been
hostile to her, she knew not why.

Old Mrs. Soher raised her hoary head and remarked: "In my time,
young girls like Adèle used to learn to read and write,--and work."

Adèle felt very uncomfortable. She wished her uncle would make haste
and write his reply; but he sat at his desk, passing his fingers
through his hair; a method with which he was familiar when puzzled.
Then he rose and cast a significant glance at his wife who followed
him out of the room.

The old woman espied her prankish grandson. She immediately broke
out into a violent fit of scolding: too animated to be serious. "Ah!
but what next, you wicked little rascal. Knotting my thread; but I'm
sure. I have a mind to slap your face. Just look at what you have
done. Why did you do it?"

Tommy--the little boy--giggled. "I was tired of sitting here doing
nothing," he answered impudently; "why don't you tell me a story."

"Well, now, be a good boy; do you know where the bad boys will go?"

"With the devil."

"Quite right; now, you will be good."

"Tell me a tale; you know, something about the old witches," said
Tommy. "How do they make people ill?" he questioned pulling
impatiently at his grandmother's shawl.

"They give themselves to Satan," answered the grandmother.

"How?"

"They sign their name, writing it backwards with their own blood."

Adèle shuddered; although she was a country girl, she had never
heard anything of the sort before. She listened attentively.

"You told me they were given books; did you not?" questioned the
lad.

"Yes they receive one or two infamous books, which they cannot
destroy after they have taken them, neither can anyone else do away
with these bad books. Yet, I remember quite well when there was one
completely annihilated.

"It was when one of my aunt's died. She was a terrible witch; alas,
the chairs; and all the cups and saucers, bowls and plates on the
dresser danced when they carried her body out of the house."

Adèle laughed.

Tommy looked at her. "Oh, it's true," he said, "you can laugh if you
like--ain't it grand'ma?"

Mrs. Soher went on: "When we cleaned out the house, we found one of
those awful books. No one dared to open it, yet everyone knew by its
funny covers, its queer print and its yellow paper, that it was one
of the 'devil's own.' My sister, who, by the way, was not very
superstitious took----"

"Superlicious! what's that?" questioned the boy.

"People who don't believe in all sorts," immediately explained
grandmamma.

"Now where was I? ah, my sister took the book and threw it into the
fire but it did not burn!"

"Oo-oo," ejaculated Tommy.

Adèle began to be credulous. It must be borne in mind that she was
only seven years old.

Grand'ma proceeded: "She snatched it again from the fire and put it
on the table. Now it happened that on that very day, my brother was
going to seek for shell-fish at a place called _La Banque au
Mouton_. He said that he would take the book and place it under a
big stone; then, when the tide rose, it would be covered over, and,
we all hoped, altogether destroyed.

"He took it as he had promised to do (we were gone home to dinner
then, for we did not care to eat in the house of a witch), and
placed it, so he told us, under a big stone which he could hardly
lift."

"Ah, the Evil One was caught," remarked Tommy.

"He is not caught so easily as all that," said his grandmother.
"When we returned to our work, do you know what we saw?"

"No!"

"We beheld the book laid upon the table."

Tommy opened his mouth wide enough as to be in danger of
dislocation, then he closed it with an exclamation: "Ah-a!"

Adèle dared scarcely breathe.

"That's not all," continued Mrs. Soher, "we were determined to get
rid of the book. This is what we did.

"My brother spoke to the minister about it. The clergyman declared
that the book could only be stamped out of existence by a special
process. He went to what had been my aunt's house, and summoned my
brother and those who were there into the kitchen. Then one man
thrust a bundle of furze into the oven and set it alight. Another
one threw the book amongst the flames and firmly secured the door.

"'Down on your knees,' commanded the minister. Everyone obeyed. The
clergyman prayed aloud, when in a few moments, piercing shrieks were
heard issuing from the oven. The whole company were in a state of
horripilation. The clergyman ceased praying. He simply said with
quivering and pale lips: 'The book is burning.'

"The cries ceased. The door of the oven was opened. The book was
reduced to ashes."

The two children were awe-stricken.

They sat as still as two mice, breathing only as much as was
absolutely necessary. It was Tommy who first broke the silence.

He was more accustomed to hear these strange tales than his cousin,
and, consequently, got over his fright sooner.

"How did the book shriek," questioned the boy.

The entrance of Mr. Soher and his spouse disturbed the proceedings.
Adèle was very glad of it, for she was anxious to be back home
before dusk.

Handing her a piece of paper, Adèle's uncle bade her be sure to give
it to her father. He enjoined her not to lose it, but to hold it
tightly all the way home. "Don't put it in your pocket," he added as
the little girl was preparing to leave.

Adèle did as she was bid; she could not put the missive in her
pocket, because--there was no pocket to the dress which she wore.

She hastened home. The story which Mrs. Soher had recited had shaken
her nerves.

As she neared her father's house, she was tempted to look at the
writing on the paper. There was a brief struggle within her. At last
her conscience prevailed over her curiosity.

She met her father who was waiting for her on the threshold and
handed him the paper. He ran his eyes over it and muttered audibly:
"Let him go to the dogs, then, if he wishes to do so."

As soon as Adèle was out of the "Prenoms" the two garrulous women
began to talk about their little visitor. As was their wont, they
(especially the younger Mrs. Soher) cast upon Adèle all the slander
and scandal which they were capable of. Their epigrams were as
devoid of wit as they were coarse.

Mr. Soher, who sat near, did not join in the conversation. He
professed to be a very religious man, but he rarely occupied himself
about his household duties. His wife was just saying: "When one
thinks that if that little brat of a girl had not been born, we
should inherit all my brother's property," when the man rose from
his chair. "I am going to the prayer-meeting," he said abruptly,
and his puritanical form as suddenly left the room.

"Now, it is time for you to go to bed," said Mrs. Soher to her son,
when her husband was gone.

"I don't want to go yet," replied Tommy.

"But you must go, and you will go now; I'll not listen to your
nonsense; come, do your hear."

"Ah! let me stay a little longer, ma."

"No, not one moment; come along."

"Only one minute," pleaded the spoilt child.

"Bah! what do you want to stay for?" said his mother, re-seating
herself.

The minute passed away, so did many other minutes, but Tom did not
stir.

After again trying in vain the power of her pleadings and commands,
the weak-minded mother took her son by the sleeve of his coat.
"Come," she said, "to bed with you."

Tommy began to cry.

She dragged him out of the room and up the stairs. He screamed and
kicked, but was finally placed in his cot. Mrs. Soher had hardly
stepped into the kitchen, when her son was heard crying.

"I am frightened," he bawled; "the fire--the witches--the book."

"Bah!" said his mother, "he'll go to sleep soon." And so he did.




CHAPTER III.

THE BOARDING-SCHOOL.


Mr. Rougeant had returned early from "the town" on that Saturday
afternoon. He was now perusing the _Gazette Officielle_, the only
newspaper which he ever cast his eyes upon. The servant--a good old
Guernsey soul, who had been in the service of the family for ten
years--was busily engaged in preparing the dinner. Contrary to the
farmer's orders, Adèle had been sent by Lizette (the servant) to
fetch the cider.

Unluckily for the little girl, Mr. Rougeant did not care to go to
the expense of buying a tap. In its stead he had a number of small
holes bored in one end of the cask. In these holes, which were
placed vertically, one above the other, tight fitting wooden pegs
had been driven. One of these pegs he drew out when he required some
cider.

When Adèle entered the cellar, mug in hand, she examined the cask.
She did not know which peg to take out, neither did she care to
return into the kitchen with an empty vessel. She ventured
cautiously to pull out one of the pins. It fitted tightly. She
jerked on it. The peg came out; so did the cider. She hastily
replaced the peg in its place, but the cider spurted all over her
clean white pinafore. Timidly, she went back to the kitchen.

"I did not know how to----"

She did not finish. The servant perceived her plight, and, with a
gesture, silenced her. She bustled her out into the vestibule, threw
her a clean apron, bade her put it on, and proceeded to the cellar.
She speedily caused--or thought she caused--all traces of the little
girl's blunder to disappear.

When she returned, Mr. Rougeant was talking to his daughter. He was
saying: "Listen, Adèle. Miss Euston's collegiate school for ladies
will re-open on Tuesday next, September the 13th, at half-past two
o'clock. A few boarders received."

"How would you like to go there?" he asked of his daughter; merely
for form's sake, however, for he had already resolved that this
would be, if possible, Adèle's future home, for some ten years at
least.

"I don't know," said the little girl, placing her thumb in her
mouth;--a sure sign of mingled deep-thought and puzzlement--a mode
of expression which, by the bye, she was not to enjoy much longer.
These gesticulations are not in harmony with boarding-school
etiquette.

Her father did not make any other remark. He placed the newspaper on
one side, and fell to work with his dinner.

This important piece of business having been accomplished, he
started to go to town on foot.

His interview with Miss Euston resulted in Adèle being accepted as a
boarder. She was to be entirely entrusted to the care of Miss
Euston, and, lastly, Mr. Rougeant was to pay an annual stipend of
fifty guineas.

When he came back home, Adèle's father sank in a chair. He was
tired. Moreover, he was annoyed. The fifty guineas which he had
promised to pay each year vexed him.

He said to himself: "This daughter of mine will run away with all
the profit which I am making out of my newly-opened quarry. But,
since it must be, I cannot allow myself to violate the promises made
to the dying. I must try and see if I cannot save a little more than
I have done lately. This servant costs me too much. I must get rid
of her somehow. Another one, a French one for example, would work
for four or five pounds less a year."

In this puzzled state he descended to the cellar. He had an implicit
belief in cider as a general restorative. His scrutinizing glance
soon detected the ravages caused by Adèle's blunder. "What a fine
excuse," he mumbled--and he grinned.

He entered the parlour where Lizette was setting things to rights
and demanded in an imperative and angry tone: "Who has done that
mess in the cellar?"

"I did," quietly answered the servant, anxious to shield Adèle.

That fib she soon repented to have uttered.

"I give you a month's notice," said Mr. Rougeant, and he was about
to disappear when Lizette, feeling that she was not required any
more, and moved to the quick, turned towards her master.

"I can go now," she said.

"Well, go; so much the better."

That same evening, Maît. Jacques (Mr. Rougeant's workman) drove
Lizette in the "spring cart" to her mother's cottage.

Adèle wept. Her father silenced her with a frown. "You will commence
school on Tuesday next," he said.

The little girl looked at her father in surprise, and, an inward
emotion completely mastering her, she recommenced crying.

"How shall I be able to speak to those English people?" she sobbed.

"You can talk English, can't you?" was her father's not
over-consoling remark.

"Only--a--little."

"The person to whom I spoke is a nice lady; now, don't be silly,
child."

"The little girls will laugh at me," she said, drying her tears with
her pinafore.

Her father did not answer her, but sat meditatively pulling on his
enormous nose.

It was nearly midnight when Adèle managed to drop to sleep.

Tuesday came. Her father drove her to town in his old phaeton. Then,
taking her by the hand, he led her at No. ----, Grange. The two were
ushered into a small, but prettily furnished drawing-room.

After a few moments, Mdlle. Parmier entered the room, and after
having conversed in French for a few minutes with Mr. Rougeant, the
latter withdrew, bidding good-bye to his daughter who watched him
disappear with a dazed and stupefied air. "Is this a dream?" she
thought. "Ah! would that it were." Never before had she spoken to a
lady from town. She listened to hear Mdlle. Parmier's harsh voice
bid her follow her, but, instead of doing so, the little French lady
advanced towards her and in a gentle tone of voice (so soft, that
Adèle stared at her in astonishment) said: "_Miss Euston va bientôt
venir. Croyez-vous, ma chère, que cette nouvelle demeure vous
conviendra?_"

"_Oui_," answered Adèle, greatly relieved that there was at least
one person here who could talk in French.

Then, while the lady occupied herself with a book, Adèle was busy
picturing to herself the dreadful Miss Euston. Her father had said
that she was a nice lady; but, alas, how could she? Did she not
speak in English? How was she going to answer her? "She will
certainly laugh at my bad English," Adèle thought; and her lips
moved about uneasily, and her eyes were moist.

She looked towards Mdlle. Parmier. She saw four or five ladies in a
confused group; she wiped away the tears that obscured her vision.

"Ah! if this lady were head mistress?" she went on thinking. "Oh! my
clothes, they are not so pretty as those which the little girls who
were in the playground wore." She listened tremblingly for the
sounds of approaching footsteps. How she wished that the ordeal of
the first interview would be passed. She grew so excited that she
would have given anything to be out of that room. Any sudden
catastrophe which would have averted the terrible ordeal of
confronting Miss Euston would have been welcomed by her. Had she
been alone, she would have tried her voice to see how it sounded in
English, but Mdlle. Parmier was there; so she only coughed a little
to clear her throat. She tried to cough softly, as she had heard
Mdlle. Parmier do; but she fancied her voice sounded hoarse and
vulgar. She cast a gaze towards a mirror placed at one end of the
room. What a plebeian figure!

Hark! what was that? a soft tread was heard approaching. The French
lady looked up from her book, and fixing her eyes encouragingly on
the little girl, she said: "_Miss Euston sera bien aise de vous
voir; parlez-vous l'anglais?_"

"_Un peu, mademoiselle_," said Adèle, and the door opened.

The dreaded form of Miss Euston entered the room.

"Dis is de yong Ma'm'sel Rougeant," said the French lady,
introducing Adèle to the newly-arrived lady.

The latter, a tall, refined and amiable lady, advanced towards Adèle
with a pleasant air, and such a kind smile lighting up her
intelligent features that the little girl felt immediately drawn
towards her.

Miss Euston at once saw that Adèle was timid and feeling very
uncomfortable.

She took the child's hand in her own and said kindly: "I am very
glad you have come, Adèle; but, your hands are quite cold; come
nearer to the fire."

Adèle stood up. Miss Euston put the chair nearer to the fire, placed
the child upon it, and began to chat in quite a friendly way.

Mdlle. Parmier retired. Adèle's fears had vanished like a cloud of
smoke. She felt more than simple admiration for Miss Euston; she
experienced a kind of veneration for her.

Had an angel from heaven entered the room instead of this lady,
Adèle would not have been much more dazzled than she now was.

"Do you understand English?" inquired Miss Euston while helping her
pupil to warm her hands.

"Not much, ma'am."

"Then you shall soon learn, for I can see a pair of intelligent eyes
beaming under those chestnut curls."

Adèle smiled. She felt a kind of bitter and sweet happiness. The
dreaded introduction was over, but now there were the little girls
to encounter. What kind of reception would _they_ give her?

"I am going to have two new dresses for you to try on presently,"
said Miss Euston; "now, come, let me show you your bed chamber."

Adèle was delighted with her bedroom. How neat the little crib
looked. Miss Rader had told her that the people from town never had
white linen; they knew not how to wash, and, besides, the smoke
caused their once white linen to look grimy.

After having asked Adèle if she was pleased with her room, and the
little child having answered: "Yes, ma'am, very much," Miss Euston
led her into the schoolroom where about twenty young girls were
assembled. They were being directed to their respective places by
Mdlle. Parmier.

Miss Euston told Adèle that she would not do anything that day but
familiarize herself with her new surroundings.

She gave her a nice book full of beautiful pictures to look at. Then
she began to attend to a class of the bigger girls.

Adèle felt her heart sink a little when Miss Euston left her, but
she managed to pluck up courage and was soon absorbed looking at the
beautiful pictures in her book. She timidly raised her eyes from
time to time and gazed upon the young group of girls who were near
her. Two of them she perceived were looking at her, and exchanging
glances, after which they tittered.

This made Adèle's blood rush to her face. She knew they were
laughing at her and she felt uneasy. "I am as good as they are.
Just let them wait till I have my new dresses," she thought.

She made up her mind not to look at them and kept steadily looking
at her book. But the pictures had lost their charm. Her little soul
revolted against the treatment to which she was being subjected by
these two little girls.

When the time for recreation arrived, Miss Euston took Adèle by the
hand and led her up to two other girls; one about Adèle's age, the
other two years older. She told them to take care of their new and
future companion. She was sure, she added, that they would make
things pleasant for her. "Yes, ma'am,--come," they said to their new
acquaintance. They led her out of the schoolroom and amused her
during the whole time that was set apart for recreation purposes. By
the time the bell rang for the pupils to form classes, the three
little girls were as friendly as could be. Adèle forgot all about
the little girls that had laughed at her.

Later on in the evening, she discovered that her two little
companions were the only boarders beside herself.

The day after her entrance, an event occurred which deserves perhaps
to be narrated.

Adèle walked alone down the Grange, turned to the right, and not
knowing where she was going, found herself in a lane called George
Street.

She was busily engaged contemplating a poor little crippled girl,
when the latter's crutch slipped and she fell prone on the road.

She got up quickly, however, seized her crutch and looked anxiously
round to see if someone had perceived her.

Adèle stood near, smiling.

The girl in rags went up to her. "What'r'yer laughin' at, yer
dressed up doll?" she said. (Adèle had one of her new dresses on.)
"If you don't stop it," she continued threateningly, "I'll give yer
such a bloomin' smack as 'l' make you think you're in the beginnin'
o' next week."

Adèle did "stop it," and hastily walked away.

"What!" she said to herself, "can these little girls from town beat
you soundly enough to make you think you are in the beginning of the
week to come? They _must_ be clever. I will ask Miss Euston about
it."




CHAPTER IV.

THE INFLUENCES OF A GOOD HOME.


Ten years have elapsed. On a stormy September afternoon, in a room
of a two-storeyed cottage, situate at the bottom of the Rohais, a
woman lay dying. Her husband knelt beside her bed, holding his
wife's hand.

The stillness that prevailed was only disturbed by an occasional sob
from the husband, and the short irregular breathing of the dying
woman.

The breathing suddenly became more regular. The husband looked at
his wife. He saw that she wanted to speak to him, and immediately
approached his head nearer to her.

"I am going, John," said the woman in a faint tone; "I feel that I
am rapidly drawing nearer the end. I know you will take care of our
son, and--if ever you marry----"

Here she paused as if unable to go on.

"Oh! don't mention that, I will never marry again, dearest. I will
look forward with eagerness to our second meeting. I shall meet you
there, Annie," he said, and, pressing her hand between both his own,
he gazed earnestly into his wife's half-closed eyes.

Mrs. Mathers sank back on her pillow, exhausted with the effort
which she had made to speak those few words. Presently a change came
over her face. Her husband beckoned to Marie, the servant, who
hardly dared to approach, awed as she was at having to witness a
person in the grip of death.

The end came, swift and pangless. The soul passed from the body to
its eternal resting place.

Marie stood beside the bed, her big eyes fixed on the corpse, hardly
able to believe her senses.

"But, I thought Madame was better, much better," she said, half
aloud, half to herself.

"Ah! unfortunately," said the widower, "'twas only the lull before
the storm--a state which is common to people dying from consumption.
Make haste," he continued to the bewildered Abigail, "put the blinds
down."

Marie did as she was told and the man proceeded downstairs.

In the kitchen, seated on a chair, a boy was sobbing. His father had
just told him that death had visited them. And the boy felt
completely weighed down with grief. His mother had been so good to
him. "Such an excellent mother," he said to himself; "ah, how I
shall miss her."

He sobbed silently; the hot tears were few and far between. His
grief was too intense to be demonstrative.

He stayed there for fully an hour, in the same attitude, bowed down
as it were by this heavy load which had fallen upon him.

Let us go back into Frank Mathers' history--for Frank Mathers it was
who mourned his mother's loss--for a few years.

Mr. Mathers, his wife and only son were seated round the fire one
evening.

"You will be fourteen years of age to-morrow," said Frank's father,
"it is time for me to think of finding you a situation."

Frank did not answer, the idea of leaving school did not please him;
he looked up from his book for an instant, then pretended to resume
his reading.

"I shall talk to Mr. Baker, the grain merchant; as you have a liking
for books, I think you would do well in his office. Would you like
to go?" said his father.

"If you think I am old enough to leave school," mumbled Frank.

"Certainly you are old enough," said his father, "we can't afford to
keep you at school all your life."

Mrs. Mathers looked at her son sympathetically, she knew he loved
his school immensely.

"You will only have to be at the office from nine till five, and, if
you are diligent, you shall be able to study a few hours every day,"
she said.

"Yes," said the boy reluctantly.

In less than a week after this, Frank had left school and was
settled in Mr. Baker's employment.

The winter was beginning to make itself felt, and the days were
growing shorter and shorter. Ah! how Frank liked these winter
evenings. He took his books, and, drawing his chair near a small
table close to the fire, he kept plodding on, evening after evening,
educating himself constantly.

At the age of nineteen, he obtained a situation as clerk in a bank.
He possessed a good knowledge of English and French. He was also
acquainted with German, Latin and Mathematics.

He had learnt unaided two systems of shorthand: one English and one
French.

Neither was he ignorant of other useful sciences, of which he had
striven to acquire at least a few elements.

Thus armed for the world's battle, he thought himself almost
invulnerable. "I am bound to succeed," he sometimes said to himself.
"I have done all that I possibly could do towards that end. I don't
believe in chance. 'What a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'"

If ever a youth deserved to succeed, it certainly was Frank Mathers.
He had sacrificed many pleasures for the sake of better fitting
himself for life's struggle. Often, when his companions invited him
to spend an evening in questionable pleasures; "No, he would answer,
I have no time for that." At last, they ceased to torment him.

He liked these evenings spent at home, quietly, near the fire, alone
with his mother, who sometimes lifted her eyes from her knitting or
sewing, and affectionately gazed for a few moments upon her son.

They were nearly always alone, mother and son; for the father, who
was a carpenter, spent his evenings in the workshop.

As her son neared his twentieth birthday, Mrs. Mathers felt that she
would never live to see it. She was very anxious for her son's
future. After all, would he always keep in the path in which he was
now walking?

One evening when she felt worse than usual, her anxiousness for her
son's welfare rose to such a pitch that she ventured to speak a few
words to him.

"Frank," she began, "you know that I am not in very good health."

"Yes, mother."

"I don't think I shall live long," continued she, "and, I should so
much like to know if you have formed a decision to be a noble,
good, and upright man."

"You are not going to die," said the youth in a half-frightened
tone, "you will be better soon, I hope."

"No," she said, "I am slowly but steadily declining;" then she added
in a very affectionate tone: "Will you promise me, Frank, that you
will always strive to do what is right?"

"Mother," replied the son, his voice quivering with emotion: "I will
be good."

Neither of them said another word for a few minutes. Their hearts
were too full. Affectionate love, grief and resignation were filling
their souls.

Soon, the father entered and the family retired.

Next day Mrs. Mather's prophecies were fulfilled. She felt much
worse and stayed in bed. In less than a week, she was dead and
buried.

Thus deprived of his mother, Frank Mathers felt intensely lonely. He
suppressed his grief as much as possible, but it could be seen that
he suffered.

He had his father, 'tis true, but Mr. Mathers was a man of a gloomy
temperament. But a young man of nineteen ought not to be attached to
his mother's pinafore! The house seemed so empty, it seemed quite
large now, a roomy house with no furniture. The air he breathed was
not perfumed with the sweet breath of love as it was wont to be.

He grew melancholy. He had never been of a very bright temperament,
and the life of self-sacrifice which he had hitherto led, had not
helped him towards being cheerful.

Besides, there was no one to cheer him now, no kind word to spur him
on. "Ah! life without love," he sighed, "life without love is
hardly worth living."

From bad he went to worse. He almost ceased to eat. He lost a great
deal of his former activity and was often absent-minded. His
employers noticed this, for he often made false entries in the
books.

One morning, the manager of the bank thought fit to speak to him. "I
cannot make out what ails you," he said, "but you will have to be
more careful in the future."

"Pull yourself up, Mr. Mathers, try and take more interest in your
work, or I shall feel obliged to dispense with your services
altogether."

"I must try," answered Frank. "I _will_ try, Sir."

And try he did, but all to no purpose.

A cloud seemed to hang over him; he was in a state of lethargy. "Am
I going mad?" he said to himself more than once. No! he was not
insane, not yet at any rate; he simply took no interest in life.
Nothing seemed to distract him; he cared for nothing, spoke to no
one except when questioned.

His father and Marie often tried to coax him into conversation.

In answer he sometimes said "Bah! life is but an empty bubble,"
oftener, he said nothing at all, but gazed fixedly at the floor all
the time.

A few days after the manager had spoken to him, he ceased to go to
work altogether. He did not send a letter to his employers, telling
them of his intention to leave; of what use was it? everything was
nothing to him.

It was not for his departed mother that he grieved. He grieved not.
He hardly gave her a thought now, and, when he did, his eyes seemed
to brighten up and his lips muttered: "Thou art happy."

The doctor who examined him shrugged his shoulders. "Hypochondria,"
he said as he met the enquiring glance of Mr. Mathers; then he
added: "He will probably be better in a few weeks."

The neighbours, without being consulted, said: "He is mad."

The days came and went, and after a few months of melancholiness he
grew a little bit better. His father noticed that he began to take
an interest in the culture of the garden.

"I shall have to find work for him," thought Mr. Mathers, and, one
day, when his son seemed in a more joyous mood than usual, he spoke
to him.

"Do you think that if I built a greenhouse you could take care of
it?" he questioned.

"I think so," said his son.

"Work is slack just now," went on Mr. Mathers, "I might as well put
up one in the garden as do nothing."

"I think I should very much like to grow tomatoes and grapes," Frank
remarked.

"You feel better now, then," said the father. These were the first
words which he ventured to speak to his son about his health, now
that the latter's senses seemed to have returned to him.

"Have I been ill?" said Frank; and then after a pause----"Of course,
I have not been very well lately,--yes, I am better, I think I am
myself again."

"Well;" said his father, "it is agreed, we shall have a greenhouse.
I think you had better go in the garden and see if you can find
something to do there."

Frank did as he was requested. The garden at the back of the house
was a small one, covering some twenty-five perches; of these eight
were to be blessed, or cursed, with a glass covering.

While Frank was engaged in tying up some Chrysanthemums, he was
joined by Marie, the servant.

"Doin' a bit o' work, Master Frank," she said.

"Yes, a little," he replied.

"Well, that's better than mopin' about doing nothing," was the not
over-particular rejoinder.

Frank smiled. "Well," he said, "a fellow must do something when he
can, but there are times when he cannot."

"Perhaps," said Marie, rather absent-mindedly, as if she had not
understood the meaning of his words.

She glanced around her, to make sure that there was no one about;
then she came quite close to Frank. "Have you heard the news?" she
said.

"What news?" questioned Frank.

"Why, they say your father is goin' to marry; didn't you know?"

Frank's face became livid, his lips tightened, his pruning knife
dropped from his hand.

"What?" he exclaimed, as if he had not fully understood.

"Your father's going to marry again," said the servant in an
undertone, "and I'll tell you who told me so, it was Jim Tozer, her
brother; he ought to know."

"The brother of whom?" questioned Frank mechanically.

"The brother of Miss Tozer," informed Marie.

"I should have thought that your father would have stuck a little
more to his word, for when your poor, dear mother was dying, she
mentioned something to your father about marrying. He pretended to
cry, and bawled out: 'Don't mention it, I'll never marry again; I'll
never marry again.'"

"And mother been dead only five months," said Frank, more to himself
than otherwise.

"But it won't be yet, you know," said Marie. "Jim Tozer told me they
would probably wait till next year."

Then seeing Mr. Mathers coming towards them, she pretended to gather
some parsley close by, and quickly re-entered the house.

Frank's father did not talk to his son then, but began taking
measures for the greenhouse.

As for Frank, he was extremely angry with his father. He thought
that his mother's memory was being slighted; but he resolved not to
say a word about it to his father, and to let matters stand as they
were.

Time passed on. The winter was over. It was the month of April. The
birds sang in the trees, the grass was springing up, the fields were
being clothed in verdure. Nature, which had lain so long dormant,
was awakening. From the trees which looked dead a few weeks ago
little buds were peeping forth, taking their first view of the
world.

Frank Mathers was filled with delight as he watched this development
of nature.

One evening when he had just finished planting some tomatoes, he was
surprised to see his father enter the greenhouse.

Mr. Mathers' face was rather pale. He looked agitated.

"They look well," said the father, meaning the tomato plants.

"Yes, they _do_ look well," answered his son; "I was just thinking
as much before you came in."

There was a long silence here. Frank knew that his father had
something to communicate to him, and he guessed what it was.
However, he did not help him out of his embarrassment.

Finally, after several preliminary hems to clear his throat, Mr.
Mathers began: "It is a good thing that the tomatoes are planted;
to-morrow you will not work, I suppose."

"I hope I shall, I have all these boxes to clear away."

"Yes, yes, but to-morrow I am going to be married."

Frank did not answer. He raised his eyes and looked straight at his
father. His lips quivered and refused to utter a sound.

The son's gaze was more than a match for the father's. Mr. Mathers
was not yet so hardened as to laugh and look back defiantly at his
son. He, however, recovered his self-composure, tried to make
himself believe that he was in his perfect right, and in a
well-feigned voice--"Well?" he said interrogatively.

Not a word came from the son's lips; a deep sigh escaped him. He
stepped forward and walked out of the greenhouse, leaving his father
there--alone.

The couple were quietly married at the Greffe the next day.

Frank went about his work as usual, and when he came in to dine, his
step-mother was awaiting him, her face beaming with smiles.

When Frank found himself thus confronted by Mrs. Mathers No. 2, he
did not feel nearly so hostile to her as he had felt towards his
father.

He could not however welcome her warmly when his heart clamoured
otherwise. He was not a hypocrite.

When the husband advanced with his wife, the youth took the
outstretched hand and in a cold tone, his lips still uttering what
his heart did not inspire, he said, as if welcoming a stranger: "I
am happy to make your acquaintance, madam."

He soon perceived that he had gone rather too far. He had acted on
the impulse of the moment. In fact, he had dug the abyss that was
ever to lie between his step-mother and himself.

"After all," he said to himself, "it is better to obey one's heart."
He did not even stop to think that there were two powers at work.

He was more to be pitied than blamed. He had loved his mother
dearly, and now that she was dead, he revered her memory.

He now perceived the influence of a good home. It had rescued him
from a life of idleness and perhaps of vice. The genial atmosphere
of their little parlour had kept him at home even more than his
books, which he, however, cared a good deal for.

But now, it was all finished. This place would no more be home. It
was a house, a comfortable dwelling place; that was all. He would
now have to live amongst unattractive and semi-hostile surroundings.

Through his own fault, he would suffer. One thought however
strengthened him. Thousands of others had suffered for conscience's
sake. He remembered how his blood rushed to his face, when he read
about the tortures of the martyrs of religion; or the driving into
exile of the patriots of Poland.

Strengthened with these thoughts, he rose, more determined than ever
to do right; to champion the good; to work; to study; to strive to
acquire wisdom.




CHAPTER V.

THE REWARD OF INORDINATE AMBITION.


Frank Mathers had hours of dejection. Like every other person, he
had his faults. In one of these fits of depression he grew
impatient. Then, his ambition turned in the wrong direction. He was
seized with a mania for getting rich quickly.

How to proceed, he did not know.

At last he thought that if he could invent something useful, and
patent it, he would soon acquire what he so much desired to possess.
Now, there are thousands who are constantly trying to do as much,
but they are as likely to succeed as they were when they first
began.

Frank was one day walking along a country lane when he perceived a
cow which had broken loose.

She galloped about, her tail erect, her head lowered.

He pursued the animal, and after a prolonged chase and much dodging
and capering on the part of both, he managed to grasp the rope which
was tied round the brute's horns. He held it tightly and proceeded
to tether his captive. But when he had driven the peg in the ground,
he noticed that it was very easily pulled up.

He pondered over this as he proceeded towards his home. Suddenly, he
slapped his forehead. "I have it," he said to himself. "I will have
a peg, which, when being driven, will go all right, but when pulled
about, will release two small prongs at the sides. This will make it
impossible for anyone to pull it up; a small knob will be affixed
which, when turned, will replace the prongs, and the peg will come
out in a jiffy."

"Ah!" he went on thinking, "this would be a useful thing, an article
which would command a ready sale. Besides, it would be used wherever
a good gripping peg would be necessary."

He was enthusiastic. His mind was already full of different schemes
which he would start when he had acquired fame and riches.

When he came home, he was so sure of success that he imparted his
idea to his step-mother, with whom he was not generally very
confidant.

Poor Frank! the volley of mockery which he received quite baffled
him.

"So you think to make your fortune in that way," she said. "No, no,
my boy, you never will."

"But don't you see that it's a most useful thing, that----"

"Stop, stop," she interrupted, "don't make me laugh. Do you think
that people are going to listen to your nonsense? Why! your peg
would get clogged with earth and would not act."

"Wouldn't it though, at any rate, it's worth thinking over, so I'll
do that."

"If you choose to spend your money in that fashion, you can do so,"
retorted the lady, smiling contemptuously.

"You won't laugh at me this day month," thought Frank as he made his
exit.

Once alone again, he grew more determined than ever. His mind was
completely dazzled with the bright future before him.

Next morning, he posted a letter to an inventor's agency in London.
He stated that he had invented something he knew would be useful,
and very much in demand if manufactured. The letter went on to
detail in full length the "safety peg." Then he went on to say that
he would very much like to have it patented and if they would kindly
send terms and advice in the course of a mail or two, he would be
thankful.

Two days afterwards, he hoped to receive the joyful news. "They will
certainly write soon,--such a valuable article--besides, they have
an interest in its being patented," he said to himself.

He accordingly watched for the postman, and as soon as he saw him,
his heart beat wildly. To think that he had the precious missive. He
approaches, and now he is going to open the gate,--no, he passes
without even looking in the direction of the house.

"Surely he must be forgetting," thought Frank, and he shouted: "Mr.
Pedvin, have you any letter for me?"

"No; not to day," said the postman--and he went on his way.

"What are they up to now?" thought the youth, "they ought to make
haste. I'll wait till to-morrow, and if I don't receive any news,
I'll send them a note, and a pretty sharp one too."

Next day he again watched for the postman's arrival. He felt
miserable; the state of uncertainty in which he was, caused him to
be depressed. Still he could not imagine that the letter would
contain anything contrary to his hopes.

The idea was so far from his wishes that he shook it away at once;
he could not even bear to think of it.

But the postman came not, and it was now ten o'clock. He remembered
with pain that the day before he had passed by at half-past nine.

"I must attend to my work," he thought, "he will come presently." He
went about the greenhouse, watering his plants, but every other
minute he opened the door and anxiously watched for the bringer of
good news to put in an appearance.

He came at last. He handed a letter to Frank who ran towards him to
receive it.

"You seem very much in earnest," remarked the postman, "maybe it's a
love-letter. And from London too," he added noticing the post mark.

"I'm not so foolish as that," said Frank; as if such letters were
below his dignity; "this is about an invention which I am going to
have patented."

The postman showed the whites of his eyes, then turned on his heels
and continued his journey.

Frank tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter and read:--

     "London.

     "We are in receipt of your letter of the 3rd instant, and have
     much pleasure in informing you that your invention has not, to
     our best knowledge, been patented or manufactured.

     "We think it would prove very well in rural districts.

     "The best way for you, would be to secure it by provisional
     protection for nine months.

     "Please forward us £2 10s., and we will send you, at our
     earliest possible convenience, the necessary documents."

"Hurrah!" shouted Frank joyfully. "I'll send them the money as soon
as I can."

He read the letter a second time to make sure that his eyes had not
deceived him. Suddenly he stopped reading. No, it was not in the
letter. A thought had struck him. "I will have to mention the money
matter to my step-mother, for she keeps the keys of my drawer," he
said in a soliloquy.

He went into the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Mathers were there. Frank
flourished the letter in his hand and exclaimed: "My invention is
likely to be a success." And, holding the letter in both his hands,
he read it to his parents.

He emphasized the points that were in his favour, with all the force
which he was capable of displaying.

Mrs. Mathers looked satisfied enough till her step-son came to the
money matter. Here her face lengthened and as soon as he had
finished reading she said: "Clever people; they think they are going
to pocket all this money with a few words of flattering."

"Someone must pay for the one pound stamp and other expenses,"
answered Frank.

"After all this spending of money, perhaps it would not prove,"
rejoined Mrs. Mathers.

"We won't know if we don't try," retorted Frank; "people don't make
fortunes staring about them with their hands in their pockets."

"But you don't mean to say," almost angrily said Mrs. Mathers, "that
you would send them your money in that fashion?"

"I do," answered the young man in a decided tone. He was growing
impatient at what he thought to be a wanton check of progress on his
step-mother's part.

Here, Mr. Mathers left the room without having said a word.

Frank watched him disappear and then remarked: "Do you think these
people are going to work for nothing? They would be fools."

"Oh! 'tis not _they_ who are fools," sarcastically remarked his
step-mother.

The young man waxed hot. His whole being was rising in wrath within
him. He, however, mastered his passions. It was his duty to bend,
and he did so. "If I could convince her, if I could make her feel as
I myself feel," he thought.

For one minute he was silent, not knowing how to begin the speech
that was to bring conviction into her soul.

"Ah!" he thought as he looked at his step-mother who had resumed her
work as if the debate was settled, "she checks me when I try to push
myself; she tries to nip my plans in the bud. When, with a few words
of encouragement, I might soon be a rising man. But I must convince
her--I must. If I don't succeed in doing it, I will act alone. The
money is mine, why should I not be able to do what I like with it.
If, however, I could bring her to think as I do."

"I have always tried to push myself," he began in a somewhat tender
and pleading tone, "and you never give me one word of encouragement
or praise."

Mrs. Mathers looked up: "You try in the wrong direction," she said,
"earn money by all means, but don't throw it away like a simpleton."

Unheeding this, Frank resumed: "If I do not try and make life a
success I don't know anyone who will do it for me. I have studied.
Many an evening have I sat up with my books thinking of the use my
knowledge would be to me in future life; many an outing have I
denied myself for the sake of studying; many a pleasure have I
sacrificed for the sake of acquiring knowledge. I did not care, work
did not seem heavy, because it carried with it a hope of future
happiness. I worked on till late in the evening. I rose early in the
morning to resume my studies. And, if sometimes I felt discouraged,
worn out by the ceaseless toil, I said to myself: 'Take
courage--science is bitter but its fruit is sweet.' I have tried to
cultivate myself as much as possible, to fill my mind with all that
is noble, pure, and elevating--to acquire good habits by shunning
bad society and by reading good books--in short, I have sacrificed
my past self for the sake of my future self.

"And now (his tone grew inexpressibly sad), when I try to gather a
few of the fruits which I have grown, you throw yourself between
fortune and me.

"It is exactly as I was reading in a book the other day, in which
the writer said: 'The cause of many failures is that men wait for
something to turn up instead of turning up something for
themselves'----"

"You and your books," ejaculated Mrs. Mathers,--"but I'll have no
more of this begging and grumbling; do as you like, throw your money
to the dogs, give it to whomsoever you choose. Perhaps, when you
know the value of money, you will learn to appreciate it more. For
my part, I will have nothing more to do about this tomfoolery."

Frank left the room with a light heart. He was free, at liberty to
do whatever he chose. He chuckled to himself: "Liberty _is_ sweet. I
will now show them what I can do when I have no one to hinder me.
However, I will wait a day or two before sending the money. I must
not act too quickly,--I will think it over."

He went about his work. He felt that manual labour was almost below
his dignity now. What! he, an inventor--a benefactor of mankind--the
probable millionaire of years to come--he, who would soon be looked
upon as the foremost man of the island, pointed at and envied by
everyone--watering tomatoes. Oh! it certainly was below his rank.
However, he would work yet for a few days and then, well then he
would appear in his proper sphere.

Poor fellow, he had yet another of life's lessons to learn. He
little imagined the crushing blow that was to fall on him and
scatter all his hopes.

That evening he went to bed with his head brim full of ideas and
plans for the future. His heart overflowed with delight. He dreamt
of nothing but inventions, huge fortunes and fame.

Next morning, when he awoke, his head had cleared, but his ideas
were the same. He never doubted for a moment the certainty of his
success.

During the course of the morning there were instants in which he
felt less confident. What if he did not succeed--what would his
step-mother say--what would he himself do, he who had made this
scheme part of his being. But he would prosper, why, here (looking
at the letter) was the opinion of people who had been amongst
inventions for years.

A shadow seemed to cross the path of the greenhouse. "I think
someone has passed by," he thought, "I will go and see." Suiting the
action to the thought, he sprang at the door and opened it. What
was his astonishment to see the postman. Two days following! it was
an event, for they seldom received letters.

On hearing the noise which Frank made on opening the door, the
postman turned round and handed him a letter. He was agreeably
surprised to see that it was from the inventors' agency, but his
delight was soon changed into bitter anger and bitterest
disappointment when he had read its contents. It was worded thus:

     "London.

     "DEAR SIR,--We are sorry to inform you that the invention we
     were about to patent for you, had, we have just found out, been
     patented before.

     "The inventor, we have learned, ruined himself in trying to
     push it."

He read it twice over. Alas! it was too true. Sadly and mournfully
he went into the house, there to think of his misfortune.

He entered the little parlour, threw himself on a chair, took the
letter from his pocket and re-read it.

He crumpled the letter in his hand and exclaimed: "'Tis too true,
there is not the slightest hope; ah! this is indeed a cloud with no
silver lining."

He rose, paced the room in an agitated state and muttered: "But
yesterday, I thought myself a rising man, now, I have utterly
failed; that upon which I had set my heart, upon which my thoughts
had dwelt and upon which my hopes had been built, has fallen to the
ground."

"Such joy ambition finds," something seemed to echo within him.




CHAPTER VI.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.


For a week or so Frank Mathers grieved about his misfortune. At the
end of that time, an event occurred which completely distracted him.

He was taking a walk a few miles from his home, not far from the
Forest Church. When he came near the farm of "Les Marches," he
perceived a man, who, seated on a branch, was sawing it. This branch
projected over a quarry which was filled with water.

Suddenly, the branch gave way, and Mr. Rougeant (such was this man's
name), fell into the water.

Frank at once ran towards the spot, taking off his coat as he
hastened along. He was a good and plucky swimmer. When he came near
the quarry, the drowning man was struggling for dear life. Frank
seized the position in a moment. He saw that it would be useless to
jump into the water, because, when once in, he would not be able to
reach the edge of the quarry, for the water's surface was quite four
feet below that of the ground. There was not a moment to lose. The
man had already gone down twice; he was coming up for the second
time. Frank took his coat in one hand, and, leaning over the edge of
the quarry at the risk of falling in himself, he caught hold of a
tuft of grass with the other hand, and awaited the drowning man's
appearance.

The farmer rose to the surface, struggling. His eyes were dilated,
his whole countenance presented a frightened and imploring
appearance.

He uttered a cry, 'twas a cry in which he poured forth all his soul;
his last and supreme appeal to heaven and earth; but one word, but
ah! what a deep prayer to one, what an earnest appeal to the other,
were centred in that word: "Help."

"Seize this, seize this," cried Frank.

The drowning man saw the dangling sleeve, his last chance of
salvation. Frantically he clutched at it. Ah! he has missed it. No,
as he was going down for the third time he threw out his arm once
more. It was a forlorn hope, but it was successful. He caught hold
of the coat with both his hands and raised himself. He found a creek
in which he placed his foot, and with Frank's manly help, was soon
extricated from his perilous position.

Mr. Rougeant was panting for breath, and exhausted, but saved from a
watery grave.

Frank bent over the man he had rescued, dried his face and took off
his boots, examining him meanwhile. Mr. Rougeant, whom we did not
describe when we first met him, was a man of medium height. He had
broad shoulders, a powerful chest, an almost square head and a
formidable nose. Under his nasal organ, there bristled a short
moustache.

When he had partly recovered his senses, he looked around him.
"Where is my saw?" he questioned, then he added: "My hat, where is
it?"

The hat, probably a leaky one, had gone to the bottom.

Frank was as much amused as he was astonished to hear him. He
replied: "I suppose they must both be given up as lost."

"It is a pity," said the prostrate man, "it was a good saw, and a
brand new one too."

The man spoke in the patois of the island, a kind of old Norman
French which the young man understood very well. He, therefore,
answered in the same language.

"Shall I go and call your people?" Frank said after a while.

"No, thank you, I think I can walk home."

He stood up and they both proceeded towards the farm-house.

"Not a word of thanks," soliloquized Frank, as he surveyed the
strong frame and the powerful limbs of his companion.

Just then the farmer turned abruptly to him: "A good thing you were
passing near at the time of the accident. I might have been
drowned," he said.

"I am very glad of having been of service to you," answered Frank.

"You're a good fellow," resumed the farmer looking at him and
nodding. "It's not everybody," he continued, "who would have had the
sense to do as you have done."

They arrived at the farm-house, a two-storeyed house, without any
pretence at architecture, and with a slate covering: the house was
surrounded by stables, pig-sties, a small garden and a conservatory.
In front of the house was a parterre, most tastefully arranged with
flowers which surrounded an immense fuschia, five feet in height and
covering an area of about fifty square feet.

The two men entered by the front door. Mr. Rougeant led his rescuer
into the kitchen. Here was Jeanne, a French servant, occupied in
poking the fire.

"Ah, but dear me," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the pair,
"what has Mr. Rougeant been doing now?"

"I fell in the quarry," said the farmer gruffly, "go and prepare
some dry clothing, be quick, make haste."

Jeanne immediately did as she was bid. She did not leave the room,
however, without casting an inquisitive glance at Frank.

"Adèle," shouted Mr. Rougeant in a voice of thunder, "where are
you?"

"Miss Rougeant is gone, she told me she would not be long," answered
the servant from upstairs.

"Oh, yes, always gone," said the father of Adèle, in none too
pleasant a tone; "those young girls are always out when most
wanted."

Then he began to talk about his quarry. "Only a year ago that quarry
was being worked. There were twenty men employed in it. It paid well
then. But it's all over now. The man who worked it found a little
bit of rubbish in his way, and, like a fool, he got frightened and
left working it, and now you see it's full of water. Are the clothes
ready?" This was said, or rather shouted to the servant.

"Yes, Sir, they're ready; I'm coming," said Jeanne.

"It's time," said Mr. Rougeant rising, "I am trembling all over
now." He had been shivering for the last quarter of an hour.

When he was half way up the stairs he called out: "Of course you
will wait till I come down again, I shall not be long Mr. ----."

"All right, Sir, don't hurry," answered Frank.

Left alone in the kitchen, the young man had time to examine the
room. He had never been in a farm-house before.

On one side, ranged along the wall, was an oblong table which was
bare. Above it, against the wall, was a shelf on which Frank could
discern three or four big home-made loaves of bread.

On the opposite side, was a deal dresser on which were ranged
saucers and plates, while cups and mugs were hung upon nails driven
into the edge of the shelves; He was in the midst of his examination
when someone entered the house by a back door. "Is it the girl of
whom Mr. Rougeant spoke?" he wondered. Then he pictured her to
himself: a tall overgrown country-lass, with hands like a working
man's, and feet! well, one might just as well not think about them,
they were repulsively large; it was a blessing that they were hidden
from view.

He was in the midst of his imaginations when Adèle Rougeant stepped
into the kitchen. On perceiving Frank she was a little astonished,
but soon recovered her self-control and assumed a well-bred smile.

The young man immediately hastened to explain the cause of his
presence. He was greatly astonished. Here, then, was the corpulent
country-girl his imagination had fancied! Before him stood a young
lady altogether different to anything he had pictured her to be. "A
girl of about seventeen," he tells himself, but later on he
discovered that she was one year older than that; plainly, but well
dressed. Her gown fitted her slender form to perfection. Every
detail in her dress was arranged with such taste, her small shoes,
the exquisite lace round her throat and such a charming face peeping
out of it all. She was not beautiful, but she was pretty and
attractive, she opened her mouth when she smiled as well as when she
spoke.

"Pray be seated," said the young lady to Frank who had risen on her
approach.

Frank sat down, quite confused and ready to run out of the room. He
felt very timid, so far, as to be uncivil; in the presence of Adèle.
A young man who has spent most of his time alone, studying, will be
timid when he meets a representative of the softer sex.

He scarcely lifted his eyes from the floor. He knew she would think
him ill-bred, he was ashamed of himself, but he could not help it.
He was full of bashfulness. Now, bashfulness is almost always a sure
sign of _amour-propre_.

He scolded himself, but his red face grew redder. It was soon of a
colour resembling peacock-blue.

Noticing his discomposure, Miss Rougeant could not help sharing some
of it, and, doubtless, things would soon have come to an awkward
point for both, if Mr. Rougeant had not put in an appearance.

"So this is the gentleman who saved your life?" said his daughter,
speaking in English.

In the same language Mr. Rougeant replied: "Yes, this is he."

She had now regained all her former ease, and knowing her father's
manners, thanked Frank most cordially.

He stammered out a few words of acknowledgement.

Seeing that her visitor cast glances at the quaint furniture, and
anxious to break the confusing silence, Adèle went on: "Doubtless
you had not seen a kitchen like this before Mr. ----."

"My name is Frank Mathers," interposed the young man.

"And mine is Adèle Rougeant," said she.

"Fancy, putting you in such a kitchen. We must go into the parlour
directly."

"This is indeed very quaint and certainly primitive furniture. I
must explain the use of----, that is if----."

"I should be greatly obliged," said Frank, "but it really is giving
yourself too much trouble."

"On the contrary, it gives me pleasure. This"--pointing to a low
kind of bedstead--"was the sofa of our forefathers. We call it a
_jonquière_. It was formerly stuffed with a weed which still grows
near the coast; called jonquier--hence its name. These rods were
used to hang the _craséaux_ on them. A _crasé_, the singular of
_craséaux_, is a lamp of the most primitive type."

"A vessel with a beak in which some oil is poured, and in the beak
is placed a wick, while underneath the vessel another one is
suspended as a receptacle for the oil which falls from the upper
one. Only ten years ago we still used them. I remember it quite
well."

"And these are what we call '_lattes_,'" she said, pointing to a
wooden rack which hung suspended from the ceiling and parallel to
it. "As you see, the bacon is kept there."

She stopped here, and looked anxiously at her father. He was pale
and trembling. "Are you ill, father?" questioned his daughter.

"No, I'm not ill, although I do not feel quite well. Make me a
_totaïe_," he said, "then I'll go to bed and try to sleep off my
indisposition."

His daughter did as her father requested.

When she was out of the room, Frank asked Mr. Rougeant what he meant
by a _totaïe_.

"Oh, it's a capital thing," responded the latter, "toasted bread
soaked in warm cider. You swallow cider and all; if that does not
drive a cold away, nothing will."

While the young lady was busily engaged in toasting the bread, Frank
thought it best to take his leave.

Mr. Rougeant asked him to pay them a visit on the morrow. The young
man promised to call. He managed to overcome his timidity
sufficiently to raise his eyes as he took leave of Adèle. Her eyes
met his, she blushed and immediately dropped her eyelids.

Through the eyes the souls had spoken.




CHAPTER VII.

AN ABRUPT DISMISSAL.


Next day Frank Mathers prepared to pay his promised visit.

He fancied that he felt very much like William the Conqueror when he
set out from Normandy to fight against the English. And probably he
did.

While he was dressing with more than ordinary care, his thoughts
were all about Adèle.

"'Tis strange," he soliloquized, "such a well-bred, educated and
refined young lady in this strange place. She is a rose among
thistles,"--he had already formed his opinion of the master of "Les
Marches."

"How lonely she must feel living with these two people, one a
big-headed, and in proportion bigger-nosed man, the other, an
old ignorant hag, her face of a dirty yellow, and her jaw! it
reminds me of a species of fish which have a mouth that opens
vertically--'Melanocetus Johnstoni'--I think the name is."

Here he finished soliloquizing and dressing.

He cast a glance over his clothes. "They don't appear to fit very
well," he thought. "How strange that I had not noticed this before.
I feel disposed to put on my best coat instead of this one."

Then he tried to scoff these thoughts away and when they would not
leave him, he called himself a simpleton, scolded himself for his
fastidious taste, and resolved to start as he was.

It was two o'clock when he called out to his step-mother: "Mother!"
(this was a delicate piece of flattery); "I am going to see how the
man I saved from drowning yesterday is getting on."

"Oh, all right, Frank," answered Mrs. Mathers, pleased to hear him
calling her "mother."

The young man stepped out into the open air with a decided gait.
After an hour's walk he arrived at the farm-house, heated by his
rapid journey.

He was courteously received by Adèle at the door. On her devolved
the duties of hostess, which she endeavoured to discharge
conscientiously.

She led her guest into the parlour where Mr. Rougeant was seated
before a fire in an easy-chair. Frank shook hands with him and
inquired how he felt.

"Not too bad, thank you," he replied, and beckoning Frank to a chair
close to him, he began to converse about his farm.

Frank listened and answered as well as he could, making a remark now
and then about agriculture which astonished the farmer considerably.
He had the tact to respect Mr. Rougeant's feelings, and the latter
was not slow in showing his appreciation of it.

"You seem to know more about farming than I do," remarked Mr.
Rougeant.

Frank felt flattered. He began to talk about agricultural chemistry,
but he was soon stopped by his host.

"I don't believe in theory," interrupted Mr. Rougeant, "give me
facts, show me results. A great many people write about farming who
can hardly distinguish a parsnip from a carrot."

The young man dared not go against the farmer. He saw, by his
manner, that he was not a man to be contradicted. He looked at
Adèle. She was smiling, but directly her father looked round towards
her, her face became as grave as a nun's.

Mr. Rougeant continued triumphantly to talk about his farm. It was
all the world to him, and almost the only thing about which he could
converse.

He never read a book.

During the conversation Frank learnt that he had about one hundred
vergées of land, one fifth of which he kept, the remainder was let
to other farmers. He had but one workman, a man about sixty years
old, who had worked for the Rougeants for more than forty years. His
name was Jacques Dorant. Then, there was his horse; it was old now,
but still good. Ah! when he was younger, he was a splendid horse,
such strength, such form, such a fast trotter, frisky, but as gentle
as a lamb.

Thought Frank: "If he is to be credited, there has never been such a
horse since the days of Bucephalus, the famous horse of Alexander."

During the whole time that they had been in the parlour, the young
man had not found courage to address a word to Adèle. He was very
careful about his tenure. He spoke in a voice which he endeavoured
to soften; he uttered the best English which he could frame,--for
Mr. Rougeant spoke in English this time--and when there was an
opportunity of displaying his talents, he availed himself of it with
eagerness.

Once, he made a serious blunder. He talked about turnips which he
had seen growing in a field close by. At which the farmer laughed:
"Well, I never, turnips, ha-ha...."

Frank felt stung. His face coloured deeply, his head was on fire.
What did _she_ think of him? Through the mist that seemed to gather
before his eyes, he managed to glance rapidly in the direction of
Adèle. A thrill of delight shot through his veins. She was looking
at her father with an offended air, her lustrous eyes seemed to
issue forth a censuring light.

"Of course, you will stay in to tea, Mr. Mathers," said the farmer
after a few minutes of silence.

Frank accepted the invitation thankfully.

Adèle left the room to help to prepare the tea things.

Left alone with the farmer, the young man looked about him more
freely. He noticed that the room was very plainly furnished. His
eyes alighted on a painting which represented a cow standing near a
cattle-shed. "What a shocking display of art," he said to himself.
"Infringement of the rules of perspective, shocking chiaroscuro, bad
composition...."

Mr. Rougeant casually noticed him. "So you are having a look at my
cow," he said, "a friend of mine painted that picture; he was a real
artist." Then he paused, examined it like one who understands his
business, and continued: "Yes, yes, exactly like her, the little
white patches and that little bump on her back. I gave my friend ten
shillings for that painting; just think, ten shillings, seven pounds
of butter. But," he added by way of consoling himself,--for his
avaricious heart was already revolting against this useless
expenditure of money; "it's well worth that, it's the very likeness
of my 'Daisy.' My daughter had the impudence to tell me once that I
ought to put it in the wash-house. Alas! young people will always
be young people."

Struggle as he would, Frank could not refrain from smiling. His host
took it for a genuine smile of admiration and looked at him
approvingly.

At this stage, Adèle announced that the tea was served.

Whilst they were at the meal, Frank was in great perplexity as to
how he should avoid breaking any of the rules of etiquette in
Adèle's presence.

He was so much in earnest about doing things properly that he
committed several blunders. Once he almost overturned his cup, then
he blushed till his face was all discoloured, and bit his under lip
savagely. A minute after that, while gallantly passing a plate
containing _gâche à corinthe_ to Adèle, he knocked it against the
sugar basin, overset the latter, and sent the pieces of sugar and
cake flying in all directions. He grew angry with himself, and
completely lost his head. Mr. Rougeant complained of not being
hungry. Frank, who misunderstood him, answered: "Ah! I see." Another
blunder.

At last the meal was over. The two men rose and returned to the
parlour. The first remark of the farmer was: "In my time, servants
used to eat at the same table as their masters, but our Miss says
that she will not have it. I let her have her own way sometimes; it
does not cost me more, so I do not care."

He called out to his daughter: "Adèle, make haste, so that the
gentleman may hear your playing."

"I am coming soon," was the reply.

The farmer went on to Frank: "The instrument which she plays is a
violin. For my part, I do not care for it. It does not make enough
noise. Give me a harmonium or a cornet. But my daughter persists in
saying that she will not learn anything but the violin. Perhaps it's
better after all," he added, suddenly thinking of the outlay
required for a new instrument.

Adèle came in with her violin, which she at once carefully tuned.
She appeared confident of success. She placed herself opposite her
father and nearly alongside the young man.

"Fire away!" said the father, "what are you doing now?"

"I was just seeing if the strings were well tuned," she said. "It is
of no use trying to play if the instrument is out of tune." These
last words were spoken to Frank.

"I cannot play on the violin," said he.

"Ah! then you won't criticize me," said she.

She bent her head over her instrument, and began playing. She forgot
the outward world, her whole attention was concentrated on her
violin as her slender and nervous fingers guided the bow or pressed
the strings.

It was a sweet soft tune--like her voice--her face wore a tender
expression. Then the music swelled, became louder and louder till it
reached its climax; the bow bounded over the strings, the fingers of
the left hand rose and fell in quick succession, her expression was
now animated, her face aglow.

Frank was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the fair musician. He had
never imagined that an instrument could be made to express such
feelings.

He noticed that Adèle would have to turn a leaf. He could read
music, so he rose, scanned the music, was soon on the track, and
turned the leaf in due time.

Adèle finished playing soon after.

Her face was slightly flushed and triumphant.

Frank congratulated her warmly in a select speech which he finished
thus: "In short, your playing seems to have as much power over my
feelings as Timotheus' had over Alexander's."

The farmer's face was ominous. He had begun to entertain suspicions
when Adèle had looked at him reproachfully before tea-time. Now his
imagination had ripened into certainty--so he thought. The young
people must be for ever separated. He said roughly: "There are other
things which are more important than fiddling, one of them is to
know how to live."

Frank looked at Adèle, she looked back at him. Their astonishment
was diverting to witness.

Quoth the farmer gruffly to Frank, "I am going to retire, I think
you had better do the same."

"Is the man going mad?" thought Frank. He looked at Adèle, then
suddenly took his hat and his departure.

The young lady followed him to the door. She was extremely vexed at
her father's demeanour. She spoke a few words to Frank as he stepped
outside.

"I hope you will not take my father's words too seriously," she
said, "I am very sorry--it's shocking--I am exceedingly angry with
him--a fine way of thanking you--you to whom he owes so much."

As he pressed the delicate hand which she tended in farewell, Frank
said: "I quite forgive Mr. Rougeant, there are strange natures," and
he walked away.

He had gone by the back door, why, he did not know. As he passed the
stable, he saw a man engaged in cleaning, a horse. "Come what may,"
he said to himself, "I must have a chat with this fellow."

"Good evening," he said, speaking in French, "cleaning up a bit?"

"Good evening, sir," replied Jacques, speaking in broken English.
"You needn't talk in French, I know English; I learnt it when Jim
Tozer worked here."

Said Frank inly: "Jim Tozer, the name seems familiar to me. Of
course, my step-mother's brother." Aloud: "You are the only workman
here now!"

"Yes, you've been payin' a visit to Mr. Rougeant, you're the
gentleman as rescued him from drowning. Lucky for him, old chap,
that you were round about there, for it's dead certain he'd ha' gone
to bottom."

"You take care of this horse?"

"I take care of pretty nearly everything round about here, for the
bos doesn't do much now, but he gives a reg'lar 'go at it' now and
then though."

"I suppose you like this job," remarked Frank, meanwhile scanning
the horse and forming his opinion of this member of the equine
genus. Here is his judgment: "A famous trotter! a spirited
steed!--indeed!--an old nag not worth half-a-guinea."

"What job?" said Jacques.

"Working about here, I mean, working for Mr. Rougeant."

"Well, ye-yes, but you've got to know how to tackle the guv'nor;
he's a quair sort. I've worked for the Rougeants for forty-two
years, and the old fellow's never given me more than my day's
wage." Then he added in an undertone, "He's a reg'lar miser, he's
got some tin! They say he's worth four hundred quarters."

Four hundred pounds income, was to old Jacques a large fortune.

"Ah," he went on, "if only I had four hundred pounds capital, with
the little that I have scraped together, I would not trouble to work
any more, I would have enough for the rest of my days. We live on
thirty pounds a year, me and my old missus.

"We're not allu's feastin', you see; besides, the house we live in
is ours. Built with my savin's when I married, it was----"

"Mrs. Rougeant is dead, is she not?" questioned Frank, anxious to
learn more about the family.

"Dead! o' course she's dead," said Jacques, "she's been dead now
for--let me see--twelve--thirteen--fourteen years!--her daughter was
about four years old then."

"So Miss Rougeant is now eighteen."

"Yes, Sir, an' a fine girl she is,"--this was said with a wink and a
nod.

"She seems to have been very well educated," said Frank.

"I should think so," said the labourer, opening his eyes wide. "Why,
bless you, Sir, she's been at a boarding-school all her life; she
only came to live here last year, after having been absent for
nearly ten years. I bet she don't get on too well with the guv'nor,
he's such an old feller for brass. She's a good 'un, too; now and
then she goes to see my old missus, and she isn't partic'lar about
givin' my daughter's mites a tanner, although I'll lay ten to one
she's not allowed too much. And her flowers; have you seen 'em? Why
there's not many a gardener as 'u'd arrange 'em in sich a bloomin'
style."

"Has Mr. Rougeant always been the sort of man that he is now?"
inquired Frank.

"No, not when the lady was alive; I s'pose it was her as made him
spend some money on improvements. The year before she died, he took
off the thatched roofs and put slate instead, then he built that
there little conservatory, but as soon as she was gone, he began to
pinch and screw; why, fancy, he used to shave himself, but now his
razor's broke, he says he doesn't care to buy one, the bloke."
Jacques heard a clock strike. "I must make haste to finish this," he
said, "then I'll put on my togs and go home; my missus'l jaw if I'm
not in time for the grub."

"Good-night, then," said Frank.

"Good-night, Sir," shouted Jacques.--"Whog back old mare--steady!"
Frank heard him say as he walked away.

Going home, he wrapped himself up in deep thought. The way which
seemed clear yesterday, was now full of obstacles. Mr. Rougeant was
rich; judging from his demeanour he had probably already chosen his
daughter a husband--would that she were poor.

He looked to see what redeeming feature he could find on his side.
None. He had never felt so little as he now did.




CHAPTER VIII.

AN UNPLEASANT VISIT.


When Adèle came back from shutting the door after Frank, her father
looked at her with a hard, scrutinizing gaze, but did not say a
word.

It was just like him. He very rarely spoke when he was angry; he
would mope about for whole days, his face covered with innumerable
wrinkles.

This anger on her father's part did not pain Adèle so much as it had
formerly done. Her heart revolted at the thought of being always
made to bend under her father's stern will.

Like the terror-stricken few who would do battle for their rights,
but are awed by countless numbers, Adèle had up to this time quietly
submitted to her father's iron rule; but now she felt inclined to
rebel.

Accordingly, instead of trying to coax her father into wearing his
ordinary face, which was none too pleasant, she pouted.

The old man noticed this and chuckled to himself: "Ah, ah, you think
a great deal of this young fellow. I'll teach you to keep up the
honour of the family."

He was so delighted at the prospect of an easy victory that he did
not sulk nearly as long as usual, but, to the young girl's
astonishment, was quite talkative the next day.

"Your aunt asked me if you would go and take tea with her
to-morrow," he said when they were at dinner.

Adèle did not answer.

Heedless of her silence, her father went on: "You must go, because
you do not go often."

The daughter answered: "No, I do not go often." She thought: "Often
enough," for she did not at all relish the idea of a visit to her
aunt.

The inmates of the "Prenoms" did not please her. There was her
uncle, Mr. Soher, morose and stern. He was one of this class of
people who seem to be continually looking upwards, their mind so
much occupied in contemplating the upper regions that they
continually stumble against the blocks which lie in life's path. He
lived, partly on his income, partly on the commission which he
secured as agent to a firm of agricultural implement manufacturers,
and partly on the money which he made by selling his property bit by
bit. He had also advertised himself as auctioneer, house and estate
agent, etcetera, but no one seemed to require his services in this
line. Averse to manual labour, he could not properly cultivate such
a small farm without submitting himself to this "slavish work," as
he called it. Accordingly, he was, if slowly, surely drifting
towards bankruptcy. He saw this, so did his wife, but neither seemed
to care much; they were buoyed up by a false hope, always waiting
for something unexpected to turn up, which would rescue them from
this abyss.

Mrs. Soher was Mr. Rougeant's sister.

They were the only children of the late Charles Rougeant, of "Les
Marches."

She was short of stature, rather stout, her round little face
always assuming a certain air of dignity, her light blue eyes
wearing a fixed gaze and her tongue always ready to slander. She
pretended to be religious, because her husband was so; had he been
otherwise, she would certainly have been otherwise too.

Then came her twenty-four year old daughter Amelia, the only member
of the family with which the reader is not acquainted; and Tom,
grown into a lazy, bad-tempered and slouching young man. Old Mrs.
Soher was dead.

The home at the "Prenoms" was not a bright one. Mr. Soher did not
believe in education. He and his wife were often absent from home in
the evening. They went to some meeting, and their two children were
left alone. When the parents were gone, Tom left the house, leaving
his sister alone and returning about half an hour before his parents
came in. His sister said she would tell her father, but, upon Tom
threatening her, she kept silent, for she feared her brother who was
of a very violent temper.

One day, Tom came in later than usual. When he entered the house, he
was astonished to see his father sitting near the fire.

"Well," said Mr. Soher, "what does this mean?"

"I've just been out a little," said Tom.

"I hope you will not repeat this, my son," said the father. Then he
showed him how wicked it was to associate with bad companions, the
probable results of it; how, when he had once acquired bad habits,
he would find it nearly impossible to break with them; how he would
be enticed into disreputable places, and a host of other
admonishments.

Tom did not answer; he felt culpable, but not repentant. He did not
tell his father that this same evening he had entered a public-house
for the first time.

The days went by. Mr. Soher and his spouse continued to attend to
their meetings and their son continued to go out, returning boldly
after his parents had come in.

One evening, he came in drunk. Then his father became really
alarmed. He felt that he had not done towards his son all that he
might have done.

This did not, however, make him remain at home.

"I must attend to my Master's work," he would say. Once, he took his
son in the parlour, and after having exhorted him to turn a new leaf
he lifted up his voice in prayer. But the son continued to drink and
the father to pray, while the mother did as much as she could to
shield her dear boy.

Tom had neither the force of will, nor the desire to amend. His home
was so dull; there was nothing about it which attracted him; he did
not care at all for the mother who tried to screen his faults. She
was so narrow minded; always speaking ill of everyone. She knew they
were slowly sinking towards bankruptcy, and it was a consolation to
her to imagine others in the same position. She saw other people's
defects as if through a microscope.

Foolish woman. Even as thou art scandalizing others, thine own
nature is being abased, whilst those whom thou dost backbite remain
the same.

One glance at the daughter. She was taller and fairer than her
mother. Her character was the same as her mother's. Alas! under
such tutorship, how could she be expected to be otherwise.

When the time came for Adèle to set out to pay her visit to the
"Prenoms," she did so reluctantly. It was not a pleasure to her, it
was a duty. If she did not go, she thought they would think her too
proud. So she made the sacrifice, and went. She determined to show a
bright face and to be as pleasant as she possibly could. She arrived
at the house of her hosts rather late.

Mrs. Soher welcomed her in a piping voice. She wore her everyday
apparel, and that was not of the brightest.

"Come in, my dear; you see, my dear, I have not had time yet to
change clothes, but I'll be ready in a few minutes.

"Sit down, my dear; why are you so late? I thought you would come
sooner."

Adèle thought: "What a state the house would have been in, if I had
arrived an hour earlier."

Mrs. Soher began to dust a secretaire, talking all the while to her
niece. "Amelia will soon be down; she ran upstairs when she heard
you knock at the door; she does not like for anyone to see her when
she is not properly dressed, but _I_ don't care, not when it is you,
at any rate."

"A pretty compliment," thought the visitor.

When they were all assembled round the table partaking of their tea,
Adèle tried over and over again to lead the conversation into a
pleasant channel, but all to no purpose. The inmates of the
"Prenoms" had to be taught to converse properly before they could do
so. Mrs. Soher began to babble in her ordinary way. Her daughter
supported her foolish statements. Adèle made no remark. Her aunt
noticed this, and after a most scornful remark about Mrs. B.'s
character, she said to her niece: "Don't you think so?"

Although considerably annoyed, Adèle had not so far made any remark,
but she was now directly appealed to. She spoke: "I do not know,"
she said. She noticed the two women smiling and exchanging glances.

Said Mrs. Soher sarcastically: "I thought you knew Mrs. B."

"Yes," answered her niece, "I know her, but I am continually
detecting faults in my temper which have to be overcome; and I find
that I have quite enough to do to look after myself without
bothering about others."

If ever you saw two people looking six ways for Sunday, it was Mrs.
Soher and her daughter.

After a few moments of embarrassing silence, Mr. Soher, who had not
yet spoken a word, said something about young people being
respectful to their superiors; while Tom laughed at the two women
and smiled approvingly at his cousin.

Adèle took her departure early and was not asked to remain longer.
When she was once more in the open, she felt a great weight lifted
from her breast. She was now free, free to entertain herself with
nature, away from the stagnant atmosphere of the "Prenoms." She
walked along, her whole being revolting against the useless, ay,
more than useless talk she had heard. But when she looked at the
flowers that grew on the hedges which bordered the lane in which she
was walking, her soul was filled with a sweet balm. Here was the ivy
climbing upwards taking its support and some of its nourishment from
the hedge which it was scaling, always gaining fresh ground. Such is
the man who has risen in the world; he avails himself of his
success for a nobler, higher, and mightier effort. There some meek
ferns were hiding in a shady nook, away from the sun's piercing
rays.

The young girl felt a twofold joy: that of being alone with nature,
and that of being away from her aunt's house.

At last, she reached "Les Marches." How happy she felt. Not the sort
of home she hoped to have some day; but still, it was home. Her
father was there, as dumb and as severe as usual, but, to her, he
looked quite a nice old man now.

While she was thus engaged in rapturous joy, Mrs. Soher and her
daughter were having a fine time of it. "Ah! she _is_ a well-bred
girl; to interrupt me like that, to answer and lecture me in that
way," said Adèle's aunt, then she added: "Fancy that little brat, to
try and give me a lesson about my duty towards my neighbour. If she
has enough to do to look after herself, let her do it; for my part
I'll do as I like. It won't be a young girl who is not yet out of
her teens who is going to teach me how to live."

The daughter scornfully remarked: "She has been to a
boarding-school, you know."

At which the two women laughed and Mr. Soher smiled, while Tom,
profiting by the general interest displayed in the conversation,
slipped out of the room and slouched to the nearest public-house.

After having most unduly run down their departed guest, the two
women resolved never again to invite her.

And they never did.

Had Adèle heard their decision, she would have felt even more
cheerful than she now did.




CHAPTER IX.

DECEPTIONS.


On the anniversary of his mother's death, Frank Mathers resolved to
visit her tomb. He had not been before; why, he could not explain.
However, he determined to make up for past deficiencies.
Accordingly, he went with a small bunch of flowers which he placed
upon his mother's tomb. He felt a deep veneration for her. He now
knew more than ever what she had done for him, and, in his heart, he
thanked heaven that had given him such a mother. He could not help
wishing that she were still alive, but he felt happy for all that,
his soul was full of thankfulness.

This visit did him so much good that he thought he would like to go
oftener.

When he came home he was astonished to see his step-mother. She was
in a dreadful fit of jealousy. "The booby," she said to her husband,
so that Frank could hear; "he was not a little attached to his
mother's apron-strings."

Frank did not say a single word and the storm soon abated.

A few days afterwards found him walking near "Les Marches," hoping
to meet Adèle Rougeant. He was not successful. Still, he continued
his visits, hoping to meet her some day.

He was at last rewarded for his pains. On turning a sharp corner he
suddenly met her. The meeting was so unexpected that Frank's
nervous system was quite upset. He had come hoping to talk to her.
He was to enquire about Mr. Rougeant's health.

But now, his courage failed him. He raised his hat, his lips
muttered a faint: "How d'ye do?" he smiled in a ludicrous manner and
passed on. The young girl who thought he was about his business
bowed and went on her way. "He might have said a few words," she
thought.

Frank was vexed with himself.

He thought of retracing his steps, but after a moment's reflection
he decided not to do so.

The weather began to look threatening. The sun was setting. Huge
black clouds were rising from the horizon while an occasional flash
of lightning announced the approach of the coming storm.

Frank hastened as fast as he could toward the Rohais. But, he had
not gone very far before a heavy shower overtook him.

After all his pains, the only thing which he at last secured was a
thorough drenching.

When he came back home, he was down-hearted. Next morning he,
however, determined to make one more attempt.

A few days afterwards saw him leisurely promenading round the farm
of "Les Marches." It was in the evening and the moon was rising.

He went round by the back of the house through the fields. As he
approached, he saw, on the opposite side to the stables, a small
garden enclosed with high walls. One entrance, on the side of which
he now stood, was by a door. He went towards it. The door was ajar.
He entered the garden. Then, and only then, did he begin to reason.
What if someone found him there? They would take him for a thief.
"I must go," he said to himself; "if Mr. Rougeant found me here,
there would be a fine row." But his lips uttered what his heart had
not dictated, and he remained in the garden. It was sweet to be near
her, it was refreshing to his weary brain to behold the paths which
she paraded every day. He was plunged into a deep reverie, when he
saw a light at one of the windows. It was she. Immediately after,
there appeared another light at the other window. It was he. Frank
only cast a glance at the man. He looked at the slender form that
approached the window. Adèle looked at the stars for a few moments,
then lowered the blind. He saw her shadow for a time, then _it_ also
disappeared. His heart was beating at a very fast rate. He felt
intoxicated. He had seen her; she had appeared to him as an angel.
How she had gazed towards heaven! What grace; what bearing!

Happening to turn his eyes towards the other window, he saw that
there was no light.

"The old fellow wants to spare his candle," he said to himself; "he
is trying to save a farthing."

This was not the case however. The farmer had suddenly thought of
the garden door which he had forgotten to bolt as usual. He took his
candlestick and went down stairs. Then he put on his boots, and
leaving the candlestick on the table he went through the back door
and stepped into the garden.

Frank was gazing with fixed eyes at the stars, drinking in the balmy
air, when he heard footsteps. Hastily looking in the direction from
whence the sound came, he was horrified to see a man coming towards
him. There was not time to flee, so he quickly crouched away from
the path. Luckily, he was in that part of the garden which was in
the shade.

He trembled as the farmer approached. Would he see him? He was
breathing through his nose; then he fancied he made too much noise.
He opened his mouth wide, then he found that his breathing was not
even audible to himself. He squeezed his body into the least
possible space, and watched the farmer with anxious eyes.

Mr. Rougeant passed by without noticing him. Frank heard him shut
the door, bolt it, and--oh, misery--turn a key in a latch. Mr.
Rougeant again directed his steps towards him. When he came near to
him, Frank was dreadfully alarmed to see the farmer looking straight
in his direction. The young man was in the shade, while the moon
shone fully on Mr. Rougeant's face. The latter looked straight at
the crouching figure, then, suddenly quickening his pace, he went
towards the house.

This man was a coward. He had seen the contracted silhouette, but
had not had the courage to go up to it; he went hurriedly towards
his house, seized an old gun which hung on two rusty nails and
walked back into the garden. The gun was loaded for shooting
rabbits.

As soon as Frank saw that the man was out of his way, he proceeded
to try and find out some means of escape. "He will be back soon," he
said to himself, "I must be out of his way when he returns." He went
to the door. Impossible to open it. He scrutinized the walls.
Impossible to scale them. Time was passing. What was to be done? He
heard the door of the house close. The master of the garden was
advancing. He saw a pear-tree nailed against the wall. There was
not a moment to lose. He climbed the pear-tree. He broke a few
branches in doing so, and knocked down a dozen pears. He regretted
doing any damage, but he knew it would be better for him, and indeed
for both of them, if he got out of the way in time.

Just as he let himself drop to the ground on the other side of the
wall, the farmer entered the garden. While Mr. Rougeant was engaged
in searching for the supposed thief with cocked gun, Frank was
walking quickly towards his home.

Of course, the farmer did not find the intruder, but he found the
broken Chaumontel pear-tree, and he saw the pears scattered on the
ground.

"The unmitigated scoundrel," he muttered, "if I saw him now--looking
at his gun--I'd make him decamp. I'd send a few shots into his dirty
hide."




CHAPTER X.

'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY.


One evening--it was the first week in June, about nine months after
Frank's adventure in the garden--Adèle Rougeant was tending her
flowers.

She had been sewing for a time, and now, feeling a want of
relaxation, she went to her parterre. Her violin and her flowers
were her only companions. No wonder she fled to them when inclined
to be sorrowful.

How beautiful the flower-bed looked in the twilight! The weather had
been very warm, the earth which had been previously battered down by
heavy rains was now covered with small cracks, little mouths as it
were, begging for water.

Adèle supplied them plentifully with the precious liquid.

Then she armed herself with a pair of gardening gloves, and an old
mason's trowel (any instrument is good to a woman), and began to
plant a row of lobelias all around her pelargoniums.

This done, she looked at her work. There is a pleasure in gazing
upon well-trimmed borders, but this pleasure is increased tenfold
when one thinks that the plants have been arranged by one's own
hands.

The young lady felt this delight: she felt more, she experienced the
soothing influence of nature's sweet converse. She looked at the
primroses, whose slender stalks were bent and which touched each
other as if engaged in silent intercourse. And thus they would die,
she thought, locked in each others fond embrace, their task
accomplished, their life but one stretch of mutual love.

"Ah love! What is love?" she said to herself. But immediately a
score of answers came; a dozen vague definitions presented
themselves. "Certainly," she mused, "the parents who toil for their
children without thinking of reward; love." Then another self within
her answered: "It is their duty." "Their duty, yes, but they are not
often actuated by a sense of duty; I think it is love."

Then she thought about another kind of love--the love she felt for
Frank Mathers. She asked herself why she loved him. He was not bold,
and she admired boldness. That she loved him, however, she was
certain. Did he love her? "Yes," she thought he did. Then what kept
them apart? Who was the cause of it? Her father. "What a pity I have
such a father," she sighed; "not content with making himself
miserable, he makes me pass a life of anxiety."

At this stage of her soliloquy, she perceived a young man, whom she
quickly recognized as Tom, her cousin from the "Prenoms." He came
walking towards the house.

As he opened the little gate he smiled broadly. His smile was not a
pleasant one, because it was undefined. "Good-evening, Adèle," he
said when he came near to her. "How are you?"

"Quite well thank you," she said, "and how are you?"

"Well enough, thanks," he returned, a little cooled down, for she
did not take the preferred hand which he was tending towards her.

"Are you afraid to shake hands with me?" he asked, half smiling,
half vexed.

"My gloves are soiled," replied she, taking off her right hand
glove; afterwards shaking hands with him.

"Oh, I see," he said, quite satisfied with the excuse.

In reality, Adèle had not seen the preferred hand; she was busy with
her thoughts just then. His manner seemed repulsive to her; she knew
not why. She opened the front door and showed him into the parlour.
Her father was there, evidently expecting Tom, for he received him
with a warmth which he had not shown for a long time. She left them
to themselves and was proceeding towards her parterre when her
father called out to her.

"What! are you going, Adèle, when Mr. Soher is here; come and keep
us company."

The girl retraced her steps. What could her father mean? He had not
told her a word about her cousin's visit, and yet, it was evident he
was expecting him.

"Where's your violin?" questioned her father.

Adèle fetched the desired instrument. She felt very much like an
instrument herself. "Father takes me for a toy," she thought, and
then as she looked at the two men engaged in close conversation, a
sudden light beamed upon her--he was going to force her into a
_marriage de raison_, as the French call it. Everything had been
arranged beforehand.

It was all conjecture on her part, but she felt it to be the truth.
The more she thought over it, the more she felt convinced of the
fact.

"Oh, it's disgusting," she thought; and a sickening sensation crept
over her.

"Will you give us a tune?" said Mr. Rougeant.

"Do;" entreated Tom.

Adèle took the violin from the table upon which she had placed it,
passed the bow over the strings to ascertain if it was properly
tuned, then slowly began playing.

It was a simple piece, which did not demand exertion. She did not
care what to play. "They cannot distinguish 'Home, Sweet Home' from
'Auld Lang Syne,'" she thought. Besides, they were not half
listening; why should she give them good music.

She felt like the painter, who, having completed a real work of art,
refuses to exhibit it to the public, on the ground that it is a
profane thing to exhibit it to the gaze of unartistic eyes.

When she had finished playing, Tom looked at her. "That's capital
music," he said, assuming the air of a connoisseur, then he added:
"I s'pose you practice a good bit."

"The grin," thought Adèle, "it's awful; and his eyes resemble those
of a wild cat. I wonder if he has a soul; if it shines through those
eyes, it cannot be spotless;" then, recollecting herself, she said:
"I have been practising now for ten years."

"No wonder you can rattle it," was the rejoinder.

Now Tom was not half so ugly as Adèle imagined him to be. Indeed, he
looked well enough this evening, for he had come on purpose to
exhibit himself, and was as a matter of fact as well dressed up as
he could. His manners were not refined, but they were not absolutely
rude.

But the girl, whose whole being revolted against this scheme of her
father's fabrication, felt naturally indignant and could not help
exaggerating his faults.

She felt greatly relieved when her father told her to prepare the
supper.

It may here be noted that Mr. Rougeant had now altogether dispensed
with his Breton servant. Now that Adèle was growing up, a servant
was altogether superfluous, he said. The truth was that this enabled
him to save a few pounds every year.

When the table was laid, the three sat down to supper. It being
over, the two men returned to the parlour. Adèle was a long, very
long time in putting away the supper things.

Her father noticed this, and when she entered the parlour, he
remarked: "You've been long enough."

"Provided she has not been too long," put in his nephew, trying to
win his cousin's good will.

After one of the most miserable evenings that Adèle had ever spent,
Tom took leave of the family.

When he was fairly out of the way, Adèle ventured to ask her father
what he had come for.

"He came to see us," he replied, then, after a pause, he added
abruptly: "Have you ever thought of marrying?"

"I, marry! you forget that I am but a child."

"A child! why, you will soon be of age."

There was a deep silence for a time, then the father spoke: "Mr.
Soher (emphasizing the Mr.) is a nice young man. He means to ask
your hand when he is better acquainted with you."

"He drinks."

"Not now, I know he used to do so, but he is quite steady now--I
knew you would object, I saw it in your manner, the way in which you
answered him; somehow or other, you don't seem to take to
respectable people. But mind you; if ever you marry anyone else, not
a penny of mine shall you have; not one double."

"He is my _cousin-germain_."

"Well, what does it matter? the law does not prevent you from
marrying your _cousin-germain_." His tone became bitter. He went on:
"I made a great mistake when I promised your mother on her death-bed
that I would send you to a boarding-school. What other objection
have you to state?"

His daughter looked down, coloured and replied almost inaudibly: "I
do not love him."

"Bah! if it's only that, you will get to love him soon enough; I
know you will."

Then thinking by her demeanour that he had nearly won her over, he
asked: "Shall I ask him to dinner next Sunday?"

"You would only increase the contempt that I feel for him."

Mr. Rougeant was not prepared for this. "I knew it," he said in a
vexed tone of voice; "this is the satisfaction you give me for
having brought you up like a lady, spending a great part of my
income towards your education. I tell you, you are a foolish girl, a
simpleton; I won't have any of your nonsense. I will see to this
later on."

They retired for the night; Mr. Rougeant enraged at his daughter's
abhorrence of Tom, and Adèle deeply grieved at the condition of
affairs.

Alas! she knew her father well.

She felt that a terrible battle would have to be fought some day; a
conflict for love and liberty.

And, raising her eyes to heaven, she prayed that she might have
strength to support the fight.




CHAPTER XI.

BUSINESS.


While these things were going on at "Les Marches," a great change
had come over Frank's life.

His father was one day descending a ladder, when one of the rounds
of the latter broke and his body received a nasty jerk. He placed
his hand on his heart and muttered. "I have felt something, I have
felt something here." Two days afterwards he died from internal
hemorrhage.

So Frank was left to live with his step-mother.

He had now a little money and was considering how he should lay it
out. Finally, he decided to build one or two greenhouses. But he
wanted some land upon which to build them, and this he did not
possess.

There was a field situated behind his garden which belonged to a Mr.
Fallon. "This field would exactly suit me," he said to himself, "I
must try to buy it."

Accordingly, he set out towards "La Chaumière"--this was the name of
Mr. Fallon's residence. When he arrived there, he saw the farmer
coming out of his stable and at once asked him if his field was for
sale. Now, Mr. Fallon thought himself too much of a business man to
answer either "Yes" or "No." "I do not think," he said, "but I can't
tell. I must mention it to my wife and think over it, for it's a
serious thing to sell one's property."

Frank nodded.

Would he call the next evening? the man asked.

Frank promised to call.

The farmer immediately told his wife about the young man's proposal.
The worthy couple decided to sell the piece of land, "but," said the
cautious husband, "we must sell it at a high price, if we can. I
wish it were sold though," he continued, "it's such an out of the
way place, and so far from here."

The next evening saw Frank sitting near the hearth of the kitchen of
"La Chaumière." The following conversation took place.

"Well, Mr. Fallon," said Frank, "I have come to see if the field is
really for sale."

"I hardly know, one doesn't like to do away with one's property."

"You told me you would tell me this evening."

"Yes, I know, but, it's a good field."

"It may be."

"There's a stream running through it."

"I know."

"You would not have to dig a well, and a well costs a great deal of
money."

"Sometimes."

"I have a mind to keep it."

"Indeed!"

"Ah! but such good land, it's a pity to give it away."

"I don't want to have it for nothing."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think you would give me my price."

"What is it?"

"Much too cheap. Land is very dear just now, and the prices will
always go up."

"I don't know about that."

"No, but I do, people are very eager to purchase such fine little
plots. This one has all the advantages that it can have,
situation----"

"What do you mean?"

"It's situated just behind your garden; where can you have anything
better."

"The field is well situated for me, but it's not worth anything as
building land to others, it does not border the road," Frank
ventured to remark.

"It's a splendid piece of land," continued the farmer, "light, open
and yet damp soil, just the sort of thing for tomatoes, I fancy I
can see them, as big as my fist----"

"We have not done much business yet."

"I don't know if I shall sell it."

"If that's the case, when will you make up your mind; shall I call
again to-morrow?"

"I hardly know"--scratching his head--"such a fine plot, let me see;
aloud: It's worth a lot of money."

"How much would you require?"

"Oh! I don't know."

"Well, I'll call again this day week," said Frank, tiring of this
useless talk and guessing what the farmer's intentions were. He rose
and added: "I hope you will have made up your mind by then."

Quoth the farmer: "I should be very sorry for you to have had to
come here for nothing, perhaps we may yet come to terms."

"Will you sell it? 'Yes' or 'No,'" said the young man re-seating
himself.

"If you don't mind giving me my price."

"What _is_ your price?"

"Land is very dear. This piece is situated quite close to town, it
ought to fetch top price. There's two and a half vergées to that
field. I have heard that some land has been sold for eight quarters
a vergée."

"I won't give as much for this one; it's twice too much."

"I should require some money."

"How much?"

"At least one hundred pounds."

"Perhaps I might give you as much, but do state the price of the
whole."

"Six quarters a vergée."

"No."

"It would be worth that to you."

"I will give you five quarters."

"It's too low, the field would only amount to two hundred and fifty
pounds."

"Two hundred and fifty pounds for two and a half vergées, that is
about an acre, is, I should think, a very good price."

"That would only make, besides the one hundred pounds cash, seven
and a half pounds per annum. Such a fertile soil. Such a splendid
stream. No well to dig. Hundreds of tomatoes weighing half-a-pound
each. It's ridiculously low."

"It's time for me to part. Will you accept my price, Mr. Fallon,
'Yes' or 'No?'"

After much grumbling and protestations on the part of the farmer,
with assertions that he would be ruined giving away his land like
that, the transaction was agreed to.

Going home, Frank reviewed in his mind the state of his finance.

He possessed the house, garden, greenhouse and workshop, minus his
step-mother's dowry, and plus five hundred pounds cash. "I cannot do
much with that," he thought, "but I have enough to begin with."

And now where were his ambitious castles; where was the successful
inventor, the possessor of hundreds of thousands--contemplating to
build two span-roofed greenhouses in which he would have to work and
perspire when the thermometer would often stand at from eighty to
ninety degrees.

However, he was full of hope, his ambition had received a severe
blow, but it still clung to him. He feared to aim too high now, and
failures he dreaded. "I must begin at the bottom of the ladder," he
said to himself, "and, with God's help, I shall succeed."

He resolved to work with his brains as well as with his hands. "I
have some education," he thought, "and I will seize the
opportunities as they present themselves. I do not care for riches
now. If only I could succeed in securing enough money to put me out
of the danger of want, I should be satisfied."

Since his adventure in the garden, he had not dared to go again near
"Les Marches."

He thought that Mr. Rougeant had perhaps recognised him, but,
fortunately for him, Adèle's father had failed to discern his
crouching figure.




CHAPTER XII.

A STRANGE MEETING.


Three months afterwards, Frank was planting his tomatoes in his
greenhouses. He had two span-roofs, each one hundred and forty feet
long by forty feet wide.

He had sold the workshop which was situated a few yards to the north
of the house, and had thus been enabled to build larger houses than
he at first intended.

He heard vague rumours about his step-mother going to marry again.
If the truth must be said, Frank felt delighted at the prospect of
getting rid of her. He had never cared for her much, and, recently,
the gap that had always existed between them had been considerably
enlarged.

He had been out on business and had arrived rather late in the
evening, at which Mrs. Mathers was terribly displeased. "I am not
going to sit up all night waiting for you," she said, and then she
added in a most sarcastic tone of voice: "Perhaps you have been at
the cemetery."

Frank was moved to the quick. He was of a rather passionate temper
and he felt nothing but contempt for the person who had made this
remark. "I have not been," he said hotly, "I have been about my
business."

"I thought that perhaps you had been crying there," she continued
with the same irritating smile on her features.

Frank answered: "I might have done worse."

"Who would think that of a man of twenty-one," she said. "Of course,
you do not care for your poor father; your mother gets all the
tears."

Frank quite forgot himself. He looked at her defiantly and said in a
low tone half fearing and yet wishing to be heard: "You are a
Jezabel," then turned round and left the room.

When he came to think over the last words which he had used towards
his step-mother, he felt ashamed of himself. He felt he had not
behaved as a man, much less as a Christian. He had gone much too
far; he owed her respect.

He thought of going straight to her, and of asking her pardon, but
his pride prevented him from taking this wise step. Only for a
minute, however; he soon overcame it and resolutely re-entered the
room where Mrs. Mathers was.

"I was very rude to you," he began, "I was rather excited, and----"

Without saying a word Mrs. Mathers left the room and, slamming the
door after her, proceeded upstairs.

Frank felt relieved. He had attempted a reconciliation. She had
refused. He felt a sense of duty done.

We may add that Mrs. Mathers pouted for more than a week.

The second anniversary of his father's death having arrived, Frank,
profiting by his step-mother's absence, took a small bunch of sweet
scented flowers and proceeded towards the Foulon Cemetery, where his
parents were buried.

As he was about to open the gate, he thought he saw the form of a
lady which he knew, coming down the road after him. He arrested his
steps. The young lady stopped likewise, as if to examine the
cottage situated on her left, and, in doing so, she turned her back
towards Frank.

He did not stay there long, but proceeded up the gravel walk towards
the grave, but as he advanced, he thought no more of his mission.
"Where have I seen that face?" he thought, "it seems familiar to
me."

He was now beside the grave, he placed the flowers near the
tombstone, but his thoughts were not with the dead, they were with
the living.

All at once, it flashed upon him, he remembered that person. That
form, that face, belonged to Adèle Rougeant.

He hastily left the graveyard and almost ran down the walk.

One of the two persons who were standing near the gate said: "That
man has seen a ghost."

Frank smiled as he overheard the remark, and, thinking that the
young lady had proceeded past the gate, he went in that direction.

He walked for a quarter of an hour, but neither saw her nor anyone
resembling her. At last, he gave up the chase in despair. "I must
have construed wrongly," he said to himself, "perhaps the person who
was standing near the entrance to the cemetery was right, it was her
ghost." He mournfully retraced his steps.

It was really Adèle Rougeant that he had seen. She was returning
from town, when, instead of going straight home by St. Martin's
mill, she went up the Grange, took a peep at her former home, then
proceeded by the Rocquettes down the Rohais. Why; the lady readers
will easily guess.

She espied Frank, just as he was turning down Foulon Vale.

He was so intent on his mission that he did not notice her.

As soon as she saw his eager look and the bunch of flowers which he
carried in his hands, a feeling of exasperating jealousy seized her.
Where was he going with those flowers? "Alas!" she thought bitterly,
"he has a rendezvous with some pretty lass. I will follow him and
ascertain, if possible, the truth."

She walked after him, and when he turned round to look at her, she
hastily looked the other way. Fearing lest he might recognise her,
she retraced her steps and continued her journey homewards down the
Rohais, muttering: "A fine place for a rendezvous."

Something within her tried to reason: "He is nothing to you, you
have no claims upon him." But what of her future, what of her
projected plans, her ideas, her sweet dreams; they were mown down in
this huge and single sweep. Life seemed very dark. Up to this, hope
had kept her radiant and cheerful, and now, hope was gone, and in
its stead, there was a blank.

Arrived home, she fetched her violin and poured forth all her
feelings.

She commenced in a plaintive tone, then this changed to reproach,
and the conclusion was a wail of despair.

Again she tried to rouse herself; again she tried to reason. "Why am
I so concerned about him?" she asked herself. "I must put these
foolish thoughts aside."

But love denied what reason would dictate, and she found herself
continually sighing.

Meanwhile, Tom continued his visits from time to time, and she
received him with as much coldness as she dared.

But when she came to think that Frank was an acquaintance to be
forgotten, she slightly changed her manner towards her cousin.

Her father was not slow to notice the change. He laughed inly and
chuckled: "I knew she would come to love him; but I must not hurry
her, she is by nature a slow coach; everything will yet come all
right in the end."

The days were lengthening and Tom continued to come as early as he
used to do in the depth of winter.

It was now quite daylight when he put in an appearance. One evening
he took Adèle for a walk round the garden. Poor girl; she did not
love him, but she did not like to speak roughly to him. She felt
that she was wronging him. She knew that at each meeting his hope
increased. Still, what was she to do? She began to persuade herself
that he was not so bad as she had imagined. He was now a reformed
man; her father had told her so, and she could see it. If the
passion for drink which was still probably strong within him should
return! She paused, mused and said with a sigh: "Alas! I do not feel
that I love him."

Still; she hardly knew if in the end she would accept him. He would
be so deeply grieved if she refused, and then, if she accepted him,
her father would perhaps become once more what he was when she was
quite a child. She remembered how he used to take her on his knee,
and call her his dear little girl.

She went on thinking: "How many people marry without what is
generally called love? Certainly, the greater portion. The French
have what they call _marriages de raison_, and they seem to agree
as well as others."

Poor Adèle. How many have reasoned thus, how many are daily giving
themselves away in marriage to men for whom they feel nought but
friendship; how many give their hand to one, while their heart
yearns for another.




CHAPTER XIII.

SUPERSTITION.


While Adèle was thus pondering over her natural shocks, Frank was
working, full of hope for the future.

His step-mother married, and he was left in possession of the house.
He let it to an old couple, Pierre Merlin and his wife. Maît Pierre,
as Frank called him, was a man of about sixty years of age. He
worked for Frank who found that it was impossible for him to keep
things ship-shape without re-enforcement.

This old man gloried in being a true Guernseyman, one of the old
stock, of direct descent from those who fought for their country
against the band of adventurers who invaded the island under Ivan of
Wales. He did not say that the islanders had the worst of the fight.
He only spoke in the patois, which Frank understood very well.

This species of the genus "homo" hailed from the parish of Torteval,
and, being an old peasant and very illiterate, there is no cause for
being astonished that he was superstitious.

Frank perceived this only a few days after he had engaged him. It
was a Friday, and the old man who was told to go and gather a few
tomatoes--the first of the season--exclaimed: "What! begin on a
Friday, but you forget yourself, Mr. Mathers."

Frank laughed at him and told him to go all the same, adding that
he was surprised people believed in such nonsense. Old Pierre obeyed
muttering: "He is a young man, and he will lose a nice lot of money
on his crops, defying fate in that way. But it's as the proverb
says: 'Experience is a thing which is bought.'"

Although Frank did not believe in any of the old man's notions, the
continual remarks which he heard made him eager to know more. When
they had dined, the two men proceeded to a garden seat and while the
elder smoked his pipe, the younger questioned him.

Pierre was very reticent in his information. What was the use of
telling this young man anything; he would not believe him.

As time passed on, he began to have more confidence in his employer,
and seeing that he never laughed at what he said, he gradually
became more talkative.

One day, when Frank was questioning him, the old man asked: "Have
you ever seen the _feu bellanger_?"

"I don't think so," responded Frank, "at any rate, I had never heard
that name mentioned before."

"Well," said Maît Pierre, "if you care to listen, I shall tell you
all about it; you appear eager to know everything."

He took his pipe from between his teeth; well emptied the bowl, and
put the blackened clay pipe in his pocket with studied carefulness.
Then he began: "The _feu bellanger_ is one of the devil's angels
which takes the shape of fire, and goes about at night, generally
when it is very dark, and tries to pounce upon some victim."

Here, he stopped and looked inquiringly at Frank, who, in his
desire to hear what old Pierre had to say, kept a very grave face.

Apparently satisfied at the young man's appearance, the narrator
continued: "I have often seen it myself, and once, very clearly. I
will never forget it to my dying day. It was pitch-dark and a
drizzling rain was falling. I was walking hastily towards my home,
when, on my right, I beheld a light. It danced up and down, now it
came towards me, then it receded. I confess that I was nailed to the
spot. I already seemed to feel its deathly grip. I was powerless to
move. I could not scream. It was the old fellow who was already
fascinating me. Fortunately, I remembered the words which my father
had once told me: 'If ever you meet the _feu bellanger_, my boy,
take off your coat, turn the sleeves inside out, and put it on so;
it means that you will have nothing to do with it, and that you will
resist its efforts to seize you.' I found strength enough to follow
my father's advice. Hope must have sustained me. The bluish light
remained about there for a few minutes more, then disappeared
entirely."

"How thankful did I feel. With all speed, I hastened home to tell my
parents of my narrow escape. They congratulated me; my father even
took my hand and welcomed me as one risen from the dead."

"How does it kill the people it attacks?" Frank inquired.

"It flies with them to the seaside, or to the nearest pool and
drowns them there."

"I once knew a man who was a downright ne'er do well. He was very
much addicted to drink. One morning, he was found drowned in a
stream."

"But," interposed Frank, "he might have stumbled in the stream
whilst in a state of intoxication."

"No--no--no," said Pierre, "it was not that; the _feu bellanger_ was
seen that very night near this spot where the corpse was afterwards
found. Some people said that they had heard a scream. I quite
believe it. It was the horrible monster's triumphal shout. He was
celebrating his victory."

"You don't think it was the poor inebriate's cry for help," said
Frank, forcing back a smile.

"I told you it was a shout of triumph," said old Pierre, losing
patience and already angry at Frank's demeanour. "Moreover," he
added, "I'll tell you something else, I have not finished yet.

"It's a well-known fact that the _feu bellanger_ dislikes sharpened
tools, and fights with them if he happens to meet them. Being aware
of this, my brother and I went to a place where we had seen the
monster on the previous night. We had a sharp knife. We placed it
with the handle in the ground and the keen blade sticking out."

"We watched from a distance to see if the _feu bellanger_ would pass
that way, and seeing that it did not appear; when midnight came, we
went home. But a neighbour told us on the morrow that he had seen it
in the early hours of the morning, fighting against the knife.

"We straightway proceeded to the place where the knife was. Imagine
our horror on finding that the blade was covered with blood."

"Some poor stray animal _did_ suffer," Frank could not help
remarking. Old Pierre was terribly displeased. He rose to go about
his work, muttering: "Wait till he sees it, when he gets caught, I
bet he'll turn blue."

Frank thought about his labourer's story during the whole of the
afternoon. "These superstitions do a great deal of harm to these
poor people," he said in a soliloquy.

He therefore resolved to try and root out all these strange notions
from Pierre's head. He soon felt a kind of ecstacy. It was a
glorious thing to help bring about the time when science would sweep
away all traces of ignorance.

If the theory of evolution was true, those times would come, so he
decided to set to work at once upon this man.

It was a beginning, small perhaps, but he now believed in small
beginnings.

He had not yet experienced what it is to try and convert a
superstitious man.

It is very difficult to convince an ignorant person.




CHAPTER XIV.

FAILURE.


Having made up his mind to rescue Maît Pierre from his
superstitions, Frank at once set to work.

So, the day following his decision, he advanced to the attack.

When they were both seated as usual having their after-dinner
conversation, Frank began: "Do you really believe all you told me
about the _feu bellanger_, Maît Pierre?"

"If I believe it? why, certainly I do."

Frank knew he did believe it, but he wanted to fix the conversation
at once. "I'll tell you what this fire is," continued the young man;
"it is a light which comes out of the soil, more especially in the
marshy places. It is called 'Will-o'-the-Wisp' by some of the
country folk in England, 'Jack-o'-Lantern' by others. The true name
of this ignited gas is _ignis fatuus_."

The old man smiled. His look at Frank was one of pity. "What a poor
young simple-minded, inexperienced person," he thought, and in the
voice of a man quoting a passage from Horace he said aloud: "I have
seen it on the top of a hill."

"It may be," answered Frank, and, seeing old Pierre's triumphant
attitude, he added: "Do you not think that there is a Maker who
watches over us? how foolish to think that he would let the evil
one go about like that and drown people at his will----"

Pierre suddenly interrupted him: "And Job," he said.

"Oh! that was in the olden times," said Frank; "besides, it's poetic
language, you must not take it so literally as you seem to do. Do
you know what lies at the bottom of all these superstitions?
Ignorance; nothing but the lack of education. Among men of
knowledge, nothing of this sort is ever heard of. They do not
believe in witches riding on broomsticks. Ah!" he added, seeing
Pierre was getting excited; "you believe in witches too?"

"Mr. Mathers," said the old man looking steadily at Frank, "you're a
young man, you should not try so to rail at people who have
experience; you should not try to make me disbelieve things which I
have seen with both my eyes; when you are older, when you have
passed through all that I have passed; ah, when you have, as we say
proverbially 'dragged the harrow where I have dragged the plough';
then, and only then, will you attempt to remonstrate with elderly
people. I think the proper thing for you to do now is to wait till
you have gained some experience and not to try and speak about
things which you know nothing of."

Frank was astonished at the serious tone in which this little speech
was delivered. He began to see how deep-rooted were Pierre's
beliefs, but if the difficulties multiplied in his path, his fervour
rose also. He had decided to show this man the fallacy of his
arguments, and he must accomplish his self-imposed task. He was now
very determined; the more so, as he noticed the air of superiority
old Pierre assumed.

"You have no proofs whatever in support of what you advance," he
said, "while I can prove to you that this light seen over or near
bogs and sometimes over cemeteries, is nothing but '_ignis fatuus_.'
This man found drowned, and all that nonsense, is nothing but what
would happen under ordinary circumstances. In a state of
intoxication, he walked in the pool and was drowned. Is not that
plain enough?

"The knife covered with blood was the result of some beast cutting
its leg with the sharpened edge, every sensible man will acknowledge
that; prove to me the contrary, and I will believe you; until then,
never.

"And these witches, by the by, you have not told me if you believed
in them."

The old man met his gaze defiantly as he answered: "Yes, I do. I do
not know if, as you say, they ride on broomsticks; but I'll tell you
this: My father was no fibber. He told me one day that a certain
woman went at their house from time to time. They never saw her come
in at the door like one might see another person do, but she simply
fell plump in the middle of the kitchen. She found herself there,
none knew how; I do not know whether it was through the ceiling or
otherwise, but my father assured me he had seen her come in this
fashion more than once."

"Stop," cried Frank, "I never thought it would come to this. It
beats all that I have yet heard. And you believe that, Maît Pierre,
you who think yourself----"

"My father always spoke the truth," interrupted Pierre, "if a man
is not to believe what he has seen, what must he confide in, then?"

"You ought to use your reasoning faculties; but, tell me, have you
ever been an eye-witness to any of these things?"

"If I've seen any? why, certainly, by the dozen almost. I'll tell
you one. I was working some few years ago for a Mr. Fouret. One of
his cows having died from milk fever, it was found necessary to
replace it. Now old Mrs. X. had two for sale at that time, and
knowing that my master wanted to buy one, she offered him hers.

"I must tell you that this woman had the reputation of having the
evil eye. Mr. Fouret did not care to refuse her, so he said he would
go and see them. He went. When he came back, he told us he would not
take them even if Mrs. X. gave them to him for nothing; they were
very lean and deformed. So he resolved to risk being bewitched and
bought one from Mr. Paslet.

"When he came back to the farm he said to me: 'Pierre, go and fetch
the cow which I have bought at Mr. Paslet's farm.'

"'All right sir,' answered I, and I started.

"As I was coming back quietly with the beast, whom should I meet but
Mrs. X.

"'Oh, it's you, Pierre,' she said grinning; 'where have you had that
cow from?'

"I explained: 'Master had bought the animal in the morning from Mr.
Paslet and had sent me to fetch it.'

"'Ah, indeed,' she said, patting the animal; 'she's a fine beast.'

"When I saw her laying her hand on the poor creature, I said to
myself, 'she's giving it her.' But what could I do? I said nothing,
and the old woman went away.

"I had not proceeded more than one hundred yards when the animal
began to show signs of illness. However, I managed to lead her to
the farm which was not very far. But the beast got worse and worse.
Mr. Fouret came to examine her. 'What's the matter with the brute?'
he said, 'you've made her walk too fast I'm afraid; she seems to be
tired and exhausted.'

"'Mr. Fouret,' I responded, 'I came along very slowly, but on the
road I met Mrs. X.'

"'Did she touch the cow?' he inquired.

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'What a nuisance,' he exclaimed, and turning to the servant-boy who
was there he said: 'take a horse and fetch the vet. as quickly as
you possibly can.'

"The veterinary surgeon came. Of course, he was not going to say he
did not know what was the matter with the beast, so he said it
was----I forget the name now, it was a queer word he said, I know, a
name which he was sure we should not remember anyone of us,--and
told us to fetch some medicine.

"We gave her the drug. She seemed a little bit better and we left
her for the night. In going to have a look at her on the following
morning, I found the poor animal dead."

"Well," said Frank, "what proofs have you that it was really this
woman who caused your cow to give up the ghost?"

"What proofs?" ejaculated the old man; "well, I think there were
proofs enough; but, to be quite sure, Mr. Fouret consulted a white
witch. She told him it was an old woman who was jealous of him, and
gave my employer a powder to burn. 'You may be certain that the
culpable person will come to you, when you have burnt that powder,'
she said to him.

"Mr. Fouret did as he had been told to do, and Mrs. X. came on the
following morning. She said: 'I thought I would call so as to have a
look at your new acquisition.'"

"I do not care to hear any more," interrupted Frank; "science and
reasoning will in time do away with all this."

It was now time for them to attend to their work. They went. Not one
word did they exchange. There seemed to be a gap between them. Old
Pierre was vexed at being rebuked by a young man. Frank was in
despair.

The next day when they were seated as usual having a chat after
dinner, Pierre quietly produced from his pocket the _Gazette de
Guernesey_. He had not said a word about superstition during the
morning, but silently handed the paper to Frank, pointing with his
finger at a paragraph.

Not a word was exchanged. The young man took the paper and read
aloud: "Spiritualism. Another convert to spiritualism is reported,
the learned ----. He is well known as the able and energetic editor
of the ----."

The old man looked at Frank and in a deep voice said: "Is it
ignorance?"

"This is a different thing altogether," he responded; "it is not
that base superstition about which we were speaking yesterday.
Besides, learned people are not always the first to discover
trickery."

Then he thought of the superstitious, albeit educated people who
frequent the gambling hell at Monte Carlo; and stopped short.

Pierre looked at him; "Is it only ignorance?" he again asked.

"Bah," said Frank as he waved his hand with a gesture of supreme
contempt; "I don't care what it is, it's very ridiculous and
unreasonable."

The old man shook his head. "I believe what I've seen," he said.

Frank waxed hot. "You are then determined to remain in that state of
narrow-mindedness, believing in all this nonsense. But, my man, you
_must_ be miserable."

Again the stolid answer came: "I believe what I've seen."

"Listen," said Frank: "One day, when I was about nine years of age,
I was looking at a pig which had been, to all appearances, killed.
As I was about to go nearer, the brute jumped down and came running
after me. I, in my ignorance, thought it was a dead pig pursuing me,
and when my mother told me the contrary, I said as you do: 'I
believe what I have seen.'"

Quoth old Pierre: "As you say, it's a different thing altogether."

"Let us go about our work," said Frank; "we are losing our time I
fear."

His hope of converting this man was almost extinguished.

"What are my decisions coming to?" he said to himself. "I had once
determined to be an inventor, etcetera, and here I am with a face
like the tan and tomato-stained hands. When I try to change Maît
Pierre's notions, I fail. Notwithstanding, I will not be
disheartened. Knowledge is power; if I fail here, I shall not fail
everywhere."

Frank Mathers felt himself strong, rather too much so perhaps.

It is one of the defects of the self-educated, that they generally
imagine themselves much more learned than they really are. Not
having anyone to compete with, or a master to show them their
imperfections, they rather over-estimate their capacities.

There is also another disadvantage in self-culture. The
self-educated man is often only acquainted with the elements of a
great many different sciences, but it is seldom that he is
thoroughly versed in any single one. There are exceptions to this
rule. One is when the student has a decided talent for something,
and energy to pursue his studies.

Frank had studied something of almost everything and imagined
himself a savant.

From this it must not be inferred that he was uneducated.

But, he lacked that knowledge of the world which is only acquired by
mixing with the world.




CHAPTER XV.

DARK DAYS.


It was winter, dull winter, when nature rests and green fields are
no more.

There was not much work to do now in the greenhouses at "the
Rohais."

Frank was one evening taking a walk towards the Câtel Church.

He had some business to settle with his carpenter, who lived near
"Woodlands."

Presently, a man who had dogged his steps for some time, exclaimed:
"It's you, Mr. Mathers, I thought it was."

Turning round, Frank recognised Jacques, Mr. Rougeant's workman. He
thought his heart had stopped beating, so sudden was the thrill of
satisfaction that shook its tendrils.

"Yes, it is I," he at last answered; and he shook hands with Jacques
as if he had been his most intimate friend.

"He was so glad to see him," he said. "And how are they all at 'Les
Marches,'" he inquired.

"Oh, jolly-like," said the man who had boasted that he could speak
English; "the squire's in a reg'lar good mood this week."

"Indeed!" said Frank.

"Well, you see, it's no wonder after all; the young Miss's engaged
to a young fellow; Tom Soher, I think his name is. I don't like the
look o' the chap. He used to drink and there's no sayin'----."

He stopped short on perceiving Frank who was leaning against the
wall for support; his face of an ashen hue.

Jacques eyed him anxiously. "One'd say you'd be ill," he remarked.

"I don't feel exactly well," said Frank.

"Shall I see you home?"

"No, thank you, I can easily walk there."

"I think I'd better come with you; I know my missus'l be waitin' for
me, but I'll come if you think I must."

"No, thank you," again responded Frank; "there are a great many
people about----. There! I feel slightly better."

"As you like," said Jacques, who by-the-by was not in the least
inclined to accompany the young man.

"I'll go alone," said Frank; "Good-night."

"Good-night, Sir, I hope you'll be better soon," said Jacques, as
each one betook himself towards his home.

Frank was completely weighed down with this piece of unexpected and
unwelcome news. He did not go to the carpenter's residence; he
forgot all about it. He went straight home. How he arrived there,
which road he took, which door he entered by, he did not know; but
he found himself in his bedroom, seated on a chair and gazing into
space in blank despair.

This was the end of everything.

He pictured to himself her lover. He did not know him, but he
succeeded in forming in his mind one of the biggest monsters that
ever inhabited the globe in the shape of man.

And Adèle; he knew she must have been forced into it by her father.
"How she must groan under this yoke. To have to listen to that
vicious being with the prospect of one day being his wife." Why had
it come to this, why was the world so formed. Ah! the wicked world
we live in, the abominable, corrupted world. When would the
millennium come. When would all this unhappiness be swept away from
the earth's surface.

Alas! he would die before that time; so would thousands and millions
of others.

What had the world done that it must thus be continually sacrificed.
What had he done. Others were happy; surely no one had ever met such
a deception before. People had to suffer sometimes, but not such
intense, heart-rending suffering as he now endured.

He was full of despair. Before him, there was nothing but darkness.
The more he thought over his misfortunes, the more hopeless life
seemed to be.

The candle was now nearly burnt out, but he heeded it not. He waved
his hand near his face as if to scatter his thoughts. "Why did I
rescue him when he was drowning. (He was thinking of Mr. Rougeant.)
I risked being pulled into the water, I might have been drowned; and
this is the reward." Ah! how humanity must suffer. If there was no
joy, no real happiness on this earth, why live, why continue to
endure all this. Schopenhauer was quite right when he said life was
not worth living. Henceforth, he would be a pessimist. Three cheers
for pessimism!

Ah! the wicked world we live in.

The candle had now burnt itself out but the young man remained
seated, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes gazing at the
floor, and his heart in "kingdom come."

When the clock struck twelve, he awoke. He had fallen asleep and was
a little more composed than before. He undressed and went to bed.

He awoke early in the morning. He was crying. What was the matter
with him. It dawned upon him: he was going to have a fit of
melancholy.

He felt it, but he was powerless to prevent its intrusion. He was
like the man who stands between the rails, and suddenly sees a train
advancing at full speed towards him and remains with his eyes
riveted on the instrument of his destruction, seemingly powerless to
move, till the engine crushes him in its onward course.

When Frank descended to breakfast, old Pierre and his spouse noticed
his wan look. "I think master's going mad," said the man to his
wife, when Frank was out of the room. "I don't know what ails him,
but he seems very pale and strange."

The young man wandered aimlessly. Nothing interested him, not even
his books, these companions which he had cherished so much. He tried
to find pleasure in them. "If I had something to do, something to
occupy my thoughts," he said to himself, "I would be much better.
Work is the balm which heals my wounds, it sets me on my feet again.
I will work, I will study."

He soon found out that work in itself could not heal his wounds.
Then he grew still more despondent. What was the use of working if
work did not bring a reward. It was all very well to toil, but to
work like a slave, without the prospect of utilizing one's power
after having continually striven to acquire it, was discouraging.

He therefore put his books aside and his melancholy grew deeper and
deeper.

One day he was seized with anxiousness for his soul's future. He had
not done what he ought to have done. He greatly frightened Mrs.
Merlin, when he entered the house and exclaimed: "I'm lost; I'm
lost."

"Don't say that, Mr. Mathers," she said. "You have always been a
good man."

"Good!" he exclaimed, his eyes dilated, the muscles of his face
working convulsively; "good, yes, for my sake, because I hoped in my
selfishness to reap ten times the outlay. Don't you see," he
continued, "that I have only worked for my own selfish interest. I
have made sacrifices, because I hoped to reap a rich reward. And
now, I am well punished; I deserve all this, I certainly do. I have
done nothing for others. I have not been altruistic."

The woman stared at him. She knew almost as much about altruism as a
dog does about the celestial sciences. After a few moments of
silence she spoke: "You have been very good to us, you rescued a man
from drowning once at great risk, you----"

"Ha, ha!" he laughed, "fine talk, to come and speak like that to me.
I am going to die, and do you hear;" he added in an undertone,
catching hold of Mrs. Merlin's arm and terrifying her; "I am afraid,
oh, so afraid."

The old woman began to cry. "You must not talk like that," she said,
"you really must not. Why don't you pray?"

"Pray! what is the use; no, not now. I am being punished for my
sins. I must atone, I must atone."

He continued in this sad state for a few days, weighed down with
this strange malady, which, alas, often preys upon our finest
intellects.

Then, a reaction set in, and he began to improve gradually.

He felt quite well at times, then re-assumed his moody ways; rays of
sunshine sometimes darted from behind the clouds. "I wish the sun
would disperse the clouds," he sighed.

One evening, when his head was tolerably clear, he was seized with a
desire to visit his parents' grave.

Without consulting anyone, he immediately proceeded towards the
Foulon. When he came to the iron gate, it was closed. He was
bitterly disappointed. By climbing over it, he would risk being
empaled on the iron spikes, or otherwise injured.

Presently he thought of the wooden wicket situated a little lower
down. He proceeded thither and climbed over it without difficulty. A
stream confronted him. He crossed it on a plank thrown across the
rill. It was very dark, but he did not think of it. He was alone in
this graveyard, but he experienced no fear. He felt happier than he
had done for a long time. "Had he not adopted the pessimistic view
of life."

He walked straight to the grave where his father and mother lay
buried and seated himself near it. Just then, a gentle breeze caused
the stately trees surrounding the graveyard to waft their leafy tops
to and fro. Nature was rocking itself to sleep.

Even as it slumbered, it now and then heaved a sigh, sympathizing
with the lonely man who pondered near his parents' grave.

He soliloquized: "Around me, the dead; beneath that turf, the dead;
above me, beyond those glimmering stars, somewhere in that infinity
of space, in which man with his very limited understanding loses
himself, the departed souls...."

Suddenly, he perceived a white form advancing towards him. If hair
stands on end, Frank's did. His heart beat at a fearful rate. What
could this be? It certainly must be a ghost. "I have laughed at
apparitions, but I am now going to be punished for my incredulity,"
he said to himself.

The ghost moved and came nearer. Frank trembled from head to foot.
When he had recovered sufficient courage to scrutinize this form, it
suddenly disappeared.

The young man fixed his eyes on the place where the ghost had
vanished, for ten minutes; then turned his gaze in another
direction. He soon recovered his senses, and fell into a reverie.

Again he soliloquized: "We all travel towards the grave. We all
shall one day be like these around me. Why work, why trouble
oneself. Why have I taken so much pains about my education? I have
been ambitious, I have worried myself, I have been anxious to
acquire wealth and fame. Here, the rich and the poor, the famous,
the unfamous, and the infamous, the ignorant and the educated, are
resting in the same ground, surrounded by the same scenery. I have
been foolish to worry myself thus.

"Do I not daily meet ignorant and uncivilised people who live a life
of contentment and happiness? Not caring for the future, not
aspiring after getting on in life, living from hand to mouth, they
manage to show a radiant countenance.

"Is ignorance bliss? Perhaps, in one sense; still I would not be
without education.

"What must I do to be happy? I will shut mine eyes to all ambition,
I will live a quiet life. Alas! even as I pronounce these words, my
heart belies them. I cannot annihilate the acute brain which
tortures me. Since all my hopes of happiness seem to shun me, I will
continue in my new religion--pessimism; and when the hour of death
comes, I will smile."

He thought of the hopeful days he had once known. He rose from his
seat, cast a farewell glance on his parents' grave and proceeded
down the gravel walk. He then thought of the ghost which he had
seen, and felt a vague sense of fear. "I am no coward," he muttered
as he straightened himself and tried to assume an air of
indifference. But he felt nervous. He glanced anxiously behind him
every other moment, and increased his pace.

He perceived, among the trees, near the gate over which he had to
pass--a light.

It was as if a thunderbolt had passed through his body.

He looked more attentively. Yes, there was a light, a strange,
fantastic light, dancing amongst the trees. His feverish brain
caused him to lose all power of reasoning.

"What is this?" he said to himself. He felt his heart beating
heavily against the walls of its prison as if trying to escape. His
legs seemed to give way under him. A big lump stuck in his throat.

"It is only an _ignis fatuus_," he said to himself. "No, it cannot
be, it does not burn with a bluish light. Why this terror, why this
fear; it must be the _feu bellanger_."

The light changed. It was approaching.

A sense of horripilation stole over him. A cold perspiration bathed
him.

The light changed again. It really receded this time, but to Frank's
agitated mind, it was simply one of its tactics to induce him to
come nearer.

He suddenly bethought himself of the stream. His terror reached its
climax. "Ah! there it was, waiting for him to pass that way, and
then with a shout of triumph, it would plunge him in."

He remembered old Pierre's words: "Wait till he gets caught." How he
wished he had not mocked him so. Perhaps this _feu bellanger_ was
preparing to revenge itself.

Again, the light approached. It came nearer to him than it had yet
come. The supreme moment had arrived. He already felt himself being
dipped in the stream, with no one to rescue him. Ah! the horror of
being killed by one of the devil's angels.

Here he remembered Pierre Merlin's advice: "Turn your coat sleeves
inside out and put on your garment so." Without a moment's
hesitation he divested himself of his coat. As he was turning the
sleeves, the object of his dread disappeared. A sigh of relief
escaped him.

In a minute, he had bounded over the stream and gate into the road.
He put on his coat, and was proceeding towards his home, when he
perceived the cause of his fears. It was simply a ray of light
coming through the windows of the guardian's house. He could see it
now. A woman was standing on a chair with a small lamp in her hand
seeking for something on a shelf. As she moved the lamp, the
reflection on the trees moved also.

He began to laugh. "The _feu bellanger_, forsooth. How old Pierre
would have smiled if he had beheld him taking off his coat. But the
ghost, _that_ was what puzzled him."

The ghost came bounding over the wicket and passed by him.

It was a white dog.

This adventure had taught him a great lesson. What could he say now,
he, the educated and civilized young man? No wonder if the people
who had been accustomed to hear strange tales from their earliest
infancy, believed in them.

He went home, determined to deal leniently with Pierre in the
future.

"I must have been in a dreadful state of mind to have acted thus,"
he thought. "I have done more than I ever meant to do."

When he came home, he was quite cheerful. He did not say that he had
seen a ghost, neither did he tell the spouses Merlin that he had
nearly been attacked by the _feu bellanger_.

Pierre noticed his joyous look. He gave a wink to his wife as if to
say: "He's taken a glass or two."

It was not so; the shock which he had received had completely
dislodged the last trace of melancholy.




CHAPTER XVI.

SHADOW AND SUNSHINE.


What was Adèle doing? She was not engaged. It was one of Jacques'
inventions, or rather deductions, from what he saw.

She was being gradually drawn towards the abyss, where her soul
would lose all that it possessed that was divine, and into which, to
all appearances, she was finally to plunge, pushed by an unseen
hand, drawn thither by a magic power.

She shuddered. After all her dreams of happiness, Fate had condemned
her to this. How often had she pictured herself, the possessor of
true love, streams of happiness flowing into her heart. She had
formed a high ideal of life; the present did not satisfy her. Hope
had sustained her, and that hope, that idea of a pure, refined,
elevated and noble life, chastened by love, was now dwindling away
and she seemed destined to join the great multitude of ordinary
beings.

Still, she hesitated. She dared not trust her future happiness to a
man for whom she barely felt friendship.

One day, her father, being in a better mood than was his wont, told
her that she ought to make up her mind about whom she wanted to
marry.

"It is not my intention to marry young," she said; "I want you to
leave me quiet for a whole year."

"Nonsense;" replied her father, "but if you promise me that in a
year you will be Tom Soher's betrothed, I shall be satisfied."

"I cannot promise you that," she replied; "but I shall tell you what
I intend to do; perhaps I shall never marry."

"Tom Soher is a sensible man," said her father, satisfying himself
with her answer. "When he was younger, he did drink a little too
much perhaps, but he is altogether reformed now. We must not blame
people who try to lead a new life. I know he can still drink a few
glasses of cider, but what do you want? Was not cider made to be
drunk? For my part, I prefer a man like him to half-a-dozen of those
white-faced teetotalers. They look as if they had just been dug
up--like a fresh parsnip."

"I think Tom Soher would do much better to abstain from alcohol
altogether, especially as he has been one of its slaves," remarked
Adèle.

Pretending not to hear her, or thinking this remark unworthy of
notice, the farmer went on with unusual fervour: "Marry him, Adèle;
save our family and his from ruin and disgrace, and make your old
dad happy. I will teach him to work and to be thrifty; we shall get
along splendidly."

There was some more talk, and the father went about his work.

Adèle had now a year's liberty before her. She determined to make
use of it. Recently, upon reflection, she had begun to entertain
doubts as to her suspicions about Frank. "He might have been
visiting some dear relative's grave;" she said to herself. She again
began to hope, and her spirits rose.

Three months of the year's truce had elapsed; as yet, she had learnt
nothing. She looked with terror at the abyss opened before her. She
shuddered at the thought that there were only nine months left. How
rapidly time seemed to be gliding.

About this time, Frank Mathers began to experience a dull sensation
in the region of the heart. He did not attach any importance to it
at first, but as time wore on, the fluttering increased. He grew
anxious. For about a week, his health remained the same, when one
day, after dinner, he was quite alarmed to feel his heart thumping
vigorously against his chest. "What is this coming to?" he said to
himself.

The heart resumed its normal state. Frank tried to satisfy himself
that it was only a partial indisposition. A week passed. The disease
had increased rapidly. He was very anxious now. Sometimes, he would
stop his work and listen. He felt his heart distinctly beating
against the walls of his chest. He placed his hand over the region
of the heart. How this organ thumped and heaved. His nervousness was
intense. He quickly unbuttoned his garments and looked at his chest.
His heart seemed to be trying to burst through its prison walls.

He gazed on it for a time, then buttoned his clothes and walked to
and fro trying to pacify the agitated organ. In the midst of his
walk, he stopped; mechanically, his hand was placed over his heart,
and he listened, anxious, agitated, and holding his breath.

That same evening, when he was falling asleep, he suddenly jumped up
in bed. His heart had given a heavy abnormal beat, and was now
quietly working, as if ignorant and innocent of everything.

After a while, he fell asleep. Next day, he was worse than ever.

"Am I going to die?" he said to himself. "Life is sweet, it is hard
to die so young, when before me lies the future which I would fain
penetrate. I should like to accomplish some task before I depart
from this world."

Frank! where art thou come to? Didst not thou say, only a few weeks
back: "I will smile when the hour of death comes," and now thou art
craving for life, and thou art shrinking from death.

Frank Mathers thought that his complaint was _Angina Pectoris_. He
consulted a book on Pathology. He learnt that even with this
terrible disease a person might, by careful living, attain a certain
age.

This did not satisfy him. He consulted a doctor. When he was seated
in the medical man's waiting-room, it seemed to him that the doctor
was going to pronounce his doom. He fancied he could already hear
him: "You may, by taking care of yourself, live another year or
two."

The door of the room in which he was, opened. His heart gave a great
leap. "I wish you to auscultate me," he said, addressing the doctor
who entered the room.

Dr. Buisson looked at him with a scrutinizing glance as he replied:
"Very well, sir; step in the next room."

Frank followed the doctor into the room adjoining.

The medical man proceeded to auscultate his patient. After he had
completed his examination, Frank looked at him inquiringly. "_Angina
Pectoris_?" he questioned anxiously.

"No."

A sigh of relief escaped him.

Quoth Dr. Buisson: "You have already sighed a great deal too much.
You have overtaxed your strength. You must not live on passion, but
you ought to take life more easily, young man. Rest and
cheerfulness, with a few bottles of physic, will put you on your
legs again. Stimulants would benefit you."

"I do not wish to drink any alcohol," interrupted Frank.

"Who talks about alcohol? Do without stimulants. You do not need
them."

"I thought----" began Frank.

The grave voice of the doctor interrupted him. "Young man, you must
be careful about your diet; eat slowly--masticate well. Pass into
the dispensing room."

"What an odd man," thought Frank, as he wended towards his home.

He passed the next few weeks resting nearly all the time, taking
very little exercise and a great deal of physic. He gradually grew
better, his nervousness ceased, his heart resumed its normal
condition, it palpitated no more.

He tried to be cheerful, but he still had great faith in pessimism.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE EFFECTS OF A SERMON.


One Sunday, contrary to his habit, Frank betook himself to one of
the country churches. He had several reasons for doing so. He wanted
to hear a French sermon; he wanted to be quiet, away from the world,
etcetera.

As he went on his way, he dropped into a none too pleasant reverie.

"What a queer animal man is," he thought; "what a study. It is true
that 'the proper study of mankind is man.'

"But, the more one meditates on humanity, the more one becomes
disgusted with its artificialness and bad taste. People flock after
trifles, they are devoid of refinement, a conjuror will have an
immense number of admirers, a third-rate music-hall will fill, even
to suffocation, while the man of genius, unless he be rich, often
remains unnoticed. He who produces most exquisite poetry, soaring
high above his fellow countrymen, carrying them out of life's dusty
ways into a pure atmosphere, dies of starvation in a garret."

He arrived at the church of St. ----. He entered the sanctuary and
seated himself in a place from which he would be able to see the
minister.

"This is a very comfortable position," he said to himself.

He began to examine the people as they took their seats. Very
different from one another were those who entered. The men took
their seats with a deal of looking round and lifting of coat-tails.
They finally settled down, drawing a deep breath as they did so, as
if the act of sitting was a prodigious effort.

Frank was, with his accustomed curiosity, examining an old woman who
trudged in, wrapped up in an enormous shawl, when a lady touched him
lightly on the shoulder. He turned round.

"Sir, this is my pew," she said, "you may go in any of those,"
pointing to the left.

"I beg your pardon," said Frank, and he hastily left his seat and
went in one of the pews which the lady had pointed out to him. Then
he remembered that in his haste, he had forgotten to take his hat
with him. He proceeded to fetch it. The lady who was occupying the
pew with her husband and daughter handed him his hat, smiling as she
did so.

"She might have allowed me to remain where I was," thought the young
man. He went on thinking: "Perhaps, they have some superstition
about worshipping in their own pew."

He fancied everyone of the countryfolks was superstitious. He
wondered if Adèle believed in these things. A sudden pang passed
through him, as he thought of her. His brow clouded as he
recollected Jacques' words: "The young Miss's engaged to a young
fellow."

The minister entered the church. No one rose. No formalities of any
kind. He took his place quietly. The service began.

When the sermon came, instead of the old minister who had read the
prayers, Frank was astonished to see a young man, who, directly he
stepped into the pulpit, impressed him most favourably. He had a
very intelligent face and a cheerful countenance.

He took for his text the words of St. Paul: "Rejoice evermore."

He began: "There is a class of people, the followers of
Schopenhauer, who declare that life is not worth living.

"They say this world is almost the worst possible place we could
live in, and that, if it were a shade worse, it would be impossible
to live in it, and people would willingly end their existence. This
doctrine is called 'pessimism.'"

Frank felt very interested. Every word which the preacher said,
seemed directly addressed to him.

The young minister continued: "There is another class of pessimists
who have never thought of following this Schopenhauer, but who,
nevertheless, find life a burden and this world almost an inferno."

       *       *       *       *       *

"This class of people (the pessimists) pull long faces and go about
their work sighing. They see everything turned upside down but it is
they who are cross. 'Life is not worth living,' they say, 'this
world is a miserable dwelling place;' but it is they who cause their
lives to be not worth living, who make themselves miserable."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Some of them who profess to be good, do a great deal of harm to
Christianity; more than is perhaps generally imagined. People
examine them and nod their heads. 'Christianity is a failure,' they
say."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Help to put down Schopenhauer's wretched doctrines. Look at the
bright side of life."

"You will meet with difficulties, but do not despond; to every
cloud, there is a silver lining."

He declared he was an optimist. He invited his hearers, one and all
to adopt the optimistic view of life, and help to bring the kingdom
of God upon earth. He pointed out the causes which should help to
make us cheerful, beautiful nature, healthy mental and physical
occupations and distractions....

He told them to remember that time would be followed by eternity; to
hopefully prepare for the life to come, and to help others to do the
same.

Once out of the church, Frank felt very much puzzled. Both the
discourse and the manner in which it had been delivered, had
impressed him. What would he do? It certainly was a matter for
consideration. Was there a silver lining to the cloud that was
floating around him? Would he hope? Would he, in spite of
everything, try and be cheerful?

When he came home, he had formed a decision. He would try. He would
answer the invitation of this young clergyman, who seemed so full of
hope and joy.

The preacher had said: If you feel--as you will feel--that you are
unable to fight unaided; pray. Frank prayed. It was not a request in
which the lips took a very active part, but he poured forth his
whole soul through his heart, to Him who could and would help those
who were unable to help themselves.

When he had finished, he felt quite equipped for the fight. For he
would have to battle.

"I must try to be cheerful, I must set aside all my gloomy
thoughts," he said to himself. "I must endeavour to change my whole
former view of the world. I feel strong. Welcome optimism. Three
cheers for optimism."

Young man, thou art a new convert, and, like every new convert, thou
art enthusiastic.




CHAPTER XVIII.

SUCCESS AFTER SUCCESS.


Having adopted the optimistic view of life, Frank found that it was
not easy to eradicate his dismal turn of mind.

He fought bravely. It was not his first fight. He had been, when
younger, passionate and a trifle ill-tempered, but he had, while
still in his teens, successfully overcome these defects.

He often thought of Adèle. He dared not go near "Les Marches." He
knew full well that the sight of the house in which he had first
known love, would arouse in him sentiments of jealousy and grief; so
he satisfied himself with continuing to work at the reformation of
his character. Each victory which he achieved made him feel stronger
and wiser, and every day added to his success.

Let us return to Adèle Rougeant. Six out of the twelve months' truce
had now elapsed.

Tom's visits at Les Marches were few and far between.

Adèle had chanced to overhear a part of the conversation which took
place between her father and cousin, after she had asked the former
for a year's peaceful solitude.

Quoth Mr. Rougeant: "You will have to wait another year."

"Indeed!" said his nephew.

"Adèle says she wishes to think the matter over."

"Oh!" said Tom, biting his nails; with which operation he was very
familiar--"a year will soon pass away."

"Yes," answered the uncle.

Adèle's business took her to another room, and she had too much
good-breeding to stay and listen. Eavesdropping was not in her line.
She laughed all to herself. Liberty was so sweet.

When she went out, she could listen with more than ordinary delight
to the songs of the birds. Some were singing with everchanging
variety, others were somewhat more laboriously endeavouring to
imitate the whistle of the farmer-boys.

Adèle Rougeant sympathized with birds; she felt attracted towards
them, for she too was a bird. She had been, for a time, caged; but
now she was perfectly free, for six more months at least. She
trusted to be out of the difficulty by then. Why; she did not know;
something within her seemed to assure her that it would be so.

When, a week afterwards, Tom Soher was taken ill, she thought of
that strange certainty which she had had. Was he going to die?
Something within her said: "If he could, I then should be saved."
Adèle grew angry with herself for wishing such an abominable thing.
She dispersed the wicked thought which had formed into a wish, with
all the energy which she was capable of displaying.

To think that she had had such a desire. She was ashamed of herself.

Next day, when she heard that Tom's condition was worse than ever,
involuntarily her heart leapt with joy. How sinful is the heart of
man!

Adèle's better nature rose against these feelings. Finally she
overcame them. She tried to pity her cousin and partly succeeded in
doing so. When she fancied herself freed from him, she felt
relieved; when she pictured herself dying in his place, she
immediately pitied him. And she put this question to herself: "Is
sympathy a virtue?" No. Most often, when people sympathize with
others they say: "Just imagine if we were in their place; they
really think for themselves."

This was now her view of the matter. Perhaps it was not quite
correct, but there was a great deal of truth in it.

Tom Soher was not to die this time. The crisis passed. He rallied
almost as rapidly as he had lost strength.

Mr. Rougeant visited him daily. His daughter listened to the news of
Tom's recovery, with attention. The farmer was pleased. "She takes
more interest in him than she cares to show;" he said to himself.

One fine afternoon, in summer, Adèle, whose spirits were as bright
as the weather, was sitting in a chair--thinking. Her thoughts flew
hither and thither. They were full of bright hope. She sat where she
was for nearly one hour, her head full of vague thoughts,
aspirations after perfect womanhood.

As her thoughts rambled, she recalled to mind a flower and fruit
show that was to take place that afternoon in the Vegetable Markets.

"I think I shall go," she said to herself.

She spoke to her father about it. He answered her not unkindly: "I
believe you would travel twenty miles to see a flower; if you wish
to go, you may."

She dressed herself in a dainty costume, set out, and arrived in St.
Peter-Port just as the clock of the Town Church struck five. Going
to the market, she paid the entrance fee, and proceeded leisurely to
examine the flowers.

While she was doing so, Frank Mathers entered the exhibition,
utterly unconscious of her being there. He was walking about in the
crowd, which, as evening approached, was getting thicker and
thicker, when he perceived Adèle intently bent upon examining the
cut flowers.

He was quite upset. When he had recovered sufficiently to think;
"She is alone, why is not her lover with her," he mused. He could
not unravel this mystery.

Hope sprang within him; he shook it off. "He will be back
presently," he said to himself; "she is waiting for him while
pretending to examine the flowers."

He gazed upon her with admiration, unheeding the throng that
continually jostled him.

Suddenly, he was startled by a burst of laughter behind him. He
turned round to ascertain its cause.

Two burly fellows who were watching him, were having a merry time of
it at his expense.

He moved from his place and walked away, passing quite close to
Adèle, who did not notice him. He stopped a few paces from her,
watching her narrowly all the time.

She looked up, saw him, recognised him, and nodded. He raised his
hat; then, a strange delicacy of feeling overcoming him, he walked
away.

Adèle saw him go and felt stung. Why had he not spoken to her? he
might have done so. She had been on the point of advancing towards
him, and he seemed to have deliberately avoided her.

"I was not mistaken when I fancied he loved another one," she said
to herself. In spite of that, she walked in a contrary direction to
him, hoping to meet him, a thing which she could not fail to do if
they both kept advancing in contrary directions. She did not stop to
think that he would perhaps pass haughtily by her. Love is blind.

Like the two gentlemen who circumnavigated the globe, the two young
people met. Frank inquired after Mr. Rougeant's health, and made a
few remarks about the exhibition. He always expected to see her
intended appear on the scene. Finally, he ventured to ask: "Are you
quite alone?" "Yes, quite," she answered.

They walked together for fully one hour, examining the flowers and
fruit. "Is not this a beautiful specimen of the Dahlia?" Adèle
asked, pointing to a flower of that name.

"I am afraid I do not possess the necessary qualifications to form
an opinion," he said; "I have not studied botany."

"I think you would find the study very captivating," she said; "our
little island contains quite a number of beautiful specimens. There
are a great many hard names to learn, but I feel certain that you
would soon overcome that difficulty."

"You have a rather high opinion of my intellectual powers," he said;
"I feel quite flattered. For the present, I will abide by your
decisions. The flowers that you will praise, I shall call beautiful;
those that you will condemn, I shall call ugly."

"I shall not condemn any," said she, "all flowers are beautiful to
my eyes, only some are more perfect than others."

"You love flowers?" he questioned.

"Immensely, they are almost my constant companions; I should like
to possess the whole of this collection," said Adèle.

"All to yourself. Is it not a trifle selfish?" he said, looking at
her with a pair of laughing blue eyes.

"Perhaps it is. Look at this beautiful collection of ferns." She
began to name them. "This one on the left is _Adiantum Capillus
Veneris_, or _Maiden Hair_, a rare European species; this one is
_Adiantum Pedantum_, of American origin, and that one behind there,
which is partly hidden, is _Adiantum Cuneatum_."

"I will not learn botany," he said; "you have quite frightened me
with all those Latin names; when I wish to know the name of some
plant, I shall come and ask you."

"I shall be delighted if I can be of any service to you," she said
ingenuously. Frank thought these words were significant, but they
were not.

Adèle was anxious to get home early. Frank saw "Les Marches" that
evening with hopeful eyes.

Afterwards, they often met. One day, Tom Soher, who was now
completely cured, came face to face with his cousin Adèle, who was
accompanied by Frank. He stopped short, looked hard at his cousin,
then resumed his walk.

When Tom was a little way off, Frank said to Adèle: "What a queer
fellow, one would think he was insane." "He is a cousin of mine,"
she said.

"Ah! doubtless he was surprised at seeing you in such company."

"Why?" she questioned.

"Perhaps he is afraid of losing caste," said Frank, anxious to know
the cause of Tom's sullen countenance.

Adèle laughed; "Losing caste!" she said, "the idea is preposterous."

"Miss Rougeant," said Frank, suddenly becoming grave, "do you want
to oblige me?"

She looked up. "Of course I do," she replied.

"And will you answer my question?" he continued.

She looked down. "What can he mean?" she said inly. The twilight
partly hid the deep blush that suffused her cheek.

He noticed her embarrassment and hastily spoke: "I was going to say
this. Some time ago, I heard that you were engaged to a young man
named Tom Soher. Would you be kind enough to explain me the riddle.
But, you need not do so, if you do not feel inclined to."

Her manner suddenly changed. She had imagined that he had something
of far greater importance to ask her. She replied: "I have never
been engaged to him; you must have heard false news."

"Probably," he said, "it was Old Jacques who told me so."

"Ah, I see," said she, "he saw my cousin coming home to visit us
rather often, and he invented that little piece of news. It was
he--Tom Soher--whom we met just now, and who scrutinized us so."
Then Adèle told him all about her father's intentions. She tried to
look bright, but Frank saw what she endeavoured to conceal: a
painful contraction of the forehead at times. When she had finished,
she asked smilingly: "What do you think of my father's mode of
procedure?"

Frank looked at her anxiously. "I hope it will never be," he said.

"Indeed!"

"Because," he continued, "I should be extremely grieved to see you
forced into an union without love."

"How do you know that it would be such an one?" she asked.

"Because," responded he, "when you told me about your father's
plans, I saw your face. If there is any truth in physiognomy, you
recoil with horror at the prospect of one day marrying Tom Soher."

She changed the subject of the conversation and nothing more was
said about it that evening.

Going home; Frank thought of the difficulties that were rising
before him. He soliloquized: "It is always the same old story; a
greedy, avaricious, grasping father, sacrificing his daughter's
happiness for the sake of his pride. But it must not be. I can and
will save her from such a terrible fate."

He was full of indignant wrath against her father. "To think that
she shudders at the thought of it," he muttered.

Meanwhile, Tom Soher was pondering heavily. He was in a terrible
passion. When he entered his father's house, he wore an angry look.
He walked straight upstairs without even partaking of supper. His
mother and sister who were downstairs laughed. The young man was not
much of a favourite at home.

Tom sat for a long time on his bed, his face covered with
perspiration, his limbs agitated. He was not yet very strong after
his illness, and the shock which he had received had completely
upset him.

He meditated a plan of revenge. A dozen ideas struck him, but none
seemed good enough. Finally, he thought of one, which, if carried
out, would completely crush his detestable rival.




CHAPTER XIX.

TOM'S INTERVIEW WITH MRS. VIDOUX.


Five minutes' walk from the "Prenoms," there might once be seen a
small, badly built, one-storeyed cottage, the walls of which were
built of stone, with clay serving instead of mortar. In the walls,
were three small windows, opening like French windows. They were of
different sizes, contained numerous small rectangular panes of
glass, and were situated irregularly; two in front of, and one
behind the house.

Inside, the walls were white-washed, the floor was of clay, the
ceiling was black with smoke. One of the two rooms served as a
bedroom, while the other one was badly fitted up to resemble a
kitchen.

A wretchedly thatched roof, surmounted by a single stone chimney,
covered the whole.

Situated behind this hovel, was a small piece of land called a
garden. In it grew cabbages, potatoes, fruits and weeds; the latter
predominating.

In this cottage, there lived an old woman, whose age none seemed to
know. The fact that she never attended divine service, coupled with
the tales of her being in the habit of attending the witches'
sabbath, was enough to make her pass amongst her superstitious
neighbours as a being possessed of supernatural powers.

She was aware of this, and consequently avoided, as far as it was
practicable, having anything to do with her species.

At first she had felt very angry at her countrymen's insinuations,
and almost wished she did possess supernatural powers; but gradually
she had cooled down, and now she was indifferent.

Mrs. Vidoux--such was the appellation of this woman--was not
attractive. Her face was of a colour much resembling Vandyke Brown.
It was a woman's face, yet it resembled a man's, not excepting the
whiskers, which seemed to grow vigourously, as it fertilized by the
dirt which her uncleanly habits allowed to accumulate on her face.

She had but two companions; they were cats. She very often ate
limpets (_Patella Vulgata_). When she descended to the beach to
collect the shell fish she took exactly one hundred.

A proof that she could reckon up to one hundred.

Arrived home, she cooked her limpets, gave twenty to each of her
cats, and reserved sixty for herself.

A proof that she had gastronomic tendencies.

There was but one young man to whom she spoke freely.

One evening, this man tumbled near her doorstep. He was intoxicated.
She took him inside, laid him on her own bed, and when he had slept
and sobered, she gave him a cup of tea and escorted him to his home.
Ever since, they had been friends.

This man's name was Tom Soher.

We have seen that an idea had struck him which he intended to carry
out. He, too, believed in Mrs. Vidoux's power of bewitching.

So the day following his unpleasant discovery, Tom Soher directed
his steps towards the old woman's cottage.

He knocked at the door. No one answered. "She must be in the
garden," he said to himself. He accordingly went round the back of
the house and espied her, laboriously occupied in trying to dig a
few parsnips.

"Good morning, Mrs. Vidoux," he said; then perceiving her useless
efforts, he took the spade from her bony hands, and dug up a few of
the esculent roots.

"Thank you very much," said the old woman, leaning heavily on her
walking-stick.

"I wonder, why she, who possesses such magic powers, does not make
those parsnips fly out of the ground without even touching them,"
thought Tom.

Then a conversation followed between them.

"It's fine weather," said Tom, feeling embarrassed about the
introduction of his subject.

"Beautiful."

"You have a great deal of trouble to work as you do, cultivating
your own vegetables?"

"Yes, but I cannot afford to buy some."

"Don't you feel lonely at times?"

"No, I am accustomed to solitude."

"You did me a good turn once."

"I am glad of it."

"Yes, I shall always remember it."

"I am happy to see that you don't forget, you are the only sensible
man in this parish."

"That's praising me rather too much, I'm sure I don't deserve it,
but what I think I deserve less is the nasty fix in which I now am."

"You are in a fix?"

"You know my cousin, Adèle Rougeant?"

"Miss Rougeant, let me see--oh--yes, I knew her once, but I am
afraid I should not recognise her now, she must be a fine lady by
this time."

"Fine; she's simply charming."

"I should think so; I don't doubt you at all, Mr. Soher."

"There is a young man who is paying his attentions to her."

"He is very fortunate."

"That does not suit me. I intended to marry her."

"You! her cousin."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, only it seemed improbable."

"This fellow stands in my way."

"Of course, you shall have to try and supplant him."

"That's impossible, she's too fond of him."

"Well, I suppose you must give her up then."

"I don't mean to."

"What do you intend doing?"

"Can't you guess? Thrust him out of my way forcibly. Either he or I
must sink."

"You look strong enough to fight a giant."

"I do not mean to fight him."

"Are you afraid of him? Is he stronger than you?"

"He looks rather too much of an athlete for me; I thought that
perhaps you would help me."

"I! help you."

"Yes."

"How?"

Tom looked anxiously round, then said in a low tone: "I must get rid
of him, I must."

"Yes."

"And you can help me a great deal."

"I will do anything for you."

"Well, will you settle him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Make him jump, of course."

"Make him jump!"

"Yes; you know, bewitch him."

Mrs. Vidoux suddenly became erect, her eyes were fixed on Tom with
an expression that made him recoil, but before he had time to get
out of her way, she had raised her walking-stick high above her head
with both her hands and brought it to bear with all her strength on
Tom's head.

The blow was by no means a slight one. Tom staggered and fell.
Without even pretending to notice him the old woman walked towards
her dwelling. He soon rallied, and in less time than it had probably
ever been done before, he cleared the fence and vaulted in the road.
He went home, swearing that he would avenge himself, not of Mrs.
Vidoux, but of his cousin.

Next morning, he decided to tell his uncle all that he knew. He had
not dared to do it before for fear of offending his cousin; but now,
he acted in a blind fury.

He had a great deal of confidence in his uncle. He knew the enormous
influence which he exercised over his daughter. Mr. Rougeant had
once told him that with a single look he could make her tremble, and
that she would as soon think of refusing him as of refusing to grow
older.

Tom Soher smiled when he thought of his uncle's demeanour upon
hearing the news which he had to impart.

How he was to incite him. He must make his wrath rise to the highest
pitch. If he could go at "Les Marches" when his cousin was gone and
set his uncle to watch for their return, what a scene, what a
spectacle to laugh at; even as he thought of it now he could not
help laughing.




CHAPTER XX.

TOM'S VISIT TO HIS UNCLE.


Tom Soher was now constantly on the watch to see if he might catch
his uncle alone. He was soon satisfied on that account.

One evening, he saw Adèle come out of the farm-house. He hid himself
and let her go by, then he went towards "Les Marches."

He walked straight in, and was not surprised to see his uncle busily
engaged cleaning carrot seed.

Tom was in such a state of excitement and rage, that he hardly knew
what he was saying.

"Good evening, uncle," he said, "busy?"

"Good evening, Tom," was the reply, with the addition: "Yes, you
know the French proverb: 'Do not lose a single hour, since you are
not certain of a minute.'"

"Quite right uncle; shall I help you?"

"No, thank you, now that you are here, we shall talk, and I'll do
that job to-morrow."

The farmer fetched a mug of cider and placed it on the table between
them. Tom was delighted.

"I am glad that you are here," quoth Mr. Rougeant. "It is not that I
generally care for visitors, but you are always welcome. Besides,
Adèle is gone and we shall pass the evening agreeably."

"That's what I thought, uncle."

Mr. Rougeant looked, at his nephew and wondered what ailed him.

"Did you know she was gone?" he asked, and added: "Perhaps you met
her down the road."

"No; is she gone?" asked Tom.

Said the farmer inly: "Is the fellow mad?" aloud; "Yes; she is gone
to a concert."

"Where?" questioned the nephew.

"I don't know, I did not ask her."

"You let her go all alone when it is dark!"

"Yes; she's not particularly timid. She is so fond of music, poor
girl, I did not care to refuse her, and, as she has fallen in with
my views, or very nearly so, I must allow her a little freedom."

"Perhaps she has a companion," said Tom.

"No; she says she prefers going alone; it will not be for long,
however; in another month she will, I hope, be your betrothed."

Tom felt a pang of vexation run through him. He was ready to
explode, but succeeded in showing a good exterior and said jokingly:
"Suppose she came accompanied by some young fellow."

"She never would dare to do so."

"I would not say so if I were you, uncle; it's not a good sign when
a young girl is always out like that. Haven't you noticed that she
very often goes out in the evening lately?"

The old man's suspicions were beginning to be aroused. "I had not
even thought of it," he said "but, indeed, it's as you say; she has
been going out often lately."

"I hope there is no one supplanting me," said his nephew.

"You need not fear, Tom--pass me the mug."

They both drank out of the same coarse vessel, and Tom, who was
warming up, continued: "I have strange presentiments, uncle; when I
went to school, I remember having read in an English book about,
'Coming events casting their shadows before.' Now, just as I met
Miss Rougeant this evening, I saw a cat cross the road. Now, you
know as well as I do, that it means discord betwixt her and me."

"This sounds very strange," said the farmer, "but I thought you told
me you had not seen her."

"Did I? really, I hardly knew what I was doing." And, desirous of
finding an excuse for his singular behaviour, he added in the most
dejected tone imaginable: "I have a rival."

"What do you mean?" fairly howled the farmer.

"I mean," replied Tom, in the most wretched tone he could assume; "I
mean that my cousin loves another fellow, an Englishman, who has not
a single penny which he can call his own, a wretched cur, a beggarly
fortune-hunter. I fancy I can see him. He is one of those fellows
who walk bearing all their fortunes on their backs. He was dressed
in faultless evening dress; light kid gloves, patent leather boots,
and a tall silk hat." (This was all false.) "If I am not mistaken,
this fellow has not a particularly bright character."

The farmer was looking at Tom. His lips were apart, his teeth
closed, his eyes shone with an ominous light. He did not say a word.
Tom continued: "Ah! your fortune will soon be gone to the dogs, all
the money that you have honestly earned, that you have had so much
trouble to scrape together, will disappear in the twinkling of an
eye, and your ruined daughter will have to end her days in the
hospital at the Castel."

"Never, never;" shouted the farmer.

"And I, who meant to attend to your business," said Tom; "I, who was
going to work your farm; I, who meant to save our family from ruin
and you from the shame that will necessarily fall partly on you as a
member of that family; I, who am her cousin and who would have done
anything and everything for her, I am put aside as worthless stuff."

"Oh!" groaned the farmer; "Do you know him?" he asked.

"I have seen him but once, I do not know where he lives."

"Do you think he will accompany her this evening?"

"Certainly, that's why she has gone out."

"Oh! the dog--pass me the mug."

Tom gave him the mug. The farmer took a long pull and handed it to
his nephew who drank so well that he completely emptied it, and
afterwards said: "We ought to lie in wait for their arrival and
attack the ninny."

"That's what I'll do, and--" clenching his fists--"he'll be lucky if
he escapes."

"You ought to give him a lesson which he won't forget soon."

"I ought to, still, when one comes to think of it, he might have me
flung in prison for assault."

"You wait till he is alone, then you can settle him."

"If I were sentenced to a term of imprisonment, my reputation would
be ruined. However, I'm master of my daughter, I will give this
young fellow a good shaking, and, as for her; I shall see."

"I shall be hiding behind the hedge; if you require any help, I will
give it you."

"I think I can frighten him alone--my daughter marry one of those
white-faced spendthrifts, why my throat dries up at the thought of
it;--pass me the mug."

Tom did as he was requested, feeling very uneasy. The farmer was
about to drink, but he exclaimed: "Why, its empty."

"Indeed," said Tom, "let me see; so it is, I was in such a state of
mind that I did not know I had drunk all."

"Never mind," said his uncle, "I will fetch some more." And he
proceeded towards the cellar.

Tom chuckled all to himself, "What a splendid piece of fun; I knew
him, he's the man to act."

Mr. Rougeant came back with the mug brimming. The conversation
continued to flow, so did the cider. The men were getting excited.

"It's time for us to go out and choose a hiding-place," said Tom.

"Yes, let us go," said his uncle.

They went out. The farmer hid himself behind a hedge, Tom went
opposite him on the other side of the road also taking advantage of
the cover which a hedge afforded him. They waited. Not a breath of
wind disturbed the grass or brambles, not a word was exchanged
between the men on the watch. The air was stiff, but they felt it
not. The cider which they had drunk kept them warm.

Not one of them knew exactly how they were to operate. Tom counted
on his uncle and Mr. Rougeant thought he would act according to
circumstances.

"They will never come," said Tom to himself. He stretched himself at
full length on the grass. In less than five minutes he was sleeping
soundly.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE ENCOUNTER.


The two young people were returning from the concert that had been
given in St. Julian's Hall. They were walking. It was a beautiful
evening. Not a breath of wind, not a cloud in the sky. Both nature
and humanity slumbered. A deep silence prevailed along the lane in
which the young couple were walking.

'Twas a charming spot, these lanes, bordered on either side by high
hedges of stone and earth, on which grew furze and grass, while here
and there, a solitary primrose--it was the month of March,--was
bending its slender stalk, loaded as it was with dew.

Conversation is an art. So is silence. The latter is even less known
than the former.

Both the young people were now silent as they proceeded towards "Les
Marches," but it was a silence which spoke. They knew each other's
thoughts, one heart spoke to the other; they were both impressed
with the supreme beauty of nature and filled with love, for that
same evening they had plighted their troth.

It was Frank who first broke the silence: "How beautifully serene
the sky is, Adèle; almost as clear as your forehead."

"What an immense number of stars," she said, "astronomy must be a
beautiful pursuit."

"It must be," he replied. "To soar far above this earth, to
contemplate those worlds, to feel oneself lifted into space, to
visit the moon with its mountains and rivers, plateaux and lakes; to
accompany Venus and Mars and all the other planets in their course;
to float, as it were, amongst these gigantic masterpieces of the
Creator, to calculate their dimensions, to measure their course, to
weigh those monsters; to bring to light the treasures of metal which
they contain, by the aid of Spectrum. Analysis, all this and a great
deal more which is associated with the science must be indeed full
of wonderful exhiliration."

"To hear you talk, one would imagine that you yearn to be amongst
all those stars and planets," said Adèle.

"It is not the case," he answered, "because--I'll tell you why--I am
content to have Venus so near to me."

"I am afraid you will have to be Mars," she said somewhat anxiously.

"Not a bit of it," he replied cheerfully, "Mars is generally
represented with a long beard, and look, I have but a slight
moustache; have you ever noticed," he continued, "that all these
planets move in circles. I think the circle is the ideal figure of
the Creator. Man cannot measure a circle or sphere."

"I thought the heavenly bodies moved in ellipses," she interrupted.

"Yes, but ellipses are but a form of circles."

"Of course, I had never thought about it before, one has so much to
learn in life. Nature's wonders are numerous and full of instruction
for the thoughtful student. It seems to me sometimes that my soul
converses with nature. A cloud obscures the sky, and I feel that
cloud passing over my heart; a ray of sunshine illumines the earth,
and causes my flowers to open their petals and the dew-drops on the
grass to shine like millions of diamonds, and I smile."

"You have the soul of a poetess," he said.

She laughed a rippling laugh. "I do not know, but I think the study
of nature, the proper study of man."

"Others,--with a less poetic soul, doubtless--seem to differ from
you. I think Pope did. But you love nature, and do not care for
man."

Her pearly teeth saw the light.

When Adèle bade good-night to Frank that evening, a strange
presentiment of coming evil overcame her.

She walked inside her father's house. When she entered the kitchen
she was surprised at finding it empty. The lamp was on the table. It
was lighted. Beside it was an empty mug. She lighted a candle, went
into the parlour, and divested herself of her hat and jacket,
thinking her father would soon return.

She did not feel at ease, however. Every other minute she turned
round nervously, half afraid of finding someone in the room. Where
could her father be? She grew anxious. Going at the foot of the
stairs, she called out: "Father, father."

Not a sound, save that of her voice which sounded funereally.

She went to the door, opened it, and looked outside. Everything was
still. All at once she heard something. It was not a shout, it was a
scream, a shriek, an entreaty; it came again, much louder this time,
she could distinctly hear the word: "Help."

She distinguished that voice; there was no mistaking it, she would
have discerned its sound amongst ten thousand. This voice was
Frank's. He had cried, he had implored, there was but one thing for
her to do--to run to his aid.

Without even taking the trouble to fetch her hat, she hastily ran in
the direction from whence the sound came.

Breathless, she arrived upon the scene. There, on the ground, lay
the prostrate figure of a man, his head supported on the knee of
another one.

The prostrate figure was her father's, the other man was Frank.

When he saw her with her hair dishevelled and her frantic look,
Frank looked astonished. He then beckoned to her and said: "It is
only a faint, and I hope only a slight bleeding of the nose. I think
he will soon regain consciousness. Is there any water about here?"

"Not that I know of," she said, "but I will hasten home and bring
some."

While she was gone, Mr. Rougeant opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he
said, after in vain trying to recollect his thoughts.

"With a friend," answered Frank, bending over him.

The farmer closed his eyes, then opened them again and fixed them on
Frank. He quickly shut them again, however. He had recognized the
young man and a pang of remorse shot through his hard heart.

Adèle soon came with a small can full of water; and a basin. Her
father kept his eyes closed. He had not the courage to open them.
She poured the water in a basin and began to wash his face.

When she had finished, he opened his eyes resolutely and said: "Now
that I am washed and the bleeding has ceased, I had better go home."
Without having the courage to look at Frank he said: "I think I can
do with my daughter."

He tried to rise, but uttered a cry of pain. "My foot hurts me
fearfully," he said, "I cannot move without your aid."

Thereupon they both helped him to his feet, while he kept a frowning
look and a silent tongue.

"Do you think you can walk leaning on my shoulder?" said Frank.

"Perhaps," he replied, and, placing his hand on the preferred
shoulder, he began to hobble along; stopping often and speaking
seldom.

When the farmer was comfortably installed near the fire, his leg
carefully placed on a footstool, Frank, knowing he was not wanted,
took his leave, expressing a hope that the injured limb would soon
be all right again.

The farmer shook his head sadly, and gave a look at Frank that was
very significant.

Then he shrank for some time into a state of complete silence, but
his face was clouded and his bushy eyebrows were more prominently
drawn over his eyes than they had been for a long time.

He hardly spoke a word to Adèle that evening, barely answering her
questions.

How had the tables thus been turned? When Mr. Rougeant heard Frank
pass by alone, he hastily vaulted over the hedge, intending to
attack him, if not with his fists, at least with his tongue. But
Providence directed otherwise. He miscalculated the height of the
hedge on the side of the road,--for the field was higher than the
road--and fell flat on his nose and face, one of his feet twisting
under him and getting sprained.

The blow which he sustained in falling and the pain caused by his
sprained ankle caused him to faint. Frank ran to his aid, lifted him
carefully, and placed his head on his own knee.

It was in this position, as we have already seen, that Adèle
discovered them.

When Frank saw the farmer's nose bleeding so profusely, and the
deathly paleness on his face, he cried for help. It was this cry
which the young lady heard. The same cry aroused Tom, who was
sleeping soundly, doubtless dreaming of his fair cousin. He looked
carefully over the hedge, and when he saw how matters stood and how
his uncle lay, he took to his heels and fled. Cowardice lent him
wings.




CHAPTER XXII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


The morning after the accident, Mr. Rougeant, whose wrath was
terrible, began to abuse his daughter.

"You are the cause of all this," he said, as he surveyed the injured
limb.

"Very indirectly, I should think," she replied.

"What do you mean? How dare you disobey me as you have done lately;
you have made me suffer; you have, under my very eyes, been making a
fool of me--your father." He paused, as if unable to frame his next
sentence.

"I beg your pardon, father," said the young lady respectfully; "but
I have not been trying to 'make a fool' of you, as you say. I
conscientiously think that I am right in encouraging the attentions
of such an upright----"

"Stop your nonsense," he cried imperatively, his face assuming a
terrible aspect, "you are an idiotic girl, you are trying to ruin me
by listening to this pasteboard fellow, this scoundrel, this
flippant rascal."

Adèle was stung with her father's bitter sarcasm against one whom
she loved. She looked straight at her father; she knew he was unable
to move from his place, and this made her bolder than she would
otherwise have been. She answered with a firm and steady voice: "He
saved your life once."

"Saved my life, how? Only for his presence yesterday, I should not
now be lying idle."

"I am not talking about yesterday," she replied; "I mean, when he
saved you from drowning in the quarry at the risk of being himself
dragged in."

"What has that to do with it?"

"It means that he is not a 'pasteboard fellow,' as you say; it means
that you ought to acknowledge his kindness; it means that you should
be thankful for the great service which he rendered you."

"If I owe him anything, let him say so and I will pay him," he
replied. He had not the slightest intention of doing so.

"You owe him a debt of gratitude, and you should bless him; instead
of that you curse him," she said, her lips quivering and the tears
rushing to her eyes. The idea of her beloved being cursed.

"Yes, I hate him," said the farmer, "I cordially distaste that dirty
rat; he is the worm that eats my bones; but, you never shall marry
him; do you hear? never."

"I will never marry anyone else," she said, her face assuming a
desperate calmness.

"Yes you will."

"Father," she said, her face almost as white as the cloth which she
was spreading on the table, "it is useless to speak any more about
it, it pains me to have to speak thus to you, but I will never marry
Tom Soher."

She heard the grinding of her father's teeth.

"If I did so," she continued; "I feel that I should commit a great
sin; I never could love him, therefore his life with me would be
miserable; he would feel lonely, and, I am afraid, would soon
return to his former habits of intemperance. Then I should be
breaking my word, for I have promised----"

"You have!" howled the father.

She did not go on; her father's eyes were riveted on her with a
terrible look. She feared he was going mad. She could not proceed,
mesmerized as she seemed to be under that awful gaze.

At last she turned her attention to her work.

Not another word was spoken on the subject that day.

Neither of them ate much that evening. It was almost impossible for
Adèle to swallow anything. What she attempted to eat, stuck in her
throat. Her father, who was seated near the fire in his accustomed
place, seemed also to have lost his appetite.

At last, he thrust his food away from him with a gesture of
impatience, and began moodily to contemplate the embers that were
glowing in the grate. When nine o'clock--his usual hour for
retiring--struck, Adèle helped him into the parlour.

It was there on a sofa that he insisted on sleeping while his foot
hurt him as it now did.

While the conversation was going on between father and daughter,
Frank was crossing the fields near "Les Marches," and soon found
himself beneath Adèle's window. It was open. He took out his pocket
book, and hastily writing a few lines on a leaf, tore off the piece
of paper, rolled it into a ball, and threw it straight through the
window.

Then he cautiously glided away.

When Adèle retired for the night, she did not perceive the ball of
paper that lay on the floor of her room. Her brain was so occupied
with her thoughts that it failed to fulfil its functions towards
the eyes.

She fixed her optics for a moment on the crumpled piece of paper,
but she saw it not. She was undressing, but she knew it not; she did
it mechanically, as if by instinct. Her thoughts were with her
father and the unhappy home she was condemned to share with him.
Home! alas! it was more like a hell. She shuddered at the thought.
She was of a naturally quiet temperament, and she abhorred these
awful scenes.

She earnestly hoped that the time would soon come when she would
once more sail in smooth waters.

As she was moving about, her foot trod upon some object. "What is
this?" she said to herself, as she stooped to pick it up. By whom
that piece of paper had been placed there, she could not imagine.

By the light of the candle, she managed to read the missive. How her
heart gladdened. She read it over and over again. It contained a
message from Frank telling her that he hoped to hear from her at her
earliest convenience. "So you will," she said half aloud as she
carefully folded the small piece of paper.

She slept peacefully that night.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A SECRET CORRESPONDENCE.


On the following day she wrote to Frank and gave the letter to
Jacques, asking him to carry it in the evening at the Rohais. The
old man smiled at her, and carefully pocketing the piece of silver
which she thrust into his hand, he remarked: "I s'pose you don't
care for the guv'nor to know anything about this 'ere business."

"How dare you call my father so?" she said, pretending to be
offended; "no; don't let him have any knowledge of this or any other
message I may entrust you with in the future."

"He won't; look 'ere Miss, I'll do anything for you, you're a good
'un; and as for your father gettin' anything out of me; I'd as well
have the last bone in my body pulled out afore I'd say anything
against you or your young man. You're the very picture of your
mother, that you are, she was a good woman----."

"Jacques, if you cannot express yourself in English, talk in
Guernsey French, as you used to do," she said, for Jacques was
showing forth his knowledge.

"What have I said?" he questioned in his native tongue, then he
added: "I thought I was speaking well, I beg your pardon if I have
offended you, Miss."

"You have not displeased me," she said. "I must go now, or my
father will be fretting about my absence. I can trust you?"

"Yes, I will do anything for you. Good-night, Miss."

"Good-night, Maît Jacques."

And, with a light step and a cheerful countenance, she entered the
room in which her father was. He was seated in an armchair before
the fire-place, his attention centred on a halter which he was
endeavouring to manufacture. He did not fail to notice the laughing
eyes and the radiant expression of his daughter.

"What has she been about?" he mused, "has she been speaking to that
smooth-tongued, stuck-up son of a ragamuffin."

His face assumed a sour expression as the suspicion crossed his
mind. After a few moments of silence, he raised his small and
constantly flickering eyes, and asked in a sour tone: "Where have
you been all this time?"

"I have been speaking to Maît Jacques," she replied.

"The whole time."

"Yes, all the time."

"Only to him?"

"Yes, to him alone."

Mr. Rougeant was satisfied. The idea of disbelieving his daughter
never entered his head. He knew she would never debase herself by
uttering a falsehood, and he quietly resumed his work. Then, after a
few minutes of silence, he turned again to her: "Is Jacques gone?"
he enquired.

"I do not know," she replied.

"Well run and see, and, if he is not, tell him to come and speak to
me."

An anxious look passed over Adèle's face. Fortunately, she was able
to slip out of the room before her father noticed it.

"He wants to question him," she said to herself; "I shall have to
warn him. My father is almost sure to find him out. Oh! I do hope
that he is gone." She approached the stable, where Jacques usually
spent his last half-hour. She went towards the door, opened it and
called out: "Jacques."

No answer.

She joyously tripped towards the house. After a few steps she
stopped. "I have not called out very loudly," she thought, "if
Jacques were still here and my father were to see him, his
suspicions would be aroused."

She retraced her steps, and in a half-frightened tone, wishing with
all her heart that her cry might not be answered, she called out
again in a louder voice: "Maît Jacques; are you about there?"

She listened eagerly. Her summons were not answered. She went
towards the house and entered it, saying: "He's gone, I have not
seen him."

"It does not matter much," said her father, "I will tell him what I
have to say to-morrow."

Her anxiety recommenced. She looked at her father and tried to read
his thoughts. In this she failed. He had one of those hard set faces
the owners of which seem devoid of soul or sentiment.

When she awoke the following morning, Adèle's first thoughts were
about her father and his workman. What was he going to question him
about? Ah! he had perhaps seen her through the window, giving a
letter to the old man and cautioning him.

When they had finished breakfasting, Adèle, who began to hope her
father had completely forgotten all about his workman, was very
much annoyed when Mr. Rougeant told her to tell Jacques to come and
speak to him.

She searched out the old man, and, having found him, she said to
him: "Did you see Mr. Mathers yesterday evening?"

"Yes, Miss," he answered, taking care to speak in his native tongue
this time; "I saw him. He thanked me and asked a few questions about
your health and Mr. Rougeant's foot."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Adèle, "and now, you must come
and talk to my father. I think he means to question you, but you
will be on your guard; will you not?"

"Oh, he is not the man to take me in. If he asks me if you gave me a
letter yesterday, or anything else concerning you, I know what to
answer him."

"You will speak the truth?"

"Speak the truth and be taken in, not I; there's no harm in fibbing
when it's for doing good, Miss."

"If you are prepared to utter falsehoods, Jacques, for the sake of
shielding me, you will lose my approbation. I shall be very angry
with you if you do so. You understand; you must not swerve from the
path of truth."

"Well, I never," said Jacques, "and it was all for your sake. We
shall see. I'm not going to let your father learn anything from me.
Jerusalem, I would rather pull the hair off my head."

"The plain truth," said Adèle, shaking her forefinger at him and
looking very severe.

"I know my work, Miss," he replied as he followed her into the
house.

The farmer was seated near the fire. He did not even turn round when
Jacques entered. The latter went straight up to his employer and
said: "You wanted me to come and speak to you."

Adèle tried to look composed, but her nerves were unsteady. She
could not bear to leave the room, while the men were talking about
her. No, she must hear her doom; at any rate, she must be there to
try and defend herself.

"Yes," said the farmer after a while, "what was it about now? oh!
this evening----."

"Yesterday evening;" thought Adèle, "he is making a mistake."

"This evening," the farmer went on, "you will carry my boots to the
shoemaker's."

"All right, Sir," answered Jacques.

The young lady could not restrain a sigh of relief.

Jacques looked at her and winked--a most rude thing to do--but then
Jacques did not know better.

Quoth Mr. Rougeant, his eyes fixed on the grate: "You will tell him
to be as quick as he can about mending them; I mean to walk in a few
days."

"All right, Sir."

"I don't want anything expensive; in fact, I want him to mend them
as cheaply as he possibly can. But, you understand, I want him to
repair them well."

"A good job costs money," Jacques ventured to interpose.

"I told you I don't want anything expensive," retorted the farmer
angrily.

"Oh, that's all right, Sir; I'll tell him so, Sir," said the
workman, frightened at Mr. Rougeant's sour tone.

"Well, you will fetch them this evening and be careful to tell him
what I require; a good and inexpensive job, or I won't pay him."

"All right, Sir," said Jacques, and he left the room muttering:
"He's growing from bad to worse; he is a stingy old niggard."

What was Tom Soher doing all this time? He was drinking.

He had never loved Adèle Rougeant, and when he saw that there was
not much chance of winning her, he took to drink. In reality, he
preferred his bottle to his cousin. Of course, he put all the blame
on the misfortunes which he had encountered.

Once, and only once, his father tried timidly to rebuke him. "No,"
he said, "there is nothing for me to do but to drown my sorrow.
Welcome ruin."

"Why not turn a new leaf?" pleaded Mr. Soher.

"Bah!" he replied as he walked away, "what's the use!--no; good-bye
to everything."

Spoilt child; he little knew the terrible death that awaited him.




CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. ROUGEANT GOES TO CHURCH.


The first Sunday after Mr. Rougeant's recovery, Adèle said she
intended to go to church. The farmer's eyes flickered more than
usual. "I think I shall accompany you," he said.

His daughter started. What could he mean? He had not been to church
these last three years or more; besides, he had not a decent suit of
clothes to put on. Oh! it was disgusting.

"He is afraid of my meeting Frank on the road," she said to herself;
"he need not fear, I am green, but not quite so much as he seems to
think." "You have not even a suit of clothes that is fit to wear,"
she said aloud.

"They will do well enough."

"Your coat is as green as grass, and your trousers quite yellow. If
it was in the evening, I should perhaps go with you, but in the
morning--no."

"If you don't come with me, I suppose I shall have to come with
you."

"You shall not come with me this morning, Sir."

"How dare you----"

"I will not go."

"Do as you like."

"I shall go this evening," she said, "the lamps will be lighted. I
hope that stock of bad oil which they have is not used up, because I
do not want the church to be well-lighted."

"How is that?"

"How is that?" she said in a grieved tone. "People might take you
for a rag picker."

Her father was not a bit angry at her for saying this. She knew it,
hence her boldness.

He almost smiled, a very--very rare thing for him to do; he was
proud to think that people would say to each other: "Look, there is
Mr. Rougeant, he is not a proud man."

On the evening in question, the clergyman almost lost his speech and
his senses when he saw Mr. Rougeant sitting beside his daughter.

The worshippers thought not of the prayers as they were being read,
or the audience of the sermon, as it was being delivered; they
thought of Mr. Rougeant.

And, when the people came out of the church, instead of the usual
remarks about the weather, folks said to one another: "Have you seen
Mr. Rougeant." "Yes," answered the more composed, "it is not often
one sees him about here."

"Oh!" answered the others, "how shocking."

A party of elderly ladies were assembling just outside the
churchyard gates.

"Have you seen Mr. Rougeant?" they asked unanimously, as they
approached one another.

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Martin, "I was quite astounded when I saw
him enter."

"Yes, but you see," remarked another, "he has been ill, and maybe he
has felt the need of worshipping in the house of God."

"What a shabby coat," said a third. "His trousers were worn out and
threadbare," put in Miss Le Grove, who was not able to approach very
near the group on account of her immense corpulence.

"His daughter seemed rather ill at ease," said No. Three.

"I think there is some of her fault," said Mrs. Martin, "she
encourages a young man of bad reputation."

The whole group held up their hands and assumed an horror-stricken
attitude.

"Impossible!", exclaimed No. Two.

"Shocking!" declared Miss Le Grove.

"We must be very careful about what we advance'" remarked No. Two,
who generally passed for being a very Christian lady; then she added
after a pause: "Miss Rougeant is, as everyone of us knows, good,
well-bred and of refined taste."

"I only recited what I had heard, of course I don't believe it,"
said Mrs. Martin, a little disconcerted.

"If she marries and goes away from home, there will only be one
thing for her father to do, and that will be to marry again,"
remarked Miss Le Grove, who found the state of forced celibacy
unendurable.

The others looked at each other. Some could not force back the smile
that rushed to their lips. Miss Le Grove noticed the suppressed
mirth and blushed. Then losing her presence of mind, and wishing to
explain the why and wherefore of her face being so red, she said,
slightly retiring: "Isn't the weather warm."

There was a hoar-frost.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, an accident occurred, while Miss Le
Grove was backing her voluminous self, which sufficed to disperse
the assemblage.

A little boy was standing with his back to the obese woman. He was
busily engaged, endeavouring to count the stars, when that most
worthy spinster backed against him and sent him sprawling. She did
not even feel the rencontre; it was like an iron-clad coming in
collision with a fishing-smack.

The little parish school-boy was none the less irritated. He planted
himself before Miss Le Grove, to make sure she would see him, made a
frightful grimace and shouted: "You're an old half-a-ton." Then he
decamped.

The other ladies giggled.

The company dispersed.

A group of youths who were standing near shouted "Well said,
_gamin_."

Going home, the topic of the conversation was Miss Le Grove,
garnished with a sprinkling of Mr. Rougeant.

As for the lady whom the little rogue had styled "half-a-ton" she
walked alone muttering execrations against this "little wretch," and
telling herself that there were no Christians, that these women
laughed at her, because she chose to remain what Providence had
directed she should be, and that Mr. Rougeant was perfectly right in
keeping away from people, who had nothing to do when they came out
of church but to backbite their neighbours.

In future, she too would shun these sophisticated people.

And--puffing and blowing; gesticulating and perspiring;
soliloquizing and threatening, she retook possession of her home,
sweet home.




CHAPTER XXV.

LOVE TRIUMPHS.


"Good-morning, Mr. Rougeant," said Jacques on the Monday morning, as
he perceived his employer walking about the farmyard.

"Good-morning, Jacques," responded the farmer.

"Your foot is better then?" said the workman, eager to commence the
conversation, for Mr. Rougeant was already moving in a contrary
direction.

"Yes, it's quite better now," replied the farmer, arresting his
steps.

"Where's Miss Rougeant?" questioned Jacques.

"Rummaging the house; do you want to speak to her?"

"My wife told me that there was a long time she had not seen her.
She says she is lonely and would very much like to see Miss
Rougeant. She says your daughter is so kind and so much like her
mother, that she would be very thankful if Miss Rougeant would
condescend to visit her once or twice while she is laid up."

At the mention of his wife, Mr. Rougeant felt sorrow in his heart.
He had loved once, but now, his nature was changed; he used to be
happy and full of contentment then, although a struggling young
farmer, for he had a bright, lovable and loving wife to cheer him
up.

Now he was worth ten thousand pounds, and he felt the most miserable
of men.

He stood still, the very picture of abject misery, not uttering a
single word.

"Perhaps you will not mind telling her," said Jacques, breaking the
silence.

The farmer looked up; "I shall tell her," he said, and walked away.

"Our little affair is coming off splendidly," said Adèle as she
tripped into the garden to speak to Jacques. "Yes, Miss, you are so
clever, you deserve to succeed."

"We must not rejoice too soon; did you see Frank last night?"

"Yes, Miss."

"And he told you that he would come?"

"Yes, Miss; he gave me a letter for you but I must not give it to
you now, I fancy Mr. Rougeant is watching us."

"You are quite right, leave it in the stable when you go there and I
will fetch it. Has my father asked any questions?"

"Not one; he looks very sad."

"He is. It surprises me that he never questions you; he has such
confidence in you; he would never think of suspecting you."

"If he asks me any questions, I'll know how to answer them. But,"
added the workman, laughing, "I must go and see how the horse is
getting on. You will find the letter under the old saddle."

"Thank you very much for all your trouble," said Adèle as she
disappeared through the doorway.

After having read the letter which she had fetched from the stable,
Adèle smiled. "He will meet me near Jacques' cottage at six o'clock
this evening," she said to herself. "I must try and hide my joy as
much as I can, for my father will grow suspicious if he reads my
happiness."

She had to keep a continual vigilance to prevent herself from
smiling during the day. When evening approached, she dressed
herself and proceeded towards the cottage.

The sun was setting beautifully in the west. When she reached the
top of the hill, she could see him, gently sinking, as it were, into
the sea, illuminating the horizon and the ocean in a flood of
splendour. As it disappeared, the Hanois Lighthouse displayed its
beacon light.

The visit to Mrs. Dorant was of short duration.

At half-past six, a young couple might be seen wending their way
slowly through the beautiful country lanes. They talked in soft
accents. Now and then Adèle's low, silvery laugh sounded on the
tranquil evening air.

They wandered thus for two hours. "I thought we had been out only
about one hour," said Adèle as Frank returned his watch to his fob.

"Love takes no account of time," he said. "Now, let us talk
business. I profess to be a business man you know."

They talked about the obstacles to be vanquished, of Mr. Rougeant's
wrath, of Tom Soher's jealousy.

"Be of good cheer. _Amor vincit omnia_," were Frank's last words to
her that evening.

When she opened the wicket gate, Adèle gave a horror-stricken start.
She perceived the form of a man, stretched at full length before the
front door. She could not restrain a cry of alarm. Frank, who had
followed her, hastily advanced to see what was the matter. He had
not gone far, before he saw the front-door open, and Mr. Rougeant
come out, holding a lighted candle in his hand.

He hastily retreated farther away and watched the trio. He could
easily see them without being seen. The light that came from inside
the house, and that from the candle, shone full on the group.

He saw Mr. Rougeant pick up the prostrate figure, set the man on his
feet, and, after having shut the gate after him, return inside.

This man, who walked with such an unsteady gait, was Tom Soher.
Frank took the trouble to follow him home. He feared for his safety,
accidents are so common with people in his state. He set his
conscience at ease by seeing the tottering figure enter the house of
the "Prenoms."

He pitied this slave to intemperance. He shuddered at the immense
per cent. of his countrymen who were like this man.

How had Tom Soher happened to be lying before the threshold of "Les
Marches?" We shall see.

That same evening, he was with a few of his sort, drinking at the
"Forest Arms." He was more than half-intoxicated, when, without a
word, he left the bar-room.

"Where are you going?" shouted his comrades.

"Bring him back," said some.

"Let him go," said the others.

Tom did not heed their talk, but directed his steps towards uncle
Rougeant's farm-house.

He opened the door, walked straight in, and seated himself in a
chair near the long bare table, without saying a word to his uncle.

The latter was in a dreadful state of mental excitement. He was
walking up and down the room with his hands thrust deeply into his
trousers' pockets, uttering execrations, blaming everyone and
everything. He was so occupied with his ravings that he only cast a
glance at his nephew, who stood, or rather sat, wondering what the
dickens his uncle was about.

"Ah, this generation," said the farmer, "this generation is a mass of
spoilt and pampered dolls"--he was thinking of his daughter--"they
only think about running here and there; paying visits to friends,
taking tea with cousins, or walks with dressed-up mashers.

"They do not care if they leave a poor old devil"--the appellation
was appropriate enough--"all alone, with not even a dog to keep him
company or a cat which he could kick; off they go, dressed in the
garments for which you have paid out of your own pockets; ay, and
for which you have toiled and perspired----"

"You're quite right, uncle," came from Tom.

The farmer gave a sudden start. He had altogether forgotten his
nephew's presence. He went on:--"People are as proud as if they were
all of blood royal. Even the poorest women, one sees pass in the
afternoon with perambulators in which sleeps some little urchin who,
mayhap, is brought up nearly all on the charity of saving people
like me.

"It's a curse to have to pay taxes for this vermin. I say it's a
downright injustice to make us, who attach ten times more value to a
penny than they do, pay for the education of their brats.

"Ah! in my time, in the good old time, which is alas, gone for ever,
we, the respectable people, were rolled about in clumsy little
wooden carts, and the children of the labourers were carried in
their mother's arms and placed between two bundles of ferns, while
their mother went about her work. For, poor women went to work in
those days. Ay! they had to do it or starve. But now, what do we
see? These labourers' wives with servants."

He stamped, his foot impatiently. "And when they are destitute and
homeless from sheer want of foresight, they are kept and fed out of
the taxes which come out of our pockets. So-called civilisation and
education are ruining the present generation."

"That's where you're right, uncle," interposed his nephew.

Mr. Rougeant went on: "Farmers' sons do not want to work now. Every
one rails at manual labour. If this state of things goes on, the
island will soon be a mass of ruined and dissipated human beings.
The honourable people who have a pedigree they can boast of, are
mixing with foreigners, whom no one knows whence they have sprung
from. If you drink a glass of cider now a days, you are termed a
drunkard by a lot of tea-drinkers, teetotalers and----."

"A glass of cider would do good, one is thirsty this weather,"
interrupted Tom, who, although half asleep, had caught the word
cider.

Without even casting a glance at his nephew, so absorbed was he, the
farmer continued: "One hears nothing but bicycle-bells. These
bicycles are the greatest nuisance yet invented. I am surprised that
people rack their brains in order to invent such worthless rubbish.
Every one must have a bicycle. There may not be any bread in the
house, the children may not be able to go to school or the wife to
church for want of a decent pair of boots, but, 'I will have a
bicycle.' And then, it is so very easy to have one, there's the hire
system. Another curse of civilisation that is ruining the poor man.
If our peasantry knew how to put by for a rainy day, like the French
country-folk do, we should not have so many applications for relief,
our hospitals would well nigh be empty."

"_Vere dia_, uncle."

"Poor people now are not half so polite as they used to be when I
was young. They call each other Mess. instead of Maît., and they
style their superiors Maît. when they ought to say Mess.

"The insolent rogues, they only have a smooth tongue when they come
to beg. People may say what they like, foolish men may talk about
the State establishing scholarships, for the talented poor; let them
work. I have worked all my life, and hard too, and here I am, better
than any of them."

"Educate them with the States' revenue. Indeed! Bring them up like
gentlemen, for them to laugh at you later on, to look down upon you
as if you were so much stubble."

"That's what they like. Give young people a few pence to rattle in
their trousers' pockets, a collar, cuffs, a sixpenny signet ring on
the little finger, a nickel-silver mounted cane and a pair of
gloves, and there they go, not caring a fillip whether their parents
have toiled and struggled to rise to their present position,
ignoring the necessity of thrift, a happy-go-lucky generation. And
then, at the end of it all, a deep chasm, into which they will all
fall headlong; an immense pyre that will consume all their vanities
and profligacies."

"They deserve to be burnt, indeed they do, uncle."

"Someone was even talking of establishing a public library here.
Well let them complete the ruin. It is as well. I hope to be dead by
that time though. Life, then, will be intolerable. I hope to sleep
with those worthy champions of labour--my ancestors--in the
churchyard yonder.

"Books!--what do they want books for? I never yet knew a man who
read books that was worth a farthing.

"I knew one once who was versed in book-lore, but, worse luck to
him, he could not bind a wheat-sheaf or weed a perch of parsnips,
and the result--bankruptcy; failure. That's what it comes to.

"Books!--do they want to make schoolmasters of us all, or do they
wish us to be always reading our eyes out instead of attending to
our business?

"Books!--they are only good for idle loafers; they offer an excuse
for shunning one's duty. 'I want to read a bit,' they say when told
to do something. 'Oh, let me just finish this page, it is so
interesting,' they plead, when asked to quickly fetch some article.
This is what Adèle used to do, but I nipped this slothful tendency
in the bud. I would have none of it."

He stopped his discourse and his walk, gazed at his nephew who had
fallen across the table and was now sleeping soundly; then
recommenced his peregrinations.

"I am disgusted with the world; I don't know what it will all come
to. Some of these modern farmers are even discarding the _grande
charrue_. Oh! shades of our ancestors. The great plough--the only
feast of the year that is worth anything, mutton and roast beef, ham
and veal, cider by the gallon and a jovial company of good old sons
of the soil.

"It is horrible thus to see our old routine trampled underfoot, our
ancestors' customs sneered at."

Mr. Rougeant was extremely animated. Like nearly every other country
Guernseyman, he was opposed to change.

He walked about with distorted features, his eyes shining with a
strange light.

He thought of his family dwindling away; of his daughter
disregarding his commands and disobeying him. In his innermost soul
he felt convinced that she would never marry his nephew. He cast his
eyes in the direction of the latter. What! he was sleeping while
_he_ was enduring all the agony of a king who is being dethroned; of
a general, whose army is in open mutiny against him; of a
millionaire who sees his whole fortune disappear through some awful
catastrophe! It was unendurable.

He again began to pace the room. Having finally arrived at a
decision as to his future conduct, and thinking just then of his
daughter's disregard for his tastes, he shouted in a voice of
thunder, bringing down his fist upon the table with an awful crash.

"_Palfrancordi!_ let her act according to her own stubborn will, but
she'll not inherit a penny of mine, not one double."

He was now quite close to his nephew and the latter, aroused by the
noise which his uncle had made, raised his head and yawningly
drawled out: "You're quite right, uncle."

The farmer stood straight in front of Tom Soher, his arms folded,
his penetrating eye fixed scrutinizingly on his nephew. He perceived
the latter's state; his wrath increased. "What!" he ejaculated; "you
are drunk!"

Tom was in such a plight that he understood not his uncle, neither
did he perceive his anger. He muttered: "You're quite right, uncle."

"Then begone, you wretched inebriate. I'll not have intoxicated
brutes about my house."

So saying, he seized bewildered Tom, dragged him through the
vestibule and hurled him outside, slamming the door after his nephew
without even waiting to see what became of him.

Then, wearied and tired out by his exertions, he sank into a chair
and began to ponder about this new discovery. He mentally resolved
that he would never have a drunkard for his son-in-law.

Then he gradually grew calmer. The reaction was setting in.

He was still engaged in his reflections when he heard a cry. 'Twas
his daughter's. He lightened a candle and hastened to open the door,
wondering what could have happened. The sight of his nephew lying
there, chilled him with terror. Was he dead? Had he killed him? If
so, it was the crowning point of all his woes.

How he raised him and sent him home we have already seen.

When Mr. Rougeant was again with his daughter, he kept a dogged
silence. She gathered from his demeanour that he had had a frightful
shock, but took great care not to question him. Hardly a word was
exchanged between them that evening.

Adèle was glad of it, for she had her thoughts occupied with her
wedding which was to come off in three weeks.




CHAPTER XXVI.

WEDDED.


After all the commotion, the wedding was a very quiet one.

Adèle left the house early one bright summer morning.

The sun was rising, illuminating the sky with all its various
colours; the lark was soaring towards heaven's gates; the mowers
could already be heard sharpening their scythes in the hay fields,
and Mary and Louisa, the tenant's daughters, were busily engaged
milking their father's cows.

A carriage, drawn by two grey horses, carried the heiress of "Les
Marches" to be married to Frank Mathers.

The beautifying properties of love shone on the bride's and
bridegroom's countenances as they stepped out of the church of St.
----.

In both their souls was a paradise.

From time to time, Mrs. Mathers assumed a thoughtful expression.

"I cannot help thinking of my father," she said, as the
carriage-wheels rattled over the road near "Les Gravées."

"Let not this mar your happiness," he answered joyfully, "perhaps he
will relent when he sees that it is of no use grumbling."

Adèle smiled, for, in spite of everything, she would be happy. "I
_am_ joyful," she said, "but as for his pardoning me, well--you do
not know him as well as I do."

The next day while Mr. and Mrs. Mathers were enjoying a snug little
_tête-à-tête_, the postman brought them a letter. It was from Mr.
Rougeant.

"I told you he would be glad to renew his acquaintance," said Frank,
as soon as he saw the signature.

"What's this?" he said. "A cheque, Adèle; a cheque for one hundred
pounds! It's our wedding present, I suppose; let me read the
letter:"

     "To my Daughter,--I have heard that you have been married. You
     think that I will bend. You are mistaken. Moreover, as I warned
     you before you took that rash step that I would take care you
     would not inherit a single penny of mine; I send you this
     cheque. It is the last money which you will ever receive from
     me.

     "ALFRED ROUGEANT."

Frank's face was a blank. "Fancy to come and tell you that you took
a rash step," he said.

"Did not I tell you that he was stubborn?" said his wife.

"He says that he will not bend," continued Frank, perusing the
letter for a second time. "My father-in-law, you will probably
break, then. Those one hundred pounds are welcome all the same."

"I was thinking of sending them back," said Mrs. Mathers, "but,
perhaps, we had better keep them; father would only be too glad to
have them back. I cannot conceive how he mustered sufficient
resolution to part with his god. He must have made a supreme
effort."

Said Frank: "To pocket both our pride and the cheque, is, I think,
the best course which we can pursue. We must, however, acknowledge
his kind remittance and thank him for it. What do you think of
inviting him to tea some afternoon?"

"You are joking."

"As far as regards the invitation, yes; but as for acknowledging
receipt of the cheque, no. I leave you to decide whether you shall
do so. Of course, I am not supposed to have anything to do in the
matter."

"Since you leave it to me, go and open the lights of your
greenhouses, the sun is getting warm. While you are absent, I shall
write an answer. I cannot do it while you are here; I want to be
very serious."

Frank went out of the room. He came back after a few minutes'
absence.

"Sit you down and listen," said his wife. The letter which she had
written ran thus;--

     "My Dear Father,--I have received the cheque which you were
     kind enough to send me. I thank you for it."

     "Your letter, however, pained me. You seem to think that I have
     wantonly disobeyed you. I have not; I have only acted
     honourably and conscientiously."

     "I cannot but feel sorry for you when I think of the useless
     and self-inflicted sufferings which you endure."

     "As for your property, I am happy to state that we have enough,
     and to spare.

     "Father; if ever you require our aid; if ever you feel that you
     would like to speak to us or to see us, do not hesitate; a
     daughter's and a son-in-law's love will you always find in us."

  "Your affectionate daughter,

  "ADÈLE."


Frank was smiling. "I think that will do very nicely," he said.

When Mr. Rougeant read his daughter's missive, he uttered a cry of
contempt. "Require your aid,--well, I shall have to sink low. You
love me."--He banished the thought from him, for his heart was
already softening under the influence of those words.

Although he and his daughter had lived a life of mutual
misunderstanding during the last years of her stay at "Les Marches,"
he felt her absence much more keenly than he had anticipated.

The days that followed were for him days of inexpressible ennui. He
would saunter up and down the kitchen for half-an-hour at a time. He
conversed with Jacques; he tried to take interest in something; he
counted his money, his gold, his god.

Formerly, he found great pleasure in doing so; but now, the sound of
the precious metal awoke no feeling of satisfaction within his heart
as it used to do, but rung in his ears with a funereal sound. He
thought it foretold his doom.

He continued thus for weeks, a miserable, ill-humoured, irritated
and troubled man.

The month of August came, warm almost to suffocation. Mr. Rougeant
often felt cold. He would sit for hours before the fire, his feet
stretched at full length, his hands buried in his pockets, and his
drooping chin resting on his bosom. His eyes were closed.

As he sat thus one afternoon, a flood of anger roused him up; he
rose, waxed warm, his tottering steps feverishly paced the room for
a time, then sunk back into his chair, a passion-beaten, exhausted
and perspiring man.

He had strange thoughts sometimes. Willingly would he "have shuffled
off his mortal coil; but that the dread of something after death,
that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns,
puzzled his will, and made him rather bear the ills he had, than fly
to others that he knew not of."

One day, Mrs. Dorant, whom he had engaged to look after the house,
found him meditatively examining a piece of rope, which he held in
his hand. She was alarmed and beckoned to her husband, who was near.

He went up to his employer, who, directly he saw that he was being
observed, threw the rope away from him excitedly.

"You look ill, Mr. Rougeant," said Jacques, as he scrutinized the
pale face and haggard look of the farmer.

"So I am," was the answer.

"Shall I fetch a doctor, or----."

"Go about your work," angrily commanded Mr. Rougeant.

Jacques did as he was bid. He, however, watched the farmer. Every
morning, he expected to find him hanging from a beam. But as time
passed on, Mr. Rougeant seemed to improve.

He had, in fact, abandoned the horrible thought of putting an end to
his existence.

He continued thus to live for more than four years; when his health
once more gave way.

At the thought of death, he shuddered. To die alone, with no friend
to close his eyelids, to die like a dog, ay worse, to leave behind
him the reward of his labours and thrift to persons who had defied
him, was intolerable.

For they had had the impudence to tell him at the solicitor's
office that he could not make a will giving his property to others;
he could not disinherit his daughter.

All this vexed him. He sank on the _jonquière_ exclaiming "Alas!"




CHAPTER XXVII.

RECONCILIATION.


Mr. Rougeant's condition continued to aggravate. The thought of
death struck his heart with terror. Behind him, he left a life of
selfishness and bigotry. No good deed, no act of self-denial to
soften the pangs of a stricken conscience.

Before him, everything seemed dark, mysterious, awe-inspiring,
despairing; for aught he knew, a just chastisement awaited him.

He had toiled for gold; he had obtained it. What a man soweth that
shall he also reap.

In spite of his avarice and the knowledge that a consultation to the
doctor would cost him something, Mr. Rougeant's terror overcoming
all these; he resolved to see a physician.

He did not send Jacques to fetch one, the visit of the medical man
would have cost him too much; he drove thither in his phaeton.

The doctor who was consulted said the disease was of long standing.

He gave Mr. Rougeant a bottle of medicine for which the latter
grudgingly paid three francs, and told the farmer to come and see
him again in a few days.

As Mr. Rougeant was descending the Rohais, his old horse trotting
slowly and joggedly, an unwelcome thought flashed across his mind.
"I must be in the vicinity of their house," he said to himself,
then he made a gesture with his right hand. "Bah! what have I to do
with them."

He felt very lonely, his spirits were depressed, the doctor's
remarks did not tend to enliven him.

He heard a cry. He thought he recognized the voice of his little
Adèle.

Was he dreaming? He roused himself. His horse had stopped short. He
looked to see what was the matter. In front of his horse, a child
lay crying. What a flood of memories that childish wail had the
effect of forcing upon him.

He jumped off his vehicle, picked up the child and asked: "Are you
hurt?" He intended to have spoken softly, but his voice seemed to
have completely lost that power or any approach to it. The child
looked up half afraid, and did not answer. "Are you hurt, my little
man?" he again asked, endeavouring to soften his voice. Vain
attempt; he only succeeded in speaking low.

The "little man" who, by the by, was a girl, ceased crying, looked
at his interlocutor and answered: "No."

The child had only been knocked down by the horse's knee whilst
crossing the road; and thanks to the sagacity of the old mare, had
escaped unhurt.

Mr. Rougeant again bent towards the child: "Where do you live?" he
questioned.

"Vere," said the child with such a vague wave of the hand that any
of the three corners of the island might have been implicated in her
childish, "There."

"But where is it. Down that way"--pointing with his finger,--"or up
that way."

The child made a little gesture with her mouth, "a _moue_" as the
French call it, and pointed with her lips towards the bottom of the
hill. The farmer mounted his carriage, holding the child in his
arms, and drove away. Meanwhile, the child felt quite at home; she
was examining this rough man attentively.

An indescribable something was passing within the farmer's soul.

That little child clinging confidently to him, her large blue eyes
expressing thankfulness and contentment filled him with a queer, but
by no means unpleasant sensation. He was catching a glimpse of the
joy that is reaped through performing a good action.

There was something more than this, some power at work which he
could not analyze. There was something in that childish voice and
mien; that penetrated his soul and reminded him of former days.

He felt a tender sensation gradually overwhelming him. His heart of
stone melted, a tear rolled down that hard featured and deep
wrinkled visage.

"You cry," said the child, "are you hurt?"

He roused himself, brushed away the tell-tale tear with a quick
movement of his right arm and whipped up his horse.

"Are you hurt?" repeated the little girl who was not to be put off
so easily.

"No;" he answered, almost softly.

"Trot; I like to see a horse trot," said the child.

But Mr. Rougeant was looking round to see if he could discern
someone searching for the child.

"What is your father's name?" asked the farmer.

"Papa."

"Humph! and your mother's?"

"Mamma."

He tried another expedient. "What do people say to your papa, Mr.
What."

"Yes; I fink it's Mr. What."

The farmer looked puzzled. He saw a man approaching. "I will ask him
if he knows where the child lives," he was saying to himself, when
the little girl exclaimed: "Ah! there's 'ma; look, she's looking
frough the window."

"'Ma;" she cried, "I've had a ride."

Mr. Rougeant looked round. So this was where the child lived. He
descended from the phaeton holding the little girl in his arms and
stood confronting----his daughter.

They recognized each other. There was a moment of embarrassment.

Then the farmer, without a word, not a muscle of his face betraying
his emotion, handed over the parcel, turned on his heels and
mounting the conveyance was soon out of view.

He did not even cast a glance behind him. His daughter watched him
disappear, then re-entered the house.

"Poor father," she sighed, "what a great change, what an emaciated
figure; he has already the appearance of a ghost."

Then, seating herself upon a sofa, she meditated a long time.
Finally, her face assumed a determined expression; "Come what may,"
she said to herself; "I will not leave him descend thus into the
grave. I will make at least one real effort at reconciliation. If I
do not succeed, I shall be free from remorse."

She talked the matter over with her husband when he came home.

"You look terribly in earnest," said he. "If only your father
possessed a heart, I should hope. I think that with the zeal which
you now show you would melt a heart of stone. However, the task is a
noble one, and if you succeed, I shall only be too glad to welcome
my father-in-law."

Next morning, Mrs. Mathers directed her steps towards "Les Marches."
She had undertaken what seemed to be a stupendous task, and she
resolved to pursue it energetically.

This was why she went to her father's house in person.

While she was nearing her birth-place her father was lying in his
bed, ill. Mrs. Dorant watched near him as he tossed about his couch.

At times he was calmer than at others; one could discern the traces
upon his face softening. For he was thinking of the time when a
little girl used to nestle upon his knee, a little child exactly
resembling the one with which he had talked on the previous day.

He could not help thinking: "I was happier then than I now am. I had
a loving wife, a child whose innocence softened my heart; but now, I
am abandoned by everyone."

He set his teeth, he again tossed about his couch and muttered: "It
is all through my daughter's fault; she might be respectably
married. Still, she looked happy and contented. I know these
fellows, they eat and drink everything which is not spent in
superfluities."

As Mrs. Mathers approached the front door of "Les Marches," she felt
a tremor pass through her whole frame. The once familiar
surroundings and the ennobling object of her visit inspired her with
strangely tender feelings.

Her soul was deeply moved as she entered the house. There was the
kitchen with its primitive and quaint furniture. It was deserted.
She seated herself on a chair and began to ponder.

Soft was to be her voice, tender were to be her appeals to his
conscience, earnest her entreaties, she was to plead with patience,
and appeal to his most heart-melting sentiments.

She heard someone coming downstairs. "It is he," she said to
herself, and she braced herself for the encounter.

"How you frighten me Miss--I beg your pardon--Madam."

It was Mrs. Dorant who uttered these words as she stood in the
doorway seemingly afraid to enter, fearing the visitor might turn
out to be a ghost.

"It is you, Mrs. Dorant," said Mrs. Mathers; "is my father
upstairs?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is he ill?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Dangerously?"

"Not very; he does not want us to fetch the doctor. But what have
you come here for? If Mr. Rougeant saw you--oh--;" here she threw up
both her hands and opened her mouth and eyes wide--"oh--" she
continued, "master would swallow you."

"Do you think so; but I mean to go upstairs and to talk to him."

"Oh, don't go," she entreated, fixing her supplicating eyes upon
Adèle, "he might kill you."

Mrs. Mathers laughed. "No," she said, "he is my father; he is ill
and needs me. I am going to discharge my duty towards him." And so
saying she ascended the creaky staircase.

To this day, she cannot explain the sensation which she felt as she
entered the room where her father lay.

She went straight up to her father's bedside, sank on her knees,
took the hand that was lying on the bedclothes between both hers and
began to weep.

Mr. Rougeant quickly withdrew his hand, he contracted his brow, his
lips slightly curved, he looked on her with contempt.

"What do you want?" he said roughly. "You come to beg, you pauper,
your angry creditors are clamouring for their money, you are on the
verge of bankruptcy. I knew it;" he added triumphantly.

"Father, it is true, I come to beg, but not for money. I am not
poor."

He looked at her suspiciously.

She turned upon him her tearful eyes and softly said: "Father, you
are miserable, I want to render you happy once more."

To her great surprise, he did not answer, but his countenance fell.
"Who has told her that I am miserable and that I wish to be happy
once more?" he mused.

His daughter seized this opportunity. She took the tide at the
flood. She pleaded earnestly and tenderly.

Then, as he balanced between pride and prejudice on one side, and a
life of peace and contentment on the other, her persuasive voice
made the tendrils of his heart move uneasily.

This stone-hearted man wept.

So did his daughter. And amidst this flood of tears, father and
daughter were reconciled once more.

Mr. Rougeant grew rapidly better. He had something to live for now.
He, however, would not quit his farm.

"Why don't you come and live here?" he said to Frank one evening as
they sat near a blazing fire in the parlour of "Les Marches."

The idea struck Frank as being quite practicable. He was already
prevented, from want of room, to extend his business at the Rohais.

"You would not like to see greenhouses in your fields yonder;" he
said.

"Yes, I would; besides, I have a lot of capital which might be
profitably used up. We might form a partnership."

"I must think it over," said Frank. He cast a look towards Adèle,
and as he met her beseeching eyes, he added smilingly: "I think we
may as well consider the matter as settled."

Frank's property at the Rohais was let. The farm at "Les Marches"
underwent a complete transformation.

For fully three months, there was such a rubbing and scrubbing,
painting and papering, that everything was turned completely
topsy-turvy.

Order was at last evoked, the furniture from the Rohais was brought
in and the farm-house was made a model of snugness and comfort
within.

Without, during those three months, nothing was heard but the noise
of the carpenter's hammers and the click of the glazier's tools.

Mr. Rougeant was as completely transformed as his farm. He looked
upon the whole with such an air of complacency that the neighbours
remarked: "He is in his second infancy."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SAD END OF A MISPENT LIFE.


In one of the numerous public-houses in the town of St. Peter-Port,
surrounded by a gang of "roughs," a man, still young, sat on a
stool.

His face was terribly emaciated, and on it, one could discern all
the traces of that demon, _alcohol_.

In one of his agitated hands, he held a half-filled glass, in the
other, a short, blackened clay-pipe.

His glassy eyes had a strange look.

He made an effort to carry the tumbler which he was holding to his
lips, but his nerves and muscles refused to act.

Here, we may as well say that this man's name was Tom Soher.

"What's the matter, Tom?" said one of the men.

"Nothing," responded he, making use of a very old form of lie.

At this reassuring statement, the company resumed their
conversation, and their drink.

But Tom, after placing his glass on the counter, retired to one
corner of the room, sat himself on an empty barrel and was soon fast
asleep.

It was a profound sleep, and, from time to time, the young man
trembled convulsively. He opened a gaping mouth, he muttered some
unintelligible words, but his "pals" noticed it not.

They were accustomed to such scenes,--the sight of man, who is no
more man; an animal, lower in many respects than the brute.

The sleeper was dreaming. He dreamt that he saw the same
public-house in which he now was. But, instead of being built of
granite,--as it really was,--its walls were one mass of human
beings, piled one on top of the other.

He could recognize some former companions who now were deceased.

Their bodies served instead of stones, and their souls he discerned,
placed in lieu of windows.

Amidst the horrible mass of human flesh, he saw his father's body,
crushed and terribly mangled; his face wore an expression of
suffering, his whole body seemed borne down by a heavy and
oppressive weight.

Tom Soher looked at his father. The latter cast a sad and troubled
look at his son.

All at once, the drunken man saw himself seated upon his father's
back. So this was the load that crushed him. He gazed upon his
resemblance; a mere shadow of his former self.

As he contemplated this sad picture, he saw, issuing out of his
mouth--his soul.

An inexpressible fear and a sense of suffocation seized him.

He tried to explain to himself this curious vision. "Bah! 'tis but a
dream," he muttered; "ah! someone is grasping my throat. I am
dying." He lifted his eyes towards heaven. They encountered the
ceiling.

As he sought in vain to rouse himself from that awful state of
lethargy, something within him whispered: "This house is built with
the price of bodies and of souls."

He listened eagerly. The voice was silent.

Then the awful interpretation of this strange vision dawned upon his
troubled mind. "Is it possible that I have given both my body and my
soul in exchange for drink. My soul! Alas!"

He struggled to shake himself free. Another fit of suffocation
seized him in its deathly embrace. He tried to shout or to entreat
mercy, but his tongue refused to utter a sound and his heart was as
hard and as cold as the stones over which the vehicle in which he
was lying rolled.

For Tom Soher was in a closed carriage. When closing time came, the
owner of the public-house had him placed in a conveyance and sent
home.

He realised this, as a dull, but deep-seated pain, caused him to
open his eyes. He looked wildly round.

The carriage rattled over the newly macadamized road, and he was
dying, unable to cry for help, incapable of articulating a single
sound.

He struck his fist frantically out, intending to smash the window,
but his blow fell an inch short of its intended mark.

Then all his past life seemed to roll before his eyes, a mispent,
futile, licentious life, in which the bad passions had predominated,
and finally hustled him to his doom. A dreadful sense of fear seized
him. He raised himself upon one of his elbows, his eyes were wide
open, and in them, there was not the expression that is seen in
those of a dying beast, which seems to say "It is finished;" his
eyes expressed a conviction of something yonder, coupled with a look
of blank despair.

The elbow upon which he was supporting himself gave way, and he fell
back--dead.

As the driver approached the "Prenoms," he whistled gaily. He little
dreamt of the surprise which awaited him. He drove straight through
the open gate into the farmyard.

When Mrs. Soher heard the sound of the carriage wheels, she went to
the door of the house, opened it and said: "Here he comes again, the
poor inebriate."

"Now, ma'am, here's your son; he's had a glass too much, but he'll
be right enough after a bit o' sleep;" and so saying, the driver
opened the carriage door while Mrs. Soher approached, lantern in
hand. Her daughter followed her.

They came close to the driver, who stood stock-still, his mouth half
open, his whole body trembling like an aspen leaf. At last, he
recovered himself sufficiently to speak. "Jerusalem--he's dead," he
muttered in a hoarse and frightened tone.

The dead man's mother let fall the lantern which she was holding,
her legs gave way under her, and she fell down and fainted.

Her daughter was also greatly moved. She began to sob.

"What must we do?" questioned the man.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered, crying; then, after a few moments'
pause, she said: "Call the neighbours."

The man gave a shout. Two men from the house on the other side of
the road appeared at the door.

"This way, please, be quick;" shouted the driver.

The men precipitated themselves towards the spot. Mrs. Soher was
carried to her room upstairs and left to the care of her daughter
who applied restoratives.

The corpse was carried into another room and laid upon a bed. The
eyes remained wide open.

The neighbours sent away the carriage and its owner; one of them
remained in the house while the other went for a doctor.

Mrs. Soher regained consciousness, and as her senses returned to
her, she cried bitterly: "My poor son, my dear son."

At this stage, Mr. Soher came home. He was surprised to find his
neighbour seated near the fire in the kitchen. His surprise was
changed into anguish, when the neighbour, in a few words, informed
him of Tom's sad fate.

Mr. Soher was horrified. With a blanched face and tottering steps he
ascended the stairs and entered the room in which lay his wife. Upon
seeing him, his wife uttered heart-rending cries: "Oh, Thomas, what
are we going to do; our only son." Her sobs choked her.

Her husband did not say a word. He turned on his heels, closed the
door after him, and entered the room in which lay his son's corpse.

As he glanced at those dilated eyes, a chill ran through his frame.
"Great God; is it possible?" he exclaimed, raising his eyes to
heaven; "my son, my son."

He paced up and down the room with feverish steps, a prey to the
most poignant grief. His conscience upbraided him loudly. It said:

"Behold your son whose education you have overlooked; behold him
whom you have left to grow in vice, without an effort worth the name
to save him from the ruinous bent of his bad passions."

"I know it; 'tis all my fault," exclaimed the grief and
conscience-stricken man. "I have not done half of what I might have
done for him.

"Animated by a false pride, I desired to shine among my
fellow-worshippers, and have been continually away from home,
neglecting my duty there, to satisfy my ambition. Miserable man that
I am."

He cast his eyes towards the lifeless body of which the eyes met his
and seemed to reproach him for having shirked his duty.

"Oh, God! wilt thou ever forgive me?" he cried in wild despair;
"what can I do to atone? If one half, if a tenth part of the energy
which I have displayed elsewhere had been employed in bringing up my
son as I ought to have done, this would not be."

He continued thus to soliloquize, now and then stopping abruptly in
his nervous walk to gaze upon those reproachful eyes, then resuming
his wanderings, blaming himself continually.

He was in the midst of his peregrinations when his daughter entered
the room.

"Father," she said, "a woman who is downstairs wishes to speak with
you."

The troubled man did not answer. What was this to him; what was all
the world to him compared with his grief?

"She says her daughter, who is dying, wishes to see you," continued
the young woman.

"Tell her I am coming," said Mr. Soher.

A dying woman wishing to see him. How could he refuse that? Perhaps
he would be the means of doing some good to this person. If he could
thus begin to atone for his want of dutifulness towards his son.

He went downstairs.

"My daughter wishes to see you now," said his visitor. "You will
come, Sir; you will not refuse a dying woman's request?"

"Refuse; certainly not," he said, and he immediately accompanied his
visitor.

They walked the whole distance which separated the two houses
without a word being exchanged between them.

Mr. Soher's thoughts were with the dead; his companion was already
grieving for the daughter which she felt sure she was about to lose.

Mr. Soher was ushered near the dying woman's bed. The latter was
raving, but directly she perceived him she fixed her gaze upon him,
her wild, rambling talk ceased, her mind seemed to regain its
lucidity. She exclaimed: "I have not found it, therefore I am lost
for ever."

"What have you not found?" he said kindly.

"Listen," said she. "Some time ago, I entered a small place of
worship in which a man was delivering an address, or, as he called
it, a testimonial.

"He said that when he had been converted, he had felt a heavenly ray
of light flooding his very soul. He said he felt as if an electric
battery had come in contact with his entrails. At the same time, he
heard a voice clearly saying: 'My son, thy sins are forgiven thee.'

"This man, who was no other than you, Sir, said that if his hearers
had not clearly heard this divine voice and experienced this shock,
they were doomed. He exhorted the congregation to seek for these
blessings.

"I went home impressed. I decided to seek for these things of which
you spoke. I prayed, I hoped, I waited, but I have never felt half
of what you promised your audience they would find.

"Now, I am then to understand that I am rejected.

"Rejected! oh Heaven."

The poor woman burst into tears and uttered a wail of despair.

Mr. Soher tried to soothe her.

"No," she said, "you are trying to deceive me, you are not speaking
the truth."

He protested. "It was then, that I did not speak the truth," he
said. "I was exalted, I went too far."

"Is it true?" said the dying woman.

"Oh yes, do believe me."

"I believe you," she said sneeringly.

The fever was again coming upon her. She began to wander in her
speech.

Mr. Soher, at a sign from the mother, who had followed him into the
room, withdrew.

His brain was on fire. His heart was full of the deepest and keenest
anguish.

"What have I done?" he muttered. "I wanted to be thought a saint.
Not being one, I acted the hypocrite. Now, here I am, maimed,
afflicted, weighed down with grief."

He reached his home--a wreck.

A few days afterwards, poor Tom's body was buried in the churchyard.

From that day, life at the "Prenoms" was completely changed.

Mr. Soher examined himself and his surroundings.

He saw that he was drifting towards bankruptcy. He resolved--he did
more--he went to work, to try and avert the catastrophe. He
succeeded in all that he undertook, for he worked with a will.

His lost son was not brought back to life, neither was the land
which he had sold redeemed, but he managed to supply his wants and
those of his family, besides putting something by for a rainy day.




CHAPTER XXIX.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.


They had had a hard day's work at "Les Marches," packing tomatoes
for the English markets.

It was the month of September. The days were growing short and the
nights long.

After the day's occupations were over, the family assembled in the
neatly furnished parlour. Frank wrote his letters of advice to his
fruit merchants. Then he took a German book, "Hauff's stories," and
proceeded to read the diverting history of "Little Mudj," making
frequent use of the vocabulary.

Afterwards, to relax his mind, he took a French book. It was one of
the works of Blaise Pascal, his "Lettres Provinciales." He admired
their originality, the trenchant satire, and the galling blows of
this man whom Châteaubriand called a "frightful genius."

As he read the beautiful passages which had issued from this great
man's mind, he became imbued with some of the flame that had
inspired the author of the book.

He placed the volume on the table, rested his head upon his hand and
began to think of his past life.

He thought of his ambition to acquire riches, and of how he had been
deceived. Providence had ordered otherwise and baffled him.

He was very well off now, but how differently from what he had
anticipated, he had acquired his present position.

He thought of his mental sufferings, the acute brain, the
deep-seated ambition torturing him.

He no longer asked himself why he had endured pain. Had he never
suffered, he would never have attained the moral position in which
he now was. It was when he was disgusted with the world, when he
experienced an aversion for earthly things, that his firmest
resolves had been formed and his determination to do good
solidified. It was then that he attempted to rise above the dusty,
monotonous and weary walks of ordinary life; it was then that his
virtuous sensibility had been awakened, and that his lofty
conceptions had been framed. And now, having aimed at something
noble, he was leading a useful, happy, and dignified life.

He was cheerful, and possessed of some of that supreme happiness
which brightens the soul, and accompanies it through immortality.

He had said: "Why endure pain?" But it was with the same senses that
he now enjoyed pleasure.

He had said: "Why suffer physically?" "Why," he thought, "if that
little child did not feel, and had not experienced the pangs of
hunger, it would now be dead; so would I, if, when I was wrapped in
thick smoke, the foul gases had not irritated my bronchial tubes and
my eyes.

"As for the remainder, I am satisfied to leave it to Him who has
cared for and protected me so far through life. Perhaps the day will
come when I shall also know the why and wherefore of things which I
almost dared to accuse an all-wise Providence of having sent into
the world."

While her husband was soliloquizing thus, Mrs. Mathers was busily
engaged in stitching a smart little pinafore of diaper.

Grandpapa was resting upon the sofa with little Adèle seated on his
knee.

He held both the child's hands in his, the left one he held in his
left hand, and the right one he held in his right hand. Taking
Adèle's right-hand forefinger and placing it in her left hand, he
began to tell her a little story about a lark, which he remembered
his mother used to recite to him when he was a little boy.

"A little lark built its nest there," he began.

"Here, in my hand?" said the child.

"We shall suppose the little bird did so," answered Mr. Rougeant.
"It passed this way, and the thumb caught it."

"Ah-ha," laughed little Adèle.

"This finger plucked its feathers, this one cooked it, and--this one
ate it."

Frank made some remark.

Mr. Rougeant looked up.

"And the little one," said Adèle, pulling impatiently on her
grandfather's sleeve, "you have not told me what the little one
did."

"Indeed! well, the little one was left without a single crumb."

"Poor little one," said the child.

END.







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