"I dare say they will reconcile themselves, seeing how much he gains by it," replied my uncle carelessly. "Besides, he may not remain abroad always. I dare say in time he will return to England, rebuild the old tumble-down court at Tre Madoc, and found a great estate. Report says the young lady is beautiful as well as rich, and that it was quite a love match. They believe in such things out there it seems."
"You believed in them once," said my aunt.
"Yes, in old days when you were young, my love; but there are no such things now, because there are no more such women."
My poor aunt brightened at this speech and the caress which accompanied it. All of her that was not spoiled by the world clung to her husband.
Sorrow in itself has no power for good, but only for evil. It is only while we look not at the things that are seen, but at those which are unseen, that it works for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
The things unseen had become to me more unreal than any dream, and consequently this great blow only hardened and embittered instead of softening my heart. I said to myself that there was no truth or trust in anything—that Andrew was no better than the rest.
I cast myself loose from all the considerations which had hitherto restrained me, and gave myself wholly over to the influence of Monsieur and Madame de Fayrolles, and especially of Father Martien. Aunt Zenobie, with that consummate tact which distinguished her, and which I have sometimes even thought served her instead of a soul, never alluded to the subject of Andrew's marriage, and never showed that she had even heard of it, except by redoubling the amount of petting and caresses she bestowed on me.
Father Martien, on the other hand, hinted delicately at similar sorrows he had himself undergone in early life, and spoke of the consolations the church had to offer to wounded hearts, of the tender sympathy of the mother of God, and the comfort of having a woman like myself to whom I might confide all my sorrows, and who could understand my heart. I aright have said that he who made the woman's heart was at least as likely to understand it as any one else, and that women were not, as a general thing, more tender to women than the other sex.
But the truth was, I was eager to be—I will not say convinced, but persuaded. My soul was a fountain of bitter waters—a spring of boiling rebellion against Heaven, and anger against man. I only wished to divide myself as far as possible from Andrew and to go where I never need hear his name. I allowed myself to go constantly to mass with my aunt, to listen to Father Martien's arguments with complacency, and to give good hopes to my French friends that I meant to return to the bosom of the true church.
Another event occurred about this time, which had the effect of throwing me still more completely into the hands of Madame de Fayrolles. My Aunt Jemima died. As I have before hinted, she had long been ailing, though she had striven against her malady, and concealed its ravages with all the force of her will. But no human will is of any avail when death knocks at the door.