She espied Frank, just as he was turning down Foulon Vale.
He was so intent on his mission that he did not notice her.
As soon as she saw his eager look and the bunch of flowers which he carried in his hands, a feeling of exasperating jealousy seized her. Where was he going with those flowers? "Alas!" she thought bitterly, "he has a rendezvous with some pretty lass. I will follow him and ascertain, if possible, the truth."
She walked after him, and when he turned round to look at her, she hastily looked the other way. Fearing lest he might recognise her, she retraced her steps and continued her journey homewards down the Rohais, muttering: "A fine place for a rendezvous."
Something within her tried to reason: "He is nothing to you, you have no claims upon him." But what of her future, what of her projected plans, her ideas, her sweet dreams; they were mown down in this huge and single sweep. Life seemed very dark. Up to this, hope had kept her radiant and cheerful, and now, hope was gone, and in its stead, there was a blank.
Arrived home, she fetched her violin and poured forth all her feelings.
She commenced in a plaintive tone, then this changed to reproach, and the conclusion was a wail of despair.
Again she tried to rouse herself; again she tried to reason. "Why am I so concerned about him?" she asked herself. "I must put these foolish thoughts aside."
But love denied what reason would dictate, and she found herself continually sighing.
Meanwhile, Tom continued his visits from time to time, and she received him with as much coldness as she dared.
But when she came to think that Frank was an acquaintance to be forgotten, she slightly changed her manner towards her cousin.
Her father was not slow to notice the change. He laughed inly and chuckled: "I knew she would come to love him; but I must not hurry her, she is by nature a slow coach; everything will yet come all right in the end."
The days were lengthening and Tom continued to come as early as he used to do in the depth of winter.
It was now quite daylight when he put in an appearance. One evening he took Adèle for a walk round the garden. Poor girl; she did not love him, but she did not like to speak roughly to him. She felt that she was wronging him. She knew that at each meeting his hope increased. Still, what was she to do? She began to persuade herself that he was not so bad as she had imagined. He was now a reformed man; her father had told her so, and she could see it. If the passion for drink which was still probably strong within him should return! She paused, mused and said with a sigh: "Alas! I do not feel that I love him."