WEDDED.
After all the commotion, the wedding was a very quiet one.
Adele left the house early one bright summer morning.
The sun was rising, illuminating the sky with all its various
colours; the lark was soaring towards heaven's gates; the mowers
could already be heard sharpening their scythes in the hay fields,
and Mary and Louisa, the tenant's daughters, were busily engaged
milking their father's cows.
A carriage, drawn by two grey horses, carried the heiress of "Les
Marches" to be married to Frank Mathers.
The beautifying properties of love shone on the bride's and
bridegroom's countenances as they stepped out of the church of St.
----.
In both their souls was a paradise.
From time to time, Mrs. Mathers assumed a thoughtful expression.
"I cannot help thinking of my father," she said, as the
carriage-wheels rattled over the road near "Les Gravees."
"Let not this mar your happiness," he answered joyfully, "perhaps he
will relent when he sees that it is of no use grumbling."
Adele smiled, for, in spite of everything, she would be happy. "I
_am_ joyful," she said, "but as for his pardoning me, well--you do
not know him as well as I do."
The next day while Mr. and Mrs. Mathers were enjoying a snug little
_tete-a-tete_, the postman brought them a letter. It was from Mr.
Rougeant.
"I told you he would be glad to renew his acquaintance," said Frank,
as soon as he saw the signature.
"What's this?" he said. "A cheque, Adele; a cheque for one hundred
pounds! It's our wedding present, I suppose; let me read the
letter:"
"To my Daughter,--I have heard that you have been married. You
think that I will bend. You are mistaken. Moreover, as I warned
you before you took that rash step that I would take care you
would not inherit a single penny of mine; I send you this
cheque. It is the last money which you will ever receive from
me.
"ALFRED ROUGEANT."
Frank's face was a blank. "Fancy to come and tell you that you took
a rash step," he said.
"Did not I tell you that he was stubborn?" said his wife.
"He says that he will not bend," continued Frank, perusing the
letter for a second time. "My father-in-law, you will probably
break, then. Those one hundred pounds are welcome all the same."
"I was thinking of sending them back," said Mrs. Mathers, "but,
perhaps, we had better keep them; father would only be too glad to
have them back. I cannot conceive how he mustered sufficient
resolution to part with his god. He must have made a supreme
effort."
Said Frank: "To pocket both our pride and the cheque, is, I think,
the best course which we can pursue. We must, however, acknowledge
his kind remittance and thank him for it. What do you think of
inviting him to tea some afternoon?"
"You are joking."
"As far as regards the invitation, yes; but as for acknowledging
receipt of the cheque, no. I leave you to decide whether you shall
do so. Of course, I am not supposed to have anything to do in the
matter."
"Since you leave it to me, go and open the lights of your
greenhouses, the sun is getting warm. While you are absent, I shall
write an answer. I cannot do it while you are here; I want to be
very serious."
Frank went out of the room. He came back after a few minutes'
absence.
"Sit you down and listen," said his wife. The letter which she had
written ran thus;--
"My Dear Father,--I have received the cheque which you were
kind enough to send me. I thank you for it."
"Your letter, however, pained me. You seem to think that I have
wantonly disobeyed you. I have not; I have only acted
honourably and conscientiously."
"I cannot but feel sorry for you when I think of the useless
and self-inflicted sufferings which you endure."
"As for your property, I am happy to state that we have enough,
and to spare.
"Father; if ever you require our aid; if ever you feel that you
would like to speak to us or to see us, do not hesitate; a
daughter's and a son-in-law's love will you always find in us."
"Your affectionate daughter,
"ADELE."
Frank was smiling. "I think that will do very nicely," he said.
When Mr. Rougeant read his daughter's missive, he uttered a cry of
contempt. "Require your aid,--well, I shall have to sink low. You
love me."--He banished the thought from him, for his heart was
already softening under the influence of those words.
Although he and his daughter had lived a life of mutual
misunderstanding during the last years of her stay at "Les Marches,"
he felt her absence much more keenly than he had anticipated.
The days that followed were for him days of inexpressible ennui. He
would saunter up and down the kitchen for half-an-hour at a time. He
conversed with Jacques; he tried to take interest in something; he
counted his money, his gold, his god.
Formerly, he found great pleasure in doing so; but now, the sound of
the precious metal awoke no feeling of satisfaction within his heart
as it used to do, but rung in his ears with a funereal sound. He
thought it foretold his doom.
He continued thus for weeks, a miserable, ill-humoured, irritated
and troubled man.
The month of August came, warm almost to suffocation. Mr. Rougeant
often felt cold. He would sit for hours before the fire, his feet
stretched at full length, his hands buried in his pockets, and his
drooping chin resting on his bosom. His eyes were closed.
As he sat thus one afternoon, a flood of anger roused him up; he
rose, waxed warm, his tottering steps feverishly paced the room for
a time, then sunk back into his chair, a passion-beaten, exhausted
and perspiring man.
He had strange thoughts sometimes. Willingly would he "have shuffled
off his mortal coil; but that the dread of something after death,
that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns,
puzzled his will, and made him rather bear the ills he had, than fly
to others that he knew not of."
One day, Mrs. Dorant, whom he had engaged to look after the house,
found him meditatively examining a piece of rope, which he held in
his hand. She was alarmed and beckoned to her husband, who was near.
He went up to his employer, who, directly he saw that he was being
observed, threw the rope away from him excitedly.
"You look ill, Mr. Rougeant," said Jacques, as he scrutinized the
pale face and haggard look of the farmer.
"So I am," was the answer.
"Shall I fetch a doctor, or----."
"Go about your work," angrily commanded Mr. Rougeant.
Jacques did as he was bid. He, however, watched the farmer. Every
morning, he expected to find him hanging from a beam. But as time
passed on, Mr. Rougeant seemed to improve.
He had, in fact, abandoned the horrible thought of putting an end to
his existence.
He continued thus to live for more than four years; when his health
once more gave way.
At the thought of death, he shuddered. To die alone, with no friend
to close his eyelids, to die like a dog, ay worse, to leave behind
him the reward of his labours and thrift to persons who had defied
him, was intolerable.
For they had had the impudence to tell him at the solicitor's
office that he could not make a will giving his property to others;
he could not disinherit his daughter.
All this vexed him. He sank on the _jonquiere_ exclaiming "Alas!"