LOVE TRIUMPHS.
"Good-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 Adele 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 Adele as she
disappeared through the doorway.
After having read the letter which she had fetched from the stable,
Adele 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 evening approached, 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 Adele'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 Adele 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, Adele 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 want of 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 Mait., and they
style their superiors Mait. 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 Adele 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 the _grande
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 while
_he_ was 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.
Adele was glad of it, for she had her thoughts occupied with her
wedding which was to come off in three weeks.