The Silver Lining Part 20

There was not much work to do now in the greenhouses at "the Rohais."

Frank was one evening taking a walk towards the Catel Church.

He had some business to settle with his carpenter, who lived near "Woodlands."

Presently, a man who had dogged his steps for some time, exclaimed: "It's you, Mr. Mathers, I thought it was."

Turning round, Frank recognised Jacques, Mr. Rougeant's workman. He thought his heart had stopped beating, so sudden was the thrill of satisfaction that shook its tendrils.

"Yes, it is I," he at last answered; and he shook hands with Jacques as if he had been his most intimate friend.

"He was so glad to see him," he said. "And how are they all at 'Les Marches,'" he inquired.

"Oh, jolly-like," said the man who had boasted that he could speak English; "the squire's in a reg'lar good mood this week."

"Indeed!" said Frank.

"Well, you see, it's no wonder after all; the young Miss's engaged to a young fellow; Tom Soher, I think his name is. I don't like the look o' the chap. He used to drink and there's no sayin'----."

He stopped short on perceiving Frank who was leaning against the wall for support; his face of an ashen hue.

Jacques eyed him anxiously. "One'd say you'd be ill," he remarked.

"I don't feel exactly well," said Frank.

"Shall I see you home?"

"No, thank you, I can easily walk there."

"I think I'd better come with you; I know my missus'l be waitin' for me, but I'll come if you think I must."

"No, thank you," again responded Frank; "there are a great many people about----. There! I feel slightly better."

"As you like," said Jacques, who by-the-by was not in the least inclined to accompany the young man.

"I'll go alone," said Frank; "Good-night."

"Good-night, Sir, I hope you'll be better soon," said Jacques, as each one betook himself towards his home.

Frank was completely weighed down with this piece of unexpected and unwelcome news. He did not go to the carpenter's residence; he forgot all about it. He went straight home. How he arrived there, which road he took, which door he entered by, he did not know; but he found himself in his bedroom, seated on a chair and gazing into s.p.a.ce in blank despair.

This was the end of everything.

He pictured to himself her lover. He did not know him, but he succeeded in forming in his mind one of the biggest monsters that ever inhabited the globe in the shape of man.

And Adele; he knew she must have been forced into it by her father.

"How she must groan under this yoke. To have to listen to that vicious being with the prospect of one day being his wife." Why had it come to this, why was the world so formed. Ah! the wicked world we live in, the abominable, corrupted world. When would the millennium come. When would all this unhappiness be swept away from the earth's surface.

Alas! he would die before that time; so would thousands and millions of others.

What had the world done that it must thus be continually sacrificed.

What had he done. Others were happy; surely no one had ever met such a deception before. People had to suffer sometimes, but not such intense, heart-rending suffering as he now endured.

He was full of despair. Before him, there was nothing but darkness.

The more he thought over his misfortunes, the more hopeless life seemed to be.

The candle was now nearly burnt out, but he heeded it not. He waved his hand near his face as if to scatter his thoughts. "Why did I rescue him when he was drowning. (He was thinking of Mr. Rougeant.) I risked being pulled into the water, I might have been drowned; and this is the reward." Ah! how humanity must suffer. If there was no joy, no real happiness on this earth, why live, why continue to endure all this. Schopenhauer was quite right when he said life was not worth living. Henceforth, he would be a pessimist. Three cheers for pessimism!

Ah! the wicked world we live in.

The candle had now burnt itself out but the young man remained seated, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes gazing at the floor, and his heart in "kingdom come."

When the clock struck twelve, he awoke. He had fallen asleep and was a little more composed than before. He undressed and went to bed.

He awoke early in the morning. He was crying. What was the matter with him. It dawned upon him: he was going to have a fit of melancholy.

He felt it, but he was powerless to prevent its intrusion. He was like the man who stands between the rails, and suddenly sees a train advancing at full speed towards him and remains with his eyes riveted on the instrument of his destruction, seemingly powerless to move, till the engine crushes him in its onward course.

When Frank descended to breakfast, old Pierre and his spouse noticed his wan look. "I think master's going mad," said the man to his wife, when Frank was out of the room. "I don't know what ails him, but he seems very pale and strange."

The young man wandered aimlessly. Nothing interested him, not even his books, these companions which he had cherished so much. He tried to find pleasure in them. "If I had something to do, something to occupy my thoughts," he said to himself, "I would be much better.

Work is the balm which heals my wounds, it sets me on my feet again.

I will work, I will study."

He soon found out that work in itself could not heal his wounds.

Then he grew still more despondent. What was the use of working if work did not bring a reward. It was all very well to toil, but to work like a slave, without the prospect of utilizing one's power after having continually striven to acquire it, was discouraging.

He therefore put his books aside and his melancholy grew deeper and deeper.

One day he was seized with anxiousness for his soul's future. He had not done what he ought to have done. He greatly frightened Mrs.

Merlin, when he entered the house and exclaimed: "I'm lost; I'm lost."

"Don't say that, Mr. Mathers," she said. "You have always been a good man."

"Good!" he exclaimed, his eyes dilated, the muscles of his face working convulsively; "good, yes, for my sake, because I hoped in my selfishness to reap ten times the outlay. Don't you see," he continued, "that I have only worked for my own selfish interest. I have made sacrifices, because I hoped to reap a rich reward. And now, I am well punished; I deserve all this, I certainly do. I have done nothing for others. I have not been altruistic."

The woman stared at him. She knew almost as much about altruism as a dog does about the celestial sciences. After a few moments of silence she spoke: "You have been very good to us, you rescued a man from drowning once at great risk, you----"

"Ha, ha!" he laughed, "fine talk, to come and speak like that to me.

I am going to die, and do you hear;" he added in an undertone, catching hold of Mrs. Merlin's arm and terrifying her; "I am afraid, oh, so afraid."

The old woman began to cry. "You must not talk like that," she said, "you really must not. Why don't you pray?"

"Pray! what is the use; no, not now. I am being punished for my sins. I must atone, I must atone."

He continued in this sad state for a few days, weighed down with this strange malady, which, alas, often preys upon our finest intellects.

Then, a reaction set in, and he began to improve gradually.