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

Frank felt stung. His face coloured deeply, his head was on fire. What did she think of him? Through the mist that seemed to gather before his eyes, he managed to glance rapidly in the direction of Adele. 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.

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

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

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

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

At this stage, Adele 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 Adele's presence.

He was so much in earnest about doing things properly that he committed several blunders. Once he almost overturned his cup, then he blushed till his face was all discoloured, and bit his under lip savagely. A minute after that, while gallantly passing a plate containing gache a corinthe to Adele, 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: "Adele, make haste, so that the gentleman may hear your playing."

"I am coming soon," was the reply.

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

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

Adele 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 Adele 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 Adele, 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 Adele, then suddenly took his hat and his departure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You take care of this horse?"

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

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

"What job?" said Jacques.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So Miss Rougeant is now eighteen."

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

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

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

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

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

"Good-night, then," said Frank.

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

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

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



CHAPTER VIII.

AN UNPLEASANT VISIT.

When Adele 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 Adele 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, Adele 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.

Adele did not answer.

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

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

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

Mrs. Soher was Mr. Rougeant's sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the time came for Adele 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."

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

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

"A pretty compliment," thought the visitor.

When they were all assembled round the table partaking of their tea, Adele 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. Adele made no remark. Her aunt noticed this, and after a most scornful remark about Mrs. B.'s character, she said to her niece: "Don't you think so?"

Although considerably annoyed, Adele 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.

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

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

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

While she was thus engaged in rapturous joy, Mrs. Soher and her daughter were having a fine time of it. "Ah! she is a well-bred girl; to interrupt me like that, to answer and lecture me in that way," said Adele'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 Adele heard their decision, she would have felt even more cheerful than she now did.



CHAPTER IX.

DECEPTIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank was vexed with himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X.

'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY.

One evening—it was the first week in June, about nine months after Frank's adventure in the garden—Adele 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.

Adele supplied them plentifully with the precious liquid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In reality, Adele 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, Adele, 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.

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

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

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

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

"Do;" entreated Tom.

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

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

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

It may here be noted that Mr. Rougeant had now altogether dispensed with his Breton servant. Now that Adele 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. Adele 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 Adele had ever spent, Tom took leave of the family.

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

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

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

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

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

"He drinks."

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

"He is my cousin-germain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas! she knew her father well.

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

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



CHAPTER XI.

BUSINESS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank nodded.

Would he call the next evening? the man asked.

Frank promised to call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It may be."

"There's a stream running through it."

"I know."

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

"Sometimes."

"I have a mind to keep it."

"Indeed!"

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

"I don't know about that."

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

"We have not done much business yet."

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

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

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

"How much would you require?"

"Oh! I don't know."

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

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

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

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

"What is your price?"

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

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

"I should require some money."

"How much?"

"At least one hundred pounds."

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

"Six quarters a vergee."

"No."

"It would be worth that to you."

"I will give you five quarters."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

A STRANGE MEETING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank answered: "I might have done worse."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII.

SUPERSTITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is very difficult to convince an ignorant person.



CHAPTER XIV.

FAILURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Yes,' I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hope of converting this man was almost extinguished.

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

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

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

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

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

From this it must not be inferred that he was uneducated.

But, he lacked that knowledge of the world which is only acquired by mixing with the world.



CHAPTER XV.

DARK DAYS.

It was winter, dull winter, when nature rests and green fields are no more.

There was not much work to do now in the greenhouses at "the Rohais."

Frank was one evening taking a walk towards the Catel Church.

He had some business to settle with his carpenter, who lived near "Woodlands."

Presently, a man who had dogged his steps for some time, exclaimed: "It's you, Mr. Mathers, I thought it was."

Turning round, Frank recognised Jacques, Mr. Rougeant's workman. He thought his heart had stopped beating, so sudden was the thrill of satisfaction that shook its tendrils.

"Yes, it is I," he at last answered; and he shook hands with Jacques as if he had been his most intimate friend.

"He was so glad to see him," he said. "And how are they all at 'Les Marches,'" he inquired.

"Oh, jolly-like," said the man who had boasted that he could speak English; "the squire's in a reg'lar good mood this week."

"Indeed!" said Frank.

"Well, you see, it's no wonder after all; the young Miss's engaged to a young fellow; Tom Soher, I think his name is. I don't like the look o' the chap. He used to drink and there's no sayin'——."

He stopped short on perceiving Frank who was leaning against the wall for support; his face of an ashen hue.

Jacques eyed him anxiously. "One'd say you'd be ill," he remarked.

"I don't feel exactly well," said Frank.

"Shall I see you home?"

"No, thank you, I can easily walk there."

"I think I'd better come with you; I know my missus'l be waitin' for me, but I'll come if you think I must."

"No, thank you," again responded Frank; "there are a great many people about——. There! I feel slightly better."

"As you like," said Jacques, who by-the-by was not in the least inclined to accompany the young man.

"I'll go alone," said Frank; "Good-night."

"Good-night, Sir, I hope you'll be better soon," said Jacques, as each one betook himself towards his home.

Frank was completely weighed down with this piece of unexpected and unwelcome news. He did not go to the carpenter's residence; he forgot all about it. He went straight home. How he arrived there, which road he took, which door he entered by, he did not know; but he found himself in his bedroom, seated on a chair and gazing into space in blank despair.

This was the end of everything.

He pictured to himself her lover. He did not know him, but he succeeded in forming in his mind one of the biggest monsters that ever inhabited the globe in the shape of man.

And Adele; he knew she must have been forced into it by her father. "How she must groan under this yoke. To have to listen to that vicious being with the prospect of one day being his wife." Why had it come to this, why was the world so formed. Ah! the wicked world we live in, the abominable, corrupted world. When would the millennium come. When would all this unhappiness be swept away from the earth's surface.

Alas! he would die before that time; so would thousands and millions of others.

What had the world done that it must thus be continually sacrificed. What had he done. Others were happy; surely no one had ever met such a deception before. People had to suffer sometimes, but not such intense, heart-rending suffering as he now endured.

He was full of despair. Before him, there was nothing but darkness. The more he thought over his misfortunes, the more hopeless life seemed to be.

The candle was now nearly burnt out, but he heeded it not. He waved his hand near his face as if to scatter his thoughts. "Why did I rescue him when he was drowning. (He was thinking of Mr. Rougeant.) I risked being pulled into the water, I might have been drowned; and this is the reward." Ah! how humanity must suffer. If there was no joy, no real happiness on this earth, why live, why continue to endure all this. Schopenhauer was quite right when he said life was not worth living. Henceforth, he would be a pessimist. Three cheers for pessimism!

Ah! the wicked world we live in.

The candle had now burnt itself out but the young man remained seated, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes gazing at the floor, and his heart in "kingdom come."

When the clock struck twelve, he awoke. He had fallen asleep and was a little more composed than before. He undressed and went to bed.

He awoke early in the morning. He was crying. What was the matter with him. It dawned upon him: he was going to have a fit of melancholy.

He felt it, but he was powerless to prevent its intrusion. He was like the man who stands between the rails, and suddenly sees a train advancing at full speed towards him and remains with his eyes riveted on the instrument of his destruction, seemingly powerless to move, till the engine crushes him in its onward course.

When Frank descended to breakfast, old Pierre and his spouse noticed his wan look. "I think master's going mad," said the man to his wife, when Frank was out of the room. "I don't know what ails him, but he seems very pale and strange."

The young man wandered aimlessly. Nothing interested him, not even his books, these companions which he had cherished so much. He tried to find pleasure in them. "If I had something to do, something to occupy my thoughts," he said to himself, "I would be much better. Work is the balm which heals my wounds, it sets me on my feet again. I will work, I will study."

He soon found out that work in itself could not heal his wounds. Then he grew still more despondent. What was the use of working if work did not bring a reward. It was all very well to toil, but to work like a slave, without the prospect of utilizing one's power after having continually striven to acquire it, was discouraging.

He therefore put his books aside and his melancholy grew deeper and deeper.

One day he was seized with anxiousness for his soul's future. He had not done what he ought to have done. He greatly frightened Mrs. Merlin, when he entered the house and exclaimed: "I'm lost; I'm lost."

"Don't say that, Mr. Mathers," she said. "You have always been a good man."

"Good!" he exclaimed, his eyes dilated, the muscles of his face working convulsively; "good, yes, for my sake, because I hoped in my selfishness to reap ten times the outlay. Don't you see," he continued, "that I have only worked for my own selfish interest. I have made sacrifices, because I hoped to reap a rich reward. And now, I am well punished; I deserve all this, I certainly do. I have done nothing for others. I have not been altruistic."

The woman stared at him. She knew almost as much about altruism as a dog does about the celestial sciences. After a few moments of silence she spoke: "You have been very good to us, you rescued a man from drowning once at great risk, you——"

"Ha, ha!" he laughed, "fine talk, to come and speak like that to me. I am going to die, and do you hear;" he added in an undertone, catching hold of Mrs. Merlin's arm and terrifying her; "I am afraid, oh, so afraid."

The old woman began to cry. "You must not talk like that," she said, "you really must not. Why don't you pray?"

"Pray! what is the use; no, not now. I am being punished for my sins. I must atone, I must atone."

He continued in this sad state for a few days, weighed down with this strange malady, which, alas, often preys upon our finest intellects.

Then, a reaction set in, and he began to improve gradually.

He felt quite well at times, then re-assumed his moody ways; rays of sunshine sometimes darted from behind the clouds. "I wish the sun would disperse the clouds," he sighed.

One evening, when his head was tolerably clear, he was seized with a desire to visit his parents' grave.

Without consulting anyone, he immediately proceeded towards the Foulon. When he came to the iron gate, it was closed. He was bitterly disappointed. By climbing over it, he would risk being empaled on the iron spikes, or otherwise injured.

Presently he thought of the wooden wicket situated a little lower down. He proceeded thither and climbed over it without difficulty. A stream confronted him. He crossed it on a plank thrown across the rill. It was very dark, but he did not think of it. He was alone in this graveyard, but he experienced no fear. He felt happier than he had done for a long time. "Had he not adopted the pessimistic view of life."

He walked straight to the grave where his father and mother lay buried and seated himself near it. Just then, a gentle breeze caused the stately trees surrounding the graveyard to waft their leafy tops to and fro. Nature was rocking itself to sleep.

Even as it slumbered, it now and then heaved a sigh, sympathizing with the lonely man who pondered near his parents' grave.

He soliloquized: "Around me, the dead; beneath that turf, the dead; above me, beyond those glimmering stars, somewhere in that infinity of space, in which man with his very limited understanding loses himself, the departed souls...."

Suddenly, he perceived a white form advancing towards him. If hair stands on end, Frank's did. His heart beat at a fearful rate. What could this be? It certainly must be a ghost. "I have laughed at apparitions, but I am now going to be punished for my incredulity," he said to himself.

The ghost moved and came nearer. Frank trembled from head to foot. When he had recovered sufficient courage to scrutinize this form, it suddenly disappeared.

The young man fixed his eyes on the place where the ghost had vanished, for ten minutes; then turned his gaze in another direction. He soon recovered his senses, and fell into a reverie.

Again he soliloquized: "We all travel towards the grave. We all shall one day be like these around me. Why work, why trouble oneself. Why have I taken so much pains about my education? I have been ambitious, I have worried myself, I have been anxious to acquire wealth and fame. Here, the rich and the poor, the famous, the unfamous, and the infamous, the ignorant and the educated, are resting in the same ground, surrounded by the same scenery. I have been foolish to worry myself thus.

"Do I not daily meet ignorant and uncivilised people who live a life of contentment and happiness? Not caring for the future, not aspiring after getting on in life, living from hand to mouth, they manage to show a radiant countenance.

"Is ignorance bliss? Perhaps, in one sense; still I would not be without education.

"What must I do to be happy? I will shut mine eyes to all ambition, I will live a quiet life. Alas! even as I pronounce these words, my heart belies them. I cannot annihilate the acute brain which tortures me. Since all my hopes of happiness seem to shun me, I will continue in my new religion—pessimism; and when the hour of death comes, I will smile."

He thought of the hopeful days he had once known. He rose from his seat, cast a farewell glance on his parents' grave and proceeded down the gravel walk. He then thought of the ghost which he had seen, and felt a vague sense of fear. "I am no coward," he muttered as he straightened himself and tried to assume an air of indifference. But he felt nervous. He glanced anxiously behind him every other moment, and increased his pace.

He perceived, among the trees, near the gate over which he had to pass—a light.

It was as if a thunderbolt had passed through his body.

He looked more attentively. Yes, there was a light, a strange, fantastic light, dancing amongst the trees. His feverish brain caused him to lose all power of reasoning.

"What is this?" he said to himself. He felt his heart beating heavily against the walls of its prison as if trying to escape. His legs seemed to give way under him. A big lump stuck in his throat.

"It is only an ignis fatuus," he said to himself. "No, it cannot be, it does not burn with a bluish light. Why this terror, why this fear; it must be the feu bellanger."

The light changed. It was approaching.

A sense of horripilation stole over him. A cold perspiration bathed him.

The light changed again. It really receded this time, but to Frank's agitated mind, it was simply one of its tactics to induce him to come nearer.

He suddenly bethought himself of the stream. His terror reached its climax. "Ah! there it was, waiting for him to pass that way, and then with a shout of triumph, it would plunge him in."

He remembered old Pierre's words: "Wait till he gets caught." How he wished he had not mocked him so. Perhaps this feu bellanger was preparing to revenge itself.

Again, the light approached. It came nearer to him than it had yet come. The supreme moment had arrived. He already felt himself being dipped in the stream, with no one to rescue him. Ah! the horror of being killed by one of the devil's angels.

Here he remembered Pierre Merlin's advice: "Turn your coat sleeves inside out and put on your garment so." Without a moment's hesitation he divested himself of his coat. As he was turning the sleeves, the object of his dread disappeared. A sigh of relief escaped him.

In a minute, he had bounded over the stream and gate into the road. He put on his coat, and was proceeding towards his home, when he perceived the cause of his fears. It was simply a ray of light coming through the windows of the guardian's house. He could see it now. A woman was standing on a chair with a small lamp in her hand seeking for something on a shelf. As she moved the lamp, the reflection on the trees moved also.

He began to laugh. "The feu bellanger, forsooth. How old Pierre would have smiled if he had beheld him taking off his coat. But the ghost, that was what puzzled him."

The ghost came bounding over the wicket and passed by him.

It was a white dog.

This adventure had taught him a great lesson. What could he say now, he, the educated and civilized young man? No wonder if the people who had been accustomed to hear strange tales from their earliest infancy, believed in them.

He went home, determined to deal leniently with Pierre in the future.

"I must have been in a dreadful state of mind to have acted thus," he thought. "I have done more than I ever meant to do."

When he came home, he was quite cheerful. He did not say that he had seen a ghost, neither did he tell the spouses Merlin that he had nearly been attacked by the feu bellanger.

Pierre noticed his joyous look. He gave a wink to his wife as if to say: "He's taken a glass or two."

It was not so; the shock which he had received had completely dislodged the last trace of melancholy.



CHAPTER XVI.

SHADOW AND SUNSHINE.

What was Adele 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 Adele.

Pretending not to hear her, or thinking this remark unworthy of notice, the farmer went on with unusual fervour: "Marry him, Adele; 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.

Adele 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.