Shadow and Sunshine.
W
hat 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 hadgiven 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 wasAngina 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.
The Effects of a Sermon.
O
ne 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 wasastonished 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 allmy 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.
Success after Success.
H
aving 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 hercousin 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 theclock 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 lovedanother 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 isAdiantum Capillus Veneris, orMaiden Hair, a rare European species; this one isAdiantum Pedantum, of American origin, and that one behind there, which is partly hidden, isAdiantum 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.
Tom's Interview with Mrs. Vidoux.
F
ive 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 knewher 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.
Tom's Visit to his Uncle.
T
om 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 Englishbook 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, whymy 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.