"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 pa.s.sed 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!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

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 chastis.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.n.a.lyze. 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.