AN ABRUPT DISMISSAL.
Next day Frank Mathers prepared to pay his promised visit.
He fancied that he felt very much like William the Conqueror when he
set out from Normandy to fight against the English. And probably he
did.
While he was dressing with more than ordinary care, his thoughts
were all about Adele.
"'Tis strange," he soliloquized, "such a well-bred, educated and
refined young lady in this strange place. She is a rose among
thistles,"--he had already formed his opinion of the master of "Les
Marches."
"How lonely she must feel living with these two people, one a
big-headed, and in proportion bigger-nosed man, the other, an
old ignorant hag, her face of a dirty yellow, and her jaw! it
reminds me of a species of fish which have a mouth that opens
vertically--'Melanocetus Johnstoni'--I think the name is."
Here he finished soliloquizing and dressing.
He cast a glance over his clothes. "They don't appear to fit very
well," he thought. "How strange that I had not noticed this before.
I feel disposed to put on my best coat instead of this one."
Then he tried to scoff these thoughts away and when they would not
leave him, he called himself a simpleton, scolded himself for his
fastidious taste, and resolved to start as he was.
It was two o'clock when he called out to his step-mother: "Mother!"
(this was a delicate piece of flattery); "I am going to see how the
man I saved from drowning yesterday is getting on."
"Oh, all right, Frank," answered Mrs. Mathers, pleased to hear him
calling her "mother."
The young man stepped out into the open air with a decided gait.
After an hour's walk he arrived at the farm-house, heated by his
rapid journey.
He was courteously received by Adele at the door. On her devolved
the duties of hostess, which she endeavoured to discharge
conscientiously.
She led her guest into the parlour where Mr. Rougeant was seated
before a fire in an easy-chair. Frank shook hands with him and
inquired how he felt.
"Not too bad, thank you," he replied, and beckoning Frank to a chair
close to him, he began to converse about his farm.
Frank listened and answered as well as he could, making a remark now
and then about agriculture which astonished the farmer considerably.
He had the tact to respect Mr. Rougeant's feelings, and the latter
was not slow in showing his appreciation of it.
"You seem to know more about farming than I do," remarked Mr.
Rougeant.
Frank felt flattered. He began to talk about agricultural chemistry,
but he was soon stopped by his host.
"I don't believe in theory," interrupted Mr. Rougeant, "give me
facts, show me results. A great many people write about farming who
can hardly distinguish a parsnip from a carrot."
The young man dared not go against the farmer. He saw, by his
manner, that he was not a man to be contradicted. He looked at
Adele. She was smiling, but directly her father looked round towards
her, her face became as grave as a nun's.
Mr. Rougeant continued triumphantly to talk about his farm. It was
all the world to him, and almost the only thing about which he could
converse.
He never read a book.
During the conversation Frank learnt that he had about one hundred
vergees of land, one fifth of which he kept, the remainder was let
to other farmers. He had but one workman, a man about sixty years
old, who had worked for the Rougeants for more than forty years. His
name was Jacques Dorant. Then, there was his horse; it was old now,
but still good. Ah! when he was younger, he was a splendid horse,
such strength, such form, such a fast trotter, frisky, but as gentle
as a lamb.
Thought Frank: "If he is to be credited, there has never been such a
horse since the days of Bucephalus, the famous horse of Alexander."
During the whole time that they had been in the parlour, the young
man had not found courage to address a word to Adele. He was very
careful about his tenure. He spoke in a voice which he endeavoured
to soften; he uttered the best English which he could frame,--for
Mr. Rougeant spoke in English this time--and when there was an
opportunity of displaying his talents, he availed himself of it with
eagerness.
Once, he made a serious blunder. He talked about turnips which he
had seen growing in a field close by. At which the farmer laughed:
"Well, I never, turnips, ha-ha...."
Frank felt stung. His face coloured deeply, his head was on fire.
What did _she_ think of him? Through the mist that seemed to gather
before his eyes, he managed to glance rapidly in the direction of
Adele. A thrill of delight shot through his veins. She was looking
at her father with an offended air, her lustrous eyes seemed to
issue forth a censuring light.
"Of course, you will stay in to tea, Mr. Mathers," said the farmer
after a few minutes of silence.
Frank accepted the invitation thankfully.
Adele left the room to help to prepare the tea things.
Left alone with the farmer, the young man looked about him more
freely. He noticed that the room was very plainly furnished. His
eyes alighted on a painting which represented a cow standing near a
cattle-shed. "What a shocking display of art," he said to himself.
"Infringement of the rules of perspective, shocking chiaroscuro, bad
composition...."
Mr. Rougeant casually noticed him. "So you are having a look at my
cow," he said, "a friend of mine painted that picture; he was a real
artist." Then he paused, examined it like one who understands his
business, and continued: "Yes, yes, exactly like her, the little
white patches and that little bump on her back. I gave my friend ten
shillings for that painting; just think, ten shillings, seven pounds
of butter. But," he added by way of consoling himself,--for his
avaricious heart was already revolting against this useless
expenditure of money; "it's well worth that, it's the very likeness
of my 'Daisy.' My daughter had the impudence to tell me once that I
ought to put it in the wash-house. Alas! young people will always
be young people."
Struggle as he would, Frank could not refrain from smiling. His host
took it for a genuine smile of admiration and looked at him
approvingly.
At this stage, Adele announced that the tea was served.
Whilst they were at the meal, Frank was in great perplexity as to
how he should avoid breaking any of the rules of etiquette in
Adele's presence.
He was so much in earnest about doing things properly that he
committed several blunders. Once he almost overturned his cup, then
he blushed till his face was all discoloured, and bit his under lip
savagely. A minute after that, while gallantly passing a plate
containing _gache a corinthe_ to Adele, he knocked it against the
sugar basin, overset the latter, and sent the pieces of sugar and
cake flying in all directions. He grew angry with himself, and
completely lost his head. Mr. Rougeant complained of not being
hungry. Frank, who misunderstood him, answered: "Ah! I see." Another
blunder.
At last the meal was over. The two men rose and returned to the
parlour. The first remark of the farmer was: "In my time, servants
used to eat at the same table as their masters, but our Miss says
that she will not have it. I let her have her own way sometimes; it
does not cost me more, so I do not care."
He called out to his daughter: "Adele, make haste, so that the
gentleman may hear your playing."
"I am coming soon," was the reply.
The farmer went on to Frank: "The instrument which she plays is a
violin. For my part, I do not care for it. It does not make enough
noise. Give me a harmonium or a cornet. But my daughter persists in
saying that she will not learn anything but the violin. Perhaps it's
better after all," he added, suddenly thinking of the outlay
required for a new instrument.
Adele came in with her violin, which she at once carefully tuned.
She appeared confident of success. She placed herself opposite her
father and nearly alongside the young man.
"Fire away!" said the father, "what are you doing now?"
"I was just seeing if the strings were well tuned," she said. "It is
of no use trying to play if the instrument is out of tune." These
last words were spoken to Frank.
"I cannot play on the violin," said he.
"Ah! then you won't criticize me," said she.
She bent her head over her instrument, and began playing. She forgot
the outward world, her whole attention was concentrated on her
violin as her slender and nervous fingers guided the bow or pressed
the strings.
It was a sweet soft tune--like her voice--her face wore a tender
expression. Then the music swelled, became louder and louder till it
reached its climax; the bow bounded over the strings, the fingers of
the left hand rose and fell in quick succession, her expression was
now animated, her face aglow.
Frank was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the fair musician. He had
never imagined that an instrument could be made to express such
feelings.
He noticed that Adele would have to turn a leaf. He could read
music, so he rose, scanned the music, was soon on the track, and
turned the leaf in due time.
Adele finished playing soon after.
Her face was slightly flushed and triumphant.
Frank congratulated her warmly in a select speech which he finished
thus: "In short, your playing seems to have as much power over my
feelings as Timotheus' had over Alexander's."
The farmer's face was ominous. He had begun to entertain suspicions
when Adele had looked at him reproachfully before tea-time. Now his
imagination had ripened into certainty--so he thought. The young
people must be for ever separated. He said roughly: "There are other
things which are more important than fiddling, one of them is to
know how to live."
Frank looked at Adele, she looked back at him. Their astonishment
was diverting to witness.
Quoth the farmer gruffly to Frank, "I am going to retire, I think
you had better do the same."
"Is the man going mad?" thought Frank. He looked at Adele, then
suddenly took his hat and his departure.
The young lady followed him to the door. She was extremely vexed at
her father's demeanour. She spoke a few words to Frank as he stepped
outside.
"I hope you will not take my father's words too seriously," she
said, "I am very sorry--it's shocking--I am exceedingly angry with
him--a fine way of thanking you--you to whom he owes so much."
As he pressed the delicate hand which she tended in farewell, Frank
said: "I quite forgive Mr. Rougeant, there are strange natures," and
he walked away.
He had gone by the back door, why, he did not know. As he passed the
stable, he saw a man engaged in cleaning, a horse. "Come what may,"
he said to himself, "I must have a chat with this fellow."
"Good evening," he said, speaking in French, "cleaning up a bit?"
"Good evening, sir," replied Jacques, speaking in broken English.
"You needn't talk in French, I know English; I learnt it when Jim
Tozer worked here."
Said Frank inly: "Jim Tozer, the name seems familiar to me. Of
course, my step-mother's brother." Aloud: "You are the only workman
here now!"
"Yes, you've been payin' a visit to Mr. Rougeant, you're the
gentleman as rescued him from drowning. Lucky for him, old chap,
that you were round about there, for it's dead certain he'd ha' gone
to bottom."
"You take care of this horse?"
"I take care of pretty nearly everything round about here, for the
bos doesn't do much now, but he gives a reg'lar 'go at it' now and
then though."
"I suppose you like this job," remarked Frank, meanwhile scanning
the horse and forming his opinion of this member of the equine
genus. Here is his judgment: "A famous trotter! a spirited
steed!--indeed!--an old nag not worth half-a-guinea."
"What job?" said Jacques.
"Working about here, I mean, working for Mr. Rougeant."
"Well, ye-yes, but you've got to know how to tackle the guv'nor;
he's a quair sort. I've worked for the Rougeants for forty-two
years, and the old fellow's never given me more than my day's
wage." Then he added in an undertone, "He's a reg'lar miser, he's
got some tin! They say he's worth four hundred quarters."
Four hundred pounds income, was to old Jacques a large fortune.
"Ah," he went on, "if only I had four hundred pounds capital, with
the little that I have scraped together, I would not trouble to work
any more, I would have enough for the rest of my days. We live on
thirty pounds a year, me and my old missus.
"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 brass. 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.