Part 12 (1/2)

”We're not allu's feastin', you see; besides, the house we live in is ours. Built with my savin's when I married, it was----”

”Mrs. Rougeant is dead, is she not?” questioned Frank, anxious to learn more about the family.

”Dead! o' course she's dead,” said Jacques, ”she's been dead now for--let me see--twelve--thirteen--fourteen years!--her daughter was about four years old then.”

”So Miss Rougeant is now eighteen.”

”Yes, Sir, an' a fine girl she is,”--this was said with a wink and a nod.

”She seems to have been very well educated,” said Frank.

”I should think so,” said the labourer, opening his eyes wide. ”Why, bless you, Sir, she's been at a boarding-school all her life; she only came to live here last year, after having been absent for nearly ten years. I bet she don't get on too well with the guv'nor, he's such an old feller for bra.s.s. She's a good 'un, too; now and then she goes to see my old missus, and she isn't partic'lar about givin' my daughter's mites a tanner, although I'll lay ten to one she's not allowed too much. And her flowers; have you seen 'em? Why there's not many a gardener as 'u'd arrange 'em in sich a bloomin'

style.”

”Has Mr. Rougeant always been the sort of man that he is now?”

inquired Frank.

”No, not when the lady was alive; I s'pose it was her as made him spend some money on improvements. The year before she died, he took off the thatched roofs and put slate instead, then he built that there little conservatory, but as soon as she was gone, he began to pinch and screw; why, fancy, he used to shave himself, but now his razor's broke, he says he doesn't care to buy one, the bloke.”

Jacques heard a clock strike. ”I must make haste to finish this,” he said, ”then I'll put on my togs and go home; my missus'l jaw if I'm not in time for the grub.”

”Good-night, then,” said Frank.

”Good-night, Sir,” shouted Jacques.--”Whog back old mare--steady!”

Frank heard him say as he walked away.

Going home, he wrapped himself up in deep thought. The way which seemed clear yesterday, was now full of obstacles. Mr. Rougeant was rich; judging from his demeanour he had probably already chosen his daughter a husband--would that she were poor.

He looked to see what redeeming feature he could find on his side.

None. He had never felt so little as he now did.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN UNPLEASANT VISIT.

When Adele came back from shutting the door after Frank, her father looked at her with a hard, scrutinizing gaze, but did not say a word.

It was just like him. He very rarely spoke when he was angry; he would mope about for whole days, his face covered with innumerable wrinkles.

This anger on her father's part did not pain Adele so much as it had formerly done. Her heart revolted at the thought of being always made to bend under her father's stern will.

Like the terror-stricken few who would do battle for their rights, but are awed by countless numbers, Adele had up to this time quietly submitted to her father's iron rule; but now she felt inclined to rebel.

Accordingly, instead of trying to coax her father into wearing his ordinary face, which was none too pleasant, she pouted.

The old man noticed this and chuckled to himself: ”Ah, ah, you think a great deal of this young fellow. I'll teach you to keep up the honour of the family.”