CHAPTER XIII.
On the next morning Michel Voss and his son met in the kitchen, andfound Marie already there. 'Well, my girl,' said Michel, as hepatted Marie's shoulder, and kissed her forehead, 'you've been upgetting a rare breakfast for these fellows, I see.' Marie smiled,and made some good-humoured reply. No one could have told by herface that there was anything amiss with her. 'It's the last favourof the kind he'll ever have at your hands,' continued Michel, 'andyet he doesn't seem to be half grateful.' George stood with hisback to the kitchen fire, and did not say a word. It was impossiblefor him even to appear to be pleasant when such things were beingsaid. Marie was a better hypocrite, and, though she said little,was able to look as though she could sympathise with her uncle'spleasant mirth. The two men had soon eaten their breakfast and weregone, and then Marie was left alone with her thoughts. Would Georgesay anything to his father of what had passed up-stairs on theprevious evening?
The two men started, and when they were alone together, and as longas Michel abstained from talking about Marie and her prospects,George was able to converse freely with his father. When they leftthe house the morning was just dawning, and the air was fresh andsharp. 'We shall soon have the frost here now,' said Michel, 'andthen there will be no more grass for the cattle.'
'I suppose they can have them out on the low lands till the end ofNovember. They always used.'
'Yes; they can have them out; but having them out and having foodfor them are different things. The people here have so much stocknow, that directly the growth is checked by the frost, the landbecomes almost bare. They forget the old saying--"Half stocking,whole profits; whole stocking, half profits!" And then, too, Ithink the winters are earlier here than they used to be. They'llhave to go back to the Swiss plan, I fancy, and carry the food tothe cattle in their houses. It may be old-fashioned, as they say;but I doubt whether the fodder does not go farther so.' Then asthey began to ascend the mountain, he got on to the subject of hisown business and George's prospects. 'The dues to the Commune areso heavy,' he said, 'that in fact there is little or nothing to bemade out of the timber. It looks like a business, because many menare employed, and it's a kind of thing that spreads itself, andbears looking at. But it leaves nothing behind.'
'It's not quite so bad as that, I hope,' said George.
'Upon my word then it is not much better, my boy. When you'vecharged yourself with interest on the money spent on the mills,there is not much to boast about. You're bound to replant everyyard you strip, and yet the Commune expects as high a rent as whenthere was no planting to be done at all. They couldn't get it, onlythat men like myself have their money in the mills, and can't wellget out of the trade.'
'I don't think you'd like to give it up, father.'
'Well, no. It gives me exercise and something to do. The womenmanage most of it down at the house; but there must be a change whenMarie has gone. I have hardly looked it in the face yet, but I knowthere must be a change. She has grown up among it till she has itall at her fingers' ends. I tell you what, George, she is a girl ina hundred,--a girl in a hundred. She is going to marry a rich man,and so it don't much signify; but if she married a poor man, shewould be as good as a fortune to him. She'd make a fortune for anyman. That's my belief. There is nothing she doesn't know, andnothing she doesn't understand.'
Why did his father tell him all this? George thought of the day onwhich his father had, as he was accustomed to say to himself, turnedhim out of the house because he wanted to marry this girl who was'as good as a fortune' to any man. Had he, then, been imprudent inallowing himself to love such a girl? Could there be any goodreason why his father should have wished that a 'fortune,' in everyway so desirable, should go out of the family? 'She'll have nothingto do of that sort if she goes to Basle,' said George moodily.
'That is more than you can say,' replied his father. 'A womanmarried to a man of business can always find her share in it if shepleases. And with such a one as Adrian Urmand her side of the housewill not be the least considerable.'
'I suppose he is little better than a fool,' said George.
'A fool! He is not a fool at all. If you were to see him buying,you would not call him a fool. He is very far from a fool.'
'It may be so. I do not know much of him myself.'
'You should not be so prone to think men fools till you find themso; especially those who are to be so near to yourself. No;--he'snot a fool by any means. But he will know that he has got a cleverwife, and he will not be ashamed to make use of her.'
George was unwilling to contradict his father at the present moment,as he had all but made up his mind to tell the whole story abouthimself and Marie before he returned to the house. He had not theslightest idea that by doing so he would be able to soften hisfather's heart. He was sure, on the contrary, that were he to doso, he and his father would go back to the hotel as enemies. Buthe was quite resolved that the story should be told sooner orlater,--should be told before the day fixed for the wedding. If itwas to be told by himself, what occasion could be so fitting as thepresent? But, if it were to be done on this morning, it would beunwise to harass his father by any small previous contradictions.
They were now up among the scattered prostrate logs, and had againtaken up the question of the business of wood-cutting. 'No, George;it would never have done for you; not as a mainstay. I thought ofgiving it up to you once, but I knew that it would make a poor manof you.'
'I wish you had,' said George, who was unable to repress the feelingof his heart.
'Why do you say that? What a fool you must be if you think it!There is nothing you may not do where you are, and you have got itall into your own hands, with little or no outlay. The rent isnothing; and the business is there ready made for you. In yourposition, if you find the hotel is not enough, there is nothing youcannot take up.' They had now seated themselves on the trunk of apine tree; and Michel Voss having drawn a pipe from his pocket andfilled it, was lighting it as he sat upon the wood. 'No, my boy,'he continued, 'you'll have a better life of it than your father, Idon't doubt. After all, the towns are better than the country.There is more to be seen and more to be learned. I don't complain.The Lord has been very good to me. I've had enough of everything,and have been able to keep my head up. But I feel a little sad whenI look forward. You and Marie will both be gone; and yourstepmother's friend, M. le Cure Gondin, does not make much societyfor me. I sometimes think, when I am smoking a pipe up here allalone, that this is the best of it all;--it will be when Marie hasgone.' If his father thus thought of it, why did he send Marieaway? If he thus thought of it, why had he sent his son away? Hadit not already been within his power to keep both of them theretogether under his roof-tree? He had insisted on dividing them, anddismissing them from Granpere, one in one direction, and the otherin another;--and then he complained of being alone! Surely hisfather was altogether unreasonable. 'And now one can't even gettobacco that is worth smoking,' continued Michel, in a melancholytone. 'There used to be good tobacco, but I don't know where it hasall gone.'
'I can send you over a little prime tobacco from Colmar, father.'
'I wish you would, George. This is foul stuff. But I sometimesthink I'll give it up. What's the use of it? A man sits and smokesand smokes, and nothing comes of it. It don't feed him, nor clothehim, and it leaves nothing behind,--except a stink.'
'You're a little down in the mouth, father, or you wouldn't talk ofgiving up smoking.'
'I am down in the mouth,--terribly down in the mouth. Till it wasall settled, I did not know how much I should feel Marie's going.Of course it had to be, but it makes an old man of me. There willbe nothing left. Of course there's your stepmother,--as good awoman as ever lived,--and the children; but Marie was somehow thesoul of us all. Give us another light, George. I'm blessed if Ican keep the fire in the pipe at all.'
'And this,' thought George, 'is in truth the state of my father'smind! There are three of u
s concerned who are all equally dear toeach other, my father, myself, and Marie Bromar. There is not oneof them who doesn't feel that the presence of the others isnecessary to his happiness. Here is my father declaring that theworld will no longer have any savour for him because I am away inone place, and Marie is to be away in another. There is not theslightest real reason on earth why we should have been separated.Yet he,--he alone has done it; and we,--we are to break our heartsover it! Or rather he has not done it. He is about to do it. Thesacrifice is not yet made, and yet it must be made, because myfather is so unreasonable that no one will dare to point out to himwhere lies the way to his own happiness and to the happiness ofthose he loves!' It was thus that George Voss thought of it as helistened to his father's wailings.
But he himself, though he was hot in temper, was slow, or at leastdeliberate, in action. He did not even now speak out at once. Whenhis father's pipe was finished he suggested that they should go onto a certain run for the fir-logs, which he himself--George Voss--hadmade--a steep grooved inclined plane by which the timber whencut in these parts could be sent down with a rush to the closeneighbourhood of the saw-mill below. They went and inspected theslide, and discussed the question of putting new wood into thegroove. Michel, with the melancholy tone that had prevailed withhim all the morning, spoke of matters as though any money spent inmending would be thrown away. There are moments in the lives ofmost of us in which it seems to us that there will never be morecakes and ale. George, however, talked of the children, andreminded his father that in matters of business nothing is soruinous as ruin. 'If you've got to get your money out of a thing,it should always be in working order,' he said. Michel acknowledgedthe truth of the rule, but again declared that there was no money tobe got out of the thing. He yielded, however, and promised that therepairs should be made. Then they went down to the mill, which wasgoing at that time. George, as he stood by and watched the man andboy adjusting the logs to the cradle, and listened to the apparentlyself-acting saw as it did its work, and observed the perfection ofthe simple machinery which he himself had adjusted, and smelt thesweet scent of the newly-made sawdust, and listened to the music ofthe little stream, when, between whiles, the rattle of the millwould cease for half a minute,--George, as he stood in silence,looking at all this, listening to the sounds, smelling the perfume,thinking how much sweeter it all was than the little room in whichMadame Faragon sat at Colmar, and in which it was, at any rate forthe present, his duty to submit his accounts to her, from time totime,--resolved that he would at once make an effort. He knew hisfather's temper well. Might it not be that though there should be aquarrel for a time, everything would come right at last? As forAdrian Urmand, George did not believe,--or told himself that he didnot believe,--that such a cur as he would suffer much because hishopes of a bride were not fulfilled.
They stayed for an hour at the saw-mill, and Michel, in spite of allthat he had said about tobacco, smoked another pipe. While theywere there, George, though his mind was full of other matter,continued to give his father practical advice about the business--howa new wheel should be supplied here, and a lately invented improvementintroduced there. Each of them at the moment was care-laden withspecial thoughts of his own, but nevertheless, as men of business,they knew that the hour was precious and used it. To saunter intothe woods and do nothing was not at all in accordance with Michel'susual mode of life; and though he hummed and hawed, and doubted andgrumbled, he took a note of all his son said, and was quite of a mindto make use of his son's wit.
'I shall be over at Epinal the day after tomorrow,' he said as theyleft the mill, 'and I'll see if I can get the new crank there.'
'They'll be sure to have it at Heinman's,' said George, as theybegan to descend the hill. From the spot on which they had beenstanding the walk down to Granpere would take them more than anhour. It might well be that they might make it an affair of two orthree hours, if they went up to other timber-cuttings on theirroute; but George was sure that as soon as he began to tell hisstory his father would make his way straight for home. He would betoo much moved to think of his timber, and too angry to desire toremain a minute longer than he could help in company with his son.Looking at all the circumstances as carefully as he could, Georgethought that he had better begin at once. 'As you feel Marie'sgoing so much,' he said, 'I wonder that you are so anxious to sendher away.'
'That's a poor argument, George, and one that I should not haveexpected from you. Am I to keep her here all her life, doing nogood for herself, simply because I like to have her here? It is inthe course of things that she should be married, and it is my dutyto see that she marries well.'
'That is quite true, father.'
'Then why do you talk to me about sending her away? I don't sendher away. Urmand comes and takes her away. I did the same when Iwas young. Now I'm old, and I have to be left behind. It's the wayof nature.'
'But she doesn't want to be taken away,' said George, rushing atonce at his subject.
'What do you mean by that?'
'Just what I say, father. She consents to be taken away, but shedoes not wish it.'
'I don't know what you mean. Has she been talking to you? Has shebeen complaining?'
'I have been talking to her. I came over from Colmar when I heardof this marriage on purpose that I might talk to her. I had at anyrate a right to do that.'
'Right to do what? I don't know that you have any right. If youhave been trying to do mischief in my house, George, I will neverforgive you--never.'
'I will tell you the whole truth, father; and then you shall sayyourself whether I have been trying to do mischief, and shall sayalso whether you will forgive me. You will remember when you toldme that I was not to think of Marie Bromar for myself.'
'I do remember.'
'Well; I had thought of her. If you wanted to prevent that, youwere too late.'
'You were boys and girls together; that is all.'
'Let me tell my story, father, and then you shall judge. Before youhad spoken to me at all, Marie had given me her troth.'
'Nonsense!'
'Let me at least tell my story. She had done so, and I had givenher mine; and when you told me to go, I went, not quite knowing thenwhat it might be best that we should do, but feeling very sure thatshe would at least be true to me.'
'Truth to any such folly as that would be very wicked.'
'At any rate, I did nothing. I remained there month after month;meaning to do something when this was settled,--meaning to dosomething when that was settled; and then there came a sort ofrumour to me that Marie was to be Urmand's wife. I did not believeit, but I thought that I would come and see.'
'It was true.'
'No;--it was not true then. I came over, and was very angry becauseshe was cold to me. She would not promise that there should be nosuch engagement; but there was none then. You see I will tell youeverything as it occurred.'
'She is at any rate engaged to Adrian Urmand now, and for all oursakes you are bound not to interfere.'
'But yet I must tell my story. I went back to Colmar, and then,after a while, there came tidings, true tidings, that she wasengaged to this man. I came over again yesterday, determined,--youmay blame me if you will, father, but listen to me,--determined tothrow her falsehood in her teeth.'
'Then I will protect her from you,' said Michel Voss, turning uponhis son as though he meant to strike him with his staff.
'Ah, father,' said George, pausing and standing opposite to theinnkeeper, 'but who is to protect her from you? If I had found thatthat which you are doing was making her happy,--I would have spokenmy mind indeed; I would have shown her once, and once only, what shehad done to me; how she had destroyed me,--and then I would havegone, and troubled none of you any more.'
'You had better go now, and bring us no more trouble. You are alltrouble.'
'But her worst trouble will still cling to her. I have found thatit is so. She has taken this man not because she
loves him, butbecause you have bidden her.'
'She has taken him, and she shall marry him.'
'I cannot say that she has been right, father; but she deserves nosuch punishment as that. Would you make her a wretched woman forever, because she has done wrong in striving to obey you?'
'She has not done wrong in striving to obey me. She has done right.I do not believe a word of this.'
'You can ask her yourself.'
'I will ask her nothing,--except that she shall not speak to you anyfarther about it. You have come here wilfully-minded to disturb usall.'
'Father, that is unjust.'
'I say it is true. She was contented and happy before you came.She loves the man, and is ready to marry him on the day fixed. Ofcourse she will marry him. You would not have us go back from ourword now?'
'Certainly I would. If he be a man, and she tells him that sherepents,--if she tells him all the truth, of course he will give herback her troth. I would do so to any woman that only hinted thatshe wished it.'
'No such hint shall be given. I will hear nothing of it. I shallnot speak to Marie on the subject,--except to desire her to have nofarther converse with you. Nor will I speak of it again toyourself; unless you wish me to bid you go from me altogether, youwill not mention the matter again.' So saying, Michel Voss strodeon, and would not even turn his eyes in the direction of his son.He strode on, making his way down the hill at the fastest pace thathe could achieve, every now and then raising his hat and wiping theperspiration from his brow. Though he had spoken of Marie'sdeparture as a loss that would be very hard to bear, the very ideathat anything should be allowed to interfere with the marriage whichhe had planned was unendurable. What;--after all that had been saidand done, consent that there should be no marriage between his nieceand the rich young merchant! Never. He did not stop for a momentto think how much of truth there might be in his son's statement.He would not even allow himself to remember that he had forcedAdrian Urmand as a suitor upon his niece. He had had his qualms ofconscience upon that matter,--and it was possible that they mightreturn to him. But he would not stop now to look at that side ofthe question. The young people were betrothed. The marriage was athing settled, and it should be celebrated. He had never broken hisfaith to any man, and he would not break it to Adrian Urmand. Hestrode on down the mountain, and there was not a word more saidbetween him and his son till they reached the inn doors. 'Youunderstand me,' he said then. 'Not a word more to Marie.' Afterthat he went up at once to his wife's chamber, and desired thatMarie might be sent to him there. During his rapid walk home he hadmade up his mind as to what he would do. He would not be severe tohis niece. He would simply ask her one question.
'My dear,' he said, striving to be calm, but telling her byhis countenance as plainly as words could have done all that hadpassed between him and his son,--'Marie, my dear, I take itfor--granted--there is nothing to--to--to interrupt our plans.'
'In what way, uncle?' she asked, merely wanting to gain a moment forthought.
'In any way. In no way. Just say that there is nothing wrong, andthat will be sufficient.' She stood silent, not having a word tosay to him. 'You know what I mean, Marie. You intend to marryAdrian Urmand?'
'I suppose so,' said Marie in a low whisper.
'Look here, Marie,--if there be any doubt about it, we willpart,--and for ever. You shall never look upon my face again. Myhonour is pledged,--and yours.' Then he hurried out of the room, downinto the kitchen, and without staying there a moment went out into theyard, and walked through to the stables. His passion had been sostrong and uncontrollable, that he had been unable to remain withhis niece and exact a promise from her.
George, when he saw his father go through to the stables, enteredthe house. He had already made up his mind that he would return atonce to Colmar, without waiting to have more angry words. Suchwords would serve him not at all. But he must if possible seeMarie, and he must also tell his stepmother that he was about todepart. He found them both together, and at once, very abruptly,declared that he was to start immediately.
'You have quarrelled with your father, George,' said Madame Voss.
'I hope not. I hope that he has not quarrelled with me. But it isbetter that I should go.'
'What is it, George? I hope it is nothing serious.' Madame Voss asshe said this looked at Marie, but Marie had turned her face away.George also looked at her, but could not see her countenance. Hedid not dare to ask her to give him an interview alone; nor had hequite determined what he would say to her if they were together.'Marie,' said Madame Voss, 'do you know what this is about?'
'I wish I had died,' said Marie, 'before I had come into this house.I have made hatred and bitterness between those who should love eachother better than all the world!' Then Madame Voss was able toguess what had been the cause of the quarrel.
'Marie,' said George very slowly, 'if you will only ask your ownheart what you ought to do, and be true to what it tells you, thereis no reason even yet that you should be sorry that you came toGranpere. But if you marry a man whom you do not love, you will sinagainst him, and against me, and against yourself, and against God!'Then he took up his hat and went out.
In the courtyard he met his father.
'Where are you going now, George?' said his father.
'To Colmar. It is better that I should go at once. Good-bye,father;' and he offered his hand to his parent.
'Have you spoken to Marie?'
'My mother will tell you what I have said. I have spoken nothing inprivate.'
'Have you said anything about her marriage?'
'Yes. I have told her that she could not honestly marry the man shedid not love.'
'What right have you, sir,' said Michel, nearly choked with wrath,'to interfere in the affairs of my household? You had better go,and go at once. If you return again before they are married, I willtell the servants to put you off the place!' George Voss made noanswer, but having found his horse and his gig, drove himself off toColmar.