The Encounter.
T
he 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 abovethis 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 overmy 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 nomistaking 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 eyesresolutely 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.
Father and Daughter.
T
he 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 soonreturn 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 herthoughts 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.
A Secret Correspondence.
O
n 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. "Imust 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 forgottenall 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. Thelatter 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 becareful 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.
Mr. Rougeant goes to Church.
T
he 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, endeavouringto 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.
Love Triumphs.
G
ood-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 eveningapproached, 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 wantof 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 thegrande 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 whilehewas 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.