FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
The morning after the accident, Mr. Rougeant, whose wrath was
terrible, began to abuse his daughter.
"You are the cause of all this," he said, as he surveyed the injured
limb.
"Very indirectly, I should think," she replied.
"What do you mean? How dare you disobey me as you have done lately;
you have made me suffer; you have, under my very eyes, been making a
fool of me--your father." He paused, as if unable to frame his next
sentence.
"I beg your pardon, father," said the young lady respectfully; "but
I have not been trying to 'make a fool' of you, as you say. I
conscientiously think that I am right in encouraging the attentions
of such an upright----"
"Stop your nonsense," he cried imperatively, his face assuming a
terrible aspect, "you are an idiotic girl, you are trying to ruin me
by listening to this pasteboard fellow, this scoundrel, this
flippant rascal."
Adele was stung with her father's bitter sarcasm against one whom
she loved. She looked straight at her father; she knew he was unable
to move from his place, and this made her bolder than she would
otherwise have been. She answered with a firm and steady voice: "He
saved your life once."
"Saved my life, how? Only for his presence yesterday, I should not
now be lying idle."
"I am not talking about yesterday," she replied; "I mean, when he
saved you from drowning in the quarry at the risk of being himself
dragged in."
"What has that to do with it?"
"It means that he is not a 'pasteboard fellow,' as you say; it means
that you ought to acknowledge his kindness; it means that you should
be thankful for the great service which he rendered you."
"If I owe him anything, let him say so and I will pay him," he
replied. He had not the slightest intention of doing so.
"You owe him a debt of gratitude, and you should bless him; instead
of that you curse him," she said, her lips quivering and the tears
rushing to her eyes. The idea of her beloved being cursed.
"Yes, I hate him," said the farmer, "I cordially distaste that dirty
rat; he is the worm that eats my bones; but, you never shall marry
him; do you hear? never."
"I will never marry anyone else," she said, her face assuming a
desperate calmness.
"Yes you will."
"Father," she said, her face almost as white as the cloth which she
was spreading on the table, "it is useless to speak any more about
it, it pains me to have to speak thus to you, but I will never marry
Tom Soher."
She heard the grinding of her father's teeth.
"If I did so," she continued; "I feel that I should commit a great
sin; I never could love him, therefore his life with me would be
miserable; he would feel lonely, and, I am afraid, would soon
return to his former habits of intemperance. Then I should be
breaking my word, for I have promised----"
"You have!" howled the father.
She did not go on; her father's eyes were riveted on her with a
terrible look. She feared he was going mad. She could not proceed,
mesmerized as she seemed to be under that awful gaze.
At last she turned her attention to her work.
Not another word was spoken on the subject that day.
Neither of them ate much that evening. It was almost impossible for
Adele 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, Adele 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 Adele'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 Adele retired for the night, she did not perceive the ball of
paper that lay on the floor of her room. Her brain was so occupied
with her thoughts that it failed to fulfil its functions towards
the eyes.
She fixed her optics for a moment on the crumpled piece of paper,
but she saw it not. She was undressing, but she knew it not; she did
it mechanically, as if by instinct. Her thoughts were with her
father and the unhappy home she was condemned to share with him.
Home! alas! it was more like a hell. She shuddered at the thought.
She was of a naturally quiet temperament, and she abhorred these
awful scenes.
She earnestly hoped that the time would soon come when she would
once more sail in smooth waters.
As she was moving about, her foot trod upon some object. "What is
this?" she said to herself, as she stooped to pick it up. By whom
that piece of paper had been placed there, she could not imagine.
By the light of the candle, she managed to read the missive. How her
heart gladdened. She read it over and over again. It contained a
message from Frank telling her that he hoped to hear from her at her
earliest convenience. "So you will," she said half aloud as she
carefully folded the small piece of paper.
She slept peacefully that night.