An Abrupt Dismissal.
N
ext 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, hishead was on fire. What didshethink 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 itin 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 containinggâche à corintheto 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 notcare 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, scannedthe 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 oldfellow'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. Andher 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.
An Unpleasant Visit.
W
hen 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, herround 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 thesame 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, butIdon'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 amost 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 availshimself 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! sheisa 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.
Deceptions.
O
n 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 nervoussystem 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, thenitalso 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. Therewas 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."
'Twixt Love and Duty.
O
ne 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'ssweet 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 littlecooled 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 amarriage de raison, as the French call it. Everything had been arranged beforehand.
It was all conjecture on her part, but she felt itto 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 dressedup 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.) isa 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 mycousin-germain."
"Well, what does it matter? the law does not prevent you from marrying yourcousin-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.