FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

The morning after the accident, Mr. Rougeant, whose wrath was terrible, began to abuse his daughter.

"You are the cause of all this," he said, as he surveyed the injured limb.

"Very indirectly, I should think," she replied.

"What do you mean? How dare you disobey me as you have done lately; you have made me suffer; you have, under my very eyes, been making a fool of me--your father." He paused, as if unable to frame his next sentence.

"I beg your pardon, father," said the young lady respectfully; "but I have not been trying to 'make a fool' of you, as you say. I conscientiously think that I am right in encouraging the attentions of such an upright----"

"Stop your nonsense," he cried imperatively, his face a.s.suming a terrible aspect, "you are an idiotic girl, you are trying to ruin me by listening to this pasteboard fellow, this scoundrel, this flippant rascal."

Adele was stung with her father's bitter sarcasm against one whom she loved. She looked straight at her father; she knew he was unable to move from his place, and this made her bolder than she would otherwise have been. She answered with a firm and steady voice: "He saved your life once."

"Saved my life, how? Only for his presence yesterday, I should not now be lying idle."

"I am not talking about yesterday," she replied; "I mean, when he saved you from drowning in the quarry at the risk of being himself dragged in."

"What has that to do with it?"

"It means that he is not a 'pasteboard fellow,' as you say; it means that you ought to acknowledge his kindness; it means that you should be thankful for the great service which he rendered you."

"If I owe him anything, let him say so and I will pay him," he replied. He had not the slightest intention of doing so.

"You owe him a debt of grat.i.tude, and you should bless him; instead of that you curse him," she said, her lips quivering and the tears rushing to her eyes. The idea of her beloved being cursed.

"Yes, I hate him," said the farmer, "I cordially distaste that dirty rat; he is the worm that eats my bones; but, you never shall marry him; do you hear? never."

"I will never marry anyone else," she said, her face a.s.suming a desperate calmness.

"Yes you will."

"Father," she said, her face almost as white as the cloth which she was spreading on the table, "it is useless to speak any more about it, it pains me to have to speak thus to you, but I will never marry Tom Soher."

She heard the grinding of her father's teeth.

"If I did so," she continued; "I feel that I should commit a great sin; I never could love him, therefore his life with me would be miserable; he would feel lonely, and, I am afraid, would soon return to his former habits of intemperance. Then I should be breaking my word, for I have promised----"

"You have!" howled the father.

She did not go on; her father's eyes were riveted on her with a terrible look. She feared he was going mad. She could not proceed, mesmerized as she seemed to be under that awful gaze.

At last she turned her attention to her work.

Not another word was spoken on the subject that day.

Neither of them ate much that evening. It was almost impossible for Adele to swallow anything. What she attempted to eat, stuck in her throat. Her father, who was seated near the fire in his accustomed place, seemed also to have lost his appet.i.te.

At last, he thrust his food away from him with a gesture of impatience, and began moodily to contemplate the embers that were glowing in the grate. When nine o'clock--his usual hour for retiring--struck, Adele helped him into the parlour.

It was there on a sofa that he insisted on sleeping while his foot hurt him as it now did.

While the conversation was going on between father and daughter, Frank was crossing the fields near "Les Marches," and soon found himself beneath Adele's window. It was open. He took out his pocket book, and hastily writing a few lines on a leaf, tore off the piece of paper, rolled it into a ball, and threw it straight through the window.

Then he cautiously glided away.

When Adele retired for the night, she did not perceive the ball of paper that lay on the floor of her room. Her brain was so occupied with her thoughts that it failed to fulfil its functions towards the eyes.

She fixed her optics for a moment on the crumpled piece of paper, but she saw it not. She was undressing, but she knew it not; she did it mechanically, as if by instinct. Her thoughts were with her father and the unhappy home she was condemned to share with him.

Home! alas! it was more like a h.e.l.l. She shuddered at the thought.

She was of a naturally quiet temperament, and she abhorred these awful scenes.

She earnestly hoped that the time would soon come when she would once more sail in smooth waters.

As she was moving about, her foot trod upon some object. "What is this?" she said to herself, as she stooped to pick it up. By whom that piece of paper had been placed there, she could not imagine.

By the light of the candle, she managed to read the missive. How her heart gladdened. She read it over and over again. It contained a message from Frank telling her that he hoped to hear from her at her earliest convenience. "So you will," she said half aloud as she carefully folded the small piece of paper.

She slept peacefully that night.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A SECRET CORRESPONDENCE.

On the following day she wrote to Frank and gave the letter to Jacques, asking him to carry it in the evening at the Rohais. The old man smiled at her, and carefully pocketing the piece of silver which she thrust into his hand, he remarked: "I s'pose you don't care for the guv'nor to know anything about this 'ere business."

"How dare you call my father so?" she said, pretending to be offended; "no; don't let him have any knowledge of this or any other message I may entrust you with in the future."

"He won't; look 'ere Miss, I'll do anything for you, you're a good 'un; and as for your father gettin' anything out of me; I'd as well have the last bone in my body pulled out afore I'd say anything against you or your young man. You're the very picture of your mother, that you are, she was a good woman----."

"Jacques, if you cannot express yourself in English, talk in Guernsey French, as you used to do," she said, for Jacques was showing forth his knowledge.

"What have I said?" he questioned in his native tongue, then he added: "I thought I was speaking well, I beg your pardon if I have offended you, Miss."

"You have not displeased me," she said. "I must go now, or my father will be fretting about my absence. I can trust you?"

"Yes, I will do anything for you. Good-night, Miss."

"Good-night, Mait Jacques."

And, with a light step and a cheerful countenance, she entered the room in which her father was. He was seated in an armchair before the fire-place, his attention centred on a halter which he was endeavouring to manufacture. He did not fail to notice the laughing eyes and the radiant expression of his daughter.