Hold
your tongue, and don't dare to let me hear your voice again until to-morrow
morning!'
Miss Fouracres obeyed him. She was absolutely mute for the rest of the
evening, save when obliged to exchange a word or two with rustic company or
in the taproom. Her features expressed uneasiness rather than
mortification.
The next day, after an early breakfast, Mr. Fouracres set forth to the town
of Woodbury. He had the face of a man with a fixed idea, and looked more
obstinate, more unintelligent than ever. To his daughter he had spoken only
a few cold words, and his last bidding to her was 'Take care of the
pothouse!' This treatment gave Miss Fouracres much pain, for she was a
softhearted woman, and had never been anything but loyal and affectionate
to her father all through his disastrous years. Moreover, she liked the Pig
and Whistle, and could not bear to hear it spoken of disdainfully. Before
the sound of the cart had died away she had to wipe moisture from her eyes,
and at the moment when she was doing so Mr. Ruddiman came into the parlour.
'Has Mr. Fouracres gone?' asked the guest, with embarrassment.
'Just gone, sir,' replied the young woman, half turned away, and nervously
fingering her chin.
Pages:
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457