RECONCILIATION.
Mr. Rougeant's condition continued to aggravate. The thought of
death struck his heart with terror. Behind him, he left a life of
selfishness and bigotry. No good deed, no act of self-denial to
soften the pangs of a stricken conscience.
Before him, everything seemed dark, mysterious, awe-inspiring,
despairing; for aught he knew, a just chastisement awaited him.
He had toiled for gold; he had obtained it. What a man soweth that
shall he also reap.
In spite of his avarice and the knowledge that a consultation to the
doctor would cost him something, Mr. Rougeant's terror overcoming
all these; he resolved to see a physician.
He did not send Jacques to fetch one, the visit of the medical man
would have cost him too much; he drove thither in his phaeton.
The doctor who was consulted said the disease was of long standing.
He gave Mr. Rougeant a bottle of medicine for which the latter
grudgingly paid three francs, and told the farmer to come and see
him again in a few days.
As Mr. Rougeant was descending the Rohais, his old horse trotting
slowly and joggedly, an unwelcome thought flashed across his mind.
"I must be in the vicinity of their house," he said to himself,
then he made a gesture with his right hand. "Bah! what have I to do
with them."
He felt very lonely, his spirits were depressed, the doctor's
remarks did not tend to enliven him.
He heard a cry. He thought he recognized the voice of his little
Adele.
Was he dreaming? He roused himself. His horse had stopped short. He
looked to see what was the matter. In front of his horse, a child
lay crying. What a flood of memories that childish wail had the
effect of forcing upon him.
He jumped off his vehicle, picked up the child and asked: "Are you
hurt?" He intended to have spoken softly, but his voice seemed to
have completely lost that power or any approach to it. The child
looked up half afraid, and did not answer. "Are you hurt, my little
man?" he again asked, endeavouring to soften his voice. Vain
attempt; he only succeeded in speaking low.
The "little man" who, by the by, was a girl, ceased crying, looked
at his interlocutor and answered: "No."
The child had only been knocked down by the horse's knee whilst
crossing the road; and thanks to the sagacity of the old mare, had
escaped unhurt.
Mr. Rougeant again bent towards the child: "Where do you live?" he
questioned.
"Vere," said the child with such a vague wave of the hand that any
of the three corners of the island might have been implicated in her
childish, "There."
"But where is it. Down that way"--pointing with his finger,--"or up
that way."
The child made a little gesture with her mouth, "a _moue_" as the
French call it, and pointed with her lips towards the bottom of the
hill. The farmer mounted his carriage, holding the child in his
arms, and drove away. Meanwhile, the child felt quite at home; she
was examining this rough man attentively.
An indescribable something was passing within the farmer's soul.
That little child clinging confidently to him, her large blue eyes
expressing thankfulness and contentment filled him with a queer, but
by no means unpleasant sensation. He was catching a glimpse of the
joy that is reaped through performing a good action.
There was something more than this, some power at work which he
could not analyze. There was something in that childish voice and
mien; that penetrated his soul and reminded him of former days.
He felt a tender sensation gradually overwhelming him. His heart of
stone melted, a tear rolled down that hard featured and deep
wrinkled visage.
"You cry," said the child, "are you hurt?"
He roused himself, brushed away the tell-tale tear with a quick
movement of his right arm and whipped up his horse.
"Are you hurt?" repeated the little girl who was not to be put off
so easily.
"No;" he answered, almost softly.
"Trot; I like to see a horse trot," said the child.
But Mr. Rougeant was looking round to see if he could discern
someone searching for the child.
"What is your father's name?" asked the farmer.
"Papa."
"Humph! and your mother's?"
"Mamma."
He tried another expedient. "What do people say to your papa, Mr.
What."
"Yes; I fink it's Mr. What."
The farmer looked puzzled. He saw a man approaching. "I will ask him
if he knows where the child lives," he was saying to himself, when
the little girl exclaimed: "Ah! there's 'ma; look, she's looking
frough the window."
"'Ma;" she cried, "I've had a ride."
Mr. Rougeant looked round. So this was where the child lived. He
descended from the phaeton holding the little girl in his arms and
stood confronting----his daughter.
They recognized each other. There was a moment of embarrassment.
Then the farmer, without a word, not a muscle of his face betraying
his emotion, handed over the parcel, turned on his heels and
mounting the conveyance was soon out of view.
He did not even cast a glance behind him. His daughter watched him
disappear, then re-entered the house.
"Poor father," she sighed, "what a great change, what an emaciated
figure; he has already the appearance of a ghost."
Then, seating herself upon a sofa, she meditated a long time.
Finally, her face assumed a determined expression; "Come what may,"
she said to herself; "I will not leave him descend thus into the
grave. I will make at least one real effort at reconciliation. If I
do not succeed, I shall be free from remorse."
She talked the matter over with her husband when he came home.
"You look terribly in earnest," said he. "If only your father
possessed a heart, I should hope. I think that with the zeal which
you now show you would melt a heart of stone. However, the task is a
noble one, and if you succeed, I shall only be too glad to welcome
my father-in-law."
Next morning, Mrs. Mathers directed her steps towards "Les Marches."
She had undertaken what seemed to be a stupendous task, and she
resolved to pursue it energetically.
This was why she went to her father's house in person.
While she was nearing her birth-place her father was lying in his
bed, ill. Mrs. Dorant watched near him as he tossed about his couch.
At times he was calmer than at others; one could discern the traces
upon his face softening. For he was thinking of the time when a
little girl used to nestle upon his knee, a little child exactly
resembling the one with which he had talked on the previous day.
He could not help thinking: "I was happier then than I now am. I had
a loving wife, a child whose innocence softened my heart; but now, I
am abandoned by everyone."
He set his teeth, he again tossed about his couch and muttered: "It
is all through my daughter's fault; she might be respectably
married. Still, she looked happy and contented. I know these
fellows, they eat and drink everything which is not spent in
superfluities."
As Mrs. Mathers approached the front door of "Les Marches," she felt
a tremor pass through her whole frame. The once familiar
surroundings and the ennobling object of her visit inspired her with
strangely tender feelings.
Her soul was deeply moved as she entered the house. There was the
kitchen with its primitive and quaint furniture. It was deserted.
She seated herself on a chair and began to ponder.
Soft was to be her voice, tender were to be her appeals to his
conscience, earnest her entreaties, she was to plead with patience,
and appeal to his most heart-melting sentiments.
She heard someone coming downstairs. "It is he," she said to
herself, and she braced herself for the encounter.
"How you frighten me Miss--I beg your pardon--Madam."
It was Mrs. Dorant who uttered these words as she stood in the
doorway seemingly afraid to enter, fearing the visitor might turn
out to be a ghost.
"It is you, Mrs. Dorant," said Mrs. Mathers; "is my father
upstairs?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is he ill?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Dangerously?"
"Not very; he does not want us to fetch the doctor. But what have
you come here for? If Mr. Rougeant saw you--oh--;" here she threw up
both her hands and opened her mouth and eyes wide--"oh--" she
continued, "master would swallow you."
"Do you think so; but I mean to go upstairs and to talk to him."
"Oh, don't go," she entreated, fixing her supplicating eyes upon
Adele, "he might kill you."
Mrs. Mathers laughed. "No," she said, "he is my father; he is ill
and needs me. I am going to discharge my duty towards him." And so
saying she ascended the creaky staircase.
To this day, she cannot explain the sensation which she felt as she
entered the room where her father lay.
She went straight up to her father's bedside, sank on her knees,
took the hand that was lying on the bedclothes between both hers and
began to weep.
Mr. Rougeant quickly withdrew his hand, he contracted his brow, his
lips slightly curved, he looked on her with contempt.
"What do you want?" he said roughly. "You come to beg, you pauper,
your angry creditors are clamouring for their money, you are on the
verge of bankruptcy. I knew it;" he added triumphantly.
"Father, it is true, I come to beg, but not for money. I am not
poor."
He looked at her suspiciously.
She turned upon him her tearful eyes and softly said: "Father, you
are miserable, I want to render you happy once more."
To her great surprise, he did not answer, but his countenance fell.
"Who has told her that I am miserable and that I wish to be happy
once more?" he mused.
His daughter seized this opportunity. She took the tide at the
flood. She pleaded earnestly and tenderly.
Then, as he balanced between pride and prejudice on one side, and a
life of peace and contentment on the other, her persuasive voice
made the tendrils of his heart move uneasily.
This stone-hearted man wept.
So did his daughter. And amidst this flood of tears, father and
daughter were reconciled once more.
Mr. Rougeant grew rapidly better. He had something to live for now.
He, however, would not quit his farm.
"Why don't you come and live here?" he said to Frank one evening as
they sat near a blazing fire in the parlour of "Les Marches."
The idea struck Frank as being quite practicable. He was already
prevented, from want of room, to extend his business at the Rohais.
"You would not like to see greenhouses in your fields yonder;" he
said.
"Yes, I would; besides, I have a lot of capital which might be
profitably used up. We might form a partnership."
"I must think it over," said Frank. He cast a look towards Adele,
and as he met her beseeching eyes, he added smilingly: "I think we
may as well consider the matter as settled."
Frank's property at the Rohais was let. The farm at "Les Marches"
underwent a complete transformation.
For fully three months, there was such a rubbing and scrubbing,
painting and papering, that everything was turned completely
topsy-turvy.
Order was at last evoked, the furniture from the Rohais was brought
in and the farm-house was made a model of snugness and comfort
within.
Without, during those three months, nothing was heard but the noise
of the carpenter's hammers and the click of the glazier's tools.
Mr. Rougeant was as completely transformed as his farm. He looked
upon the whole with such an air of complacency that the neighbours
remarked: "He is in his second infancy."