ter, "that as a Broxton man and—and a gentleman, the people would have been with me, but they are not."
"No," said Miss Ffrench, "they are not."
She knew far more than he did himself. She was in the habit of not allowing any sign to escape her. When she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all that happened.
"If they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to me."
"Why should they not dare?" asked her father with increased irritation.
"Because they know I am not afraid of them—because I set them at defiance; and for another reason."
The other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their daring. It was the strong one that in the splendor of her beauty she had her greatest power. Ordinary womanhood would scarcely in itself have appealed to the chivalric sentiment of Broxton, Molton and Dillup, but Rachel Ffrench driving slowly through the streets and past the "beer-house" doors, and turning her perfect, unmoved face for criticism to the crowd collected thereat, created a natural diversion. Those who had previously been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most inveterate 'bacco consumers took their pipes out of their mouths, feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they might look after her with a clearer appreciation. They were neither touched nor softened, but they were certainly roused to an active admiration which, after a manner, held them in check.
"Theer is na another loike her i' England," was once remarked rather sullenly by one. "Not i' England, let aloan Lancashire—an' be dom'd to her,"—this last added with a shade of delicate significance.
