THE WEST SHORE.
01
AIMEE.
POMEWHERE in the middle of Normandy, off the
0 high road, and at a distance from any centre of busi
ness or pleasure, thcro is a biuull manufacturing town
with two or three high chimneys and a few hundreds of
work-people. The country round it is flat and uninter
eating, the straight roads are bordered hero and there by
iwplars; a slow, sluggish stream flows botwoon its low
green banks without a single wind or curve; the one long
street with its uneven pavement is narrow and dirty; the
limes whioh surround the tiny jilacc look stunted and
unhealthy ; the churchyard is overgrown and neglected;
tbe church itself has no pretensions to beauty or oven to
Antiquity. Few people visit Pont-Avizo; there is uothing
ito attract them. Few people live thoro who can afford to
live elsowhore.
Yet Pout-Avize, too, hns its society, its cliques; its
ambitions, its aristocracy. M. Jules Dubois, avoait, has
his name on a bright brnss plate on the door of a red
brick house at the corner of the principal street; the
doctor and the cure live side by sido in two whitewashed
houses bohind the church, and the private houses of the
owners of the two large factories stand in thoir own gar
dons on the outskirts of the town.
M. Blanchard is the principal inhabitant of Font
Avize. M. Laval, who lives nearly opposite, is of less
consequence in the eyes of his neighbors. His factory is
smaller; his house has no carringo drive up to it M.
Blanchard has conservatories, a fountain in tho middle of
his lawn, and some bright flower beds round its edge.
M, Laval has only two Etruscan vases on tho steps which
lead to his door, filled with nasturtiums. His flower
beds are weedy, his walks are overgrown; his modem
white house, with its green shutters all closed, is over
shadowed by trees, and has a molancholy, dull look as of
a young person who Iibs grown prematurely old. '
When Madame Laval died (bidding farewell without
regret to a world in which the poor woman had found
but little pleasure) sho loft an infant daughter of a few
weeks old bohind hor. That was nearly nineteen years
ago, but M. Lnvnl is still a widower, and the littlo Aimee
lias known no other care than that bestowed upon her in
a dutiful rather than a loving spirit by Mademoiselle
Stephanie, M. Laval's unmarried sister. Like a plant
which springs up wherevor it can find the least depth cf
with in the crevice of the hard rock, and blossoms alike
n rain and sunshine, so the child has turned darkness to
light, and for her, as yet, life has no sadness even in its
dull uniformity.
Aimee was eighteen on her last birthday, another is
nenr at hand, and she is beginning to bo conscious of un
satisfied needs and unfulfilled desires. Sho has a world
of her own inside the narrow world of Pont-Avizo.
It is evening, and she has pushed back tho Vouetian
shutters, and is standing by the window looking down
the stroot The church clock has just struck five and
her father will soon be coming homo. M. Blanchard has
l' ft his office, and after standing on the step a moment
talking to his clerk, he comes down tho road to bis own
great iron gates. Before turning into them ho looks up
at tho window and takes off his hat with a pdlsnt wave.
M. Blauohtud is the greatest man in Pont-Avizo; he is
nearly forty, but ho is still a bachelor. Ho has a white
waistcoat and yellow gloves, and a rose in his button
hole; but though Aimeo returns his bow iolit.ly sho
does not look after him. On tho contrary, sho turns
away again rather quickly.
"What do you see? Is anything passing?" asks
Mademoiselle Stephnnio rather crossly.
"I am watching for papa," says the girl gently.
"Thoro is nothing else to look for." Thoro Is no com.
plaint, but just a touch of resignation In her voice,
M. Laval is at this moment coming down the Mad
opening his white umbrella, for the sun has not lost its
power. He has just taken off his hat with an absent air
to the doctor a lie drives pant, when all at oneo his
attention appears to lie arrested. He stops short, stares
along the dusty road, and adjusts his double rye-glass.
Aimee, who was alxuit to withdraw from tho window,
leans her pretty head forward with a littlo gasp of aston
ishment For down tho straight road leading only to tho town
which no tourist over visits, a stranger is coining; n tall
young man with blue eyes and a sunburnt face.
" lou sno something; what is it? her auut repent.
"Ho is speaking to papa. He has stopped. What
can he want here? It is -yes, it is an Englishman."
"An Englishman! Impossible. I hey never visit our
quiet town," says Mademoiselle Stephanie, coining to
look over tho girl's shoulder.
"It is true no one visits Pont-Avizo," says Aimeo with
a faint smile. "Nevertheless ho is shaking to papa.
He is coming to the garden door." Her heart is Ismting
fast with timidity and pleasure.
"And you have been staring at him out of tho window,
Seat yourself and resume your work."
Aimeo otoys in silence. But the voices are coming
nearer and thero are stops on tho uncarpetod stairs.
" Permit me to present you to my sister, my daiigh
tor," says M. Iavnl, preceding his unexpected guest into
tho room and indicating first one and then the other.
"Tli is gentleman is the young Mr Horaeo Dallas,"
ho says, addressing himself to his sister. " You will ro.
momlor tho grandmamma of my poor Henrietta was o!
tho same name. I have often, have I not, spoken of our
English relations? Mr. Pallas Is traveling in Normandy
for tho first time. Join your entreaties to mino that wo
may persuade him to pass a few days here."
Mademoiselle Stephanie dislikes strangers and hates
Englishmen, but she stillly expresses a hom that Mr.
Dallas will not find Pont-Avizo too secludi-d to 1st agree
able. Ho notices her grim smile, lie sees M. Lavnl' lit
tle shrewd eyes fixed unu him; ho glance round tho
bare yet gaudy little drawing-room, and ho hesitate.
Ho turns to where Aimeo sits Is-nding her little dnrk
head and flusheil checks over her work, and ho hesitate
no longer. (
It is quite nncomwiouiJy that she look up at Mr.