Jane turned her pretty tear-bedabbled face over her shoulder, and inconsequently and incoherently protested that she always did her best; then, with a gasp and a moan, she darted past the group in the doorway and ran round the house.
Richard looked after her with a disgusted air, and then his glance reverted to Mrs. Fiander, whose beautiful round arm was still embedded in curds, and whose face, a little paler than its wont, continued to be full of ire. What could this trifling mistake matter after all to such a rich woman, a woman who would soon be richer still? Besidesbeing cold-blooded and self-interested, she was evidently miserly; she was, moreover, distinctly bad-tempered. His imagination, already warped by the revulsion of feeling consequent on his uncle’s disclosures, was ready to take alarm at every trivial detail. Rosalie’s pallor, and the slightly drawn look on her face—both due in reality to a sleepless night, resulting from an unaccountable perturbation of mind—were immediately attributed to an acute and unreasonable disappointment over an insignificant money loss. The eyes which had gazed on Rosalie so ardently yesterday were now busily tracing lines of fancied meanness in her face; those frowning brows surely revealed the shrew, the compressed lips spoke of parsimony. When that lovely colour faded, and those clear-cut features had become coarsened by age and self-imposed toil, what would remain? None of that beauty of soul which he had thought to find there.
‘Well, well,’ remarked Isaac placidly, ‘these accidents will happen, but I would n’t advise ’ee to be cast down by ’em. These here curds d’ seem to be a-settin’ all right. I know how ’t is wi’ young folks. A body has to stand over them all the time. Why, when we bea-shearin’ I d’ scarce dare go in for a bit o dinner for fear o’ findin’ them poor ewes snipped to pieces when I come back.’
Rosalie jerked the mass of curds up with additional impetuosity, but made no reply.
‘My nevvy,’ pursued Isaac, ‘thought he’d like to drop in an’ pay his respects to ’ee, my dear, an’ inquire how you was a-feelin’ arter the accident yesterday.’
Here he nudged Richard as a tacit reproach for his muteness.
‘I hope,’ said the young man formally, ‘that you are none the worse for the shock, Mrs. Fiander?’
The blue eyes shot up an inquiring glance, and the industrious arm paused for a moment. What was the meaning of this altered tone, and why was the gaze now bent on her fraught with such cold disapproval? They had parted like old friends, and she had looked forward more than she knew to their next meeting.
‘Thank you,’ she returned, in a tone almost as frigid as Richard’s own; ‘my nerves are not easily upset.’
She believed the statement to be true; yet the equilibrium of her system was at that moment, if she had but realised it, very seriously disturbed.
‘Have ’ee sent for Nigger, Mrs. F.?’ inquired Isaac.
‘I sent James Bundy to look after him. He may not be fit to move for a day or two.’
‘Ah, he were a good beast,’ remarked the farmer; ‘’t is a pity ye did let ’en slip. ’T was wi’ drivin’ fast down-hill, my nevvy here d’ tell me, an’ that’s what he’ve never been used to. Ye should have druv ’en more carefully, my dear.’
Rosalie thought of the cause of her unusual haste on the previous day; it was her anxiety to escape from the too evident admiration of the grey eyes which were now bent on her with so different an expression. The memory confused her; the contrast stung her; she answered sharply, and with assumed indifference:
‘One cannot crawl down every slope to suit the convenience of a worn-out animal!’
‘He bain’t worn-out, though,’ returned her future husband, who invariably took things literally. ‘Nay, I should say he’d last a good few years yet, though he be past ’ard work. ’Lias al’ays used ’en gentle; ’t is wonderful how far that’ll go both with man an’ beast. “Fair an’ soft do go far in a day,” thesayin’ goes. Fair an’ soft—ah, ’t is trew, ’t is trew!’
Rosalie bent her head over the vat in silence, her face averted, so that her visitors could see only the outline of her cheek, the exquisite curves of ear and neck.
‘Fair and soft,’ muttered Richard to himself. ‘Fair and soft enough to look at, but her heart is as the nether millstone!’
His uncle gazed reproachfully at him; he was proud of his travelled and book-learned nephew, and had eagerly looked forward to the impression he was sure to produce on ‘Mrs. F.,’ who had also been highly educated, and was considered an authority on matters appertaining to culture—and he was not showing off at all! He was standing there, mum-chance, as stupid as any other body might be. He gave him another admonitory nudge and remarked:
‘Richard, that’s my nevvy, did quite take me by surprise last night. I was n’t expectin’ to see ’en at all. To tell the trewth I had no kind o’ notion o’ where he mid be. He had n’t wrote—How long were it since you’ve a-wrote me last, Richard?’ inquired Isaac, driving home the query with his elbow, and again frowning and winking.
‘I don’t know,’ answered his nephew, in muffled tones. ‘A long time, I’m afraid; but, you see, you never wrote to me,’ he added with a laugh.
‘That be different, my boy,’ returned the farmer seriously. ‘There was reasons why I did n’t write, Richard. I never was a writin’ man. Lard, no,’—and here he relaxed, and uttered a jolly laugh,—‘’t is as much as I can do to put my name to a receipt, an’ then Bithey d’ do it for I, and I do jist stick my mark under it. Nay, Richard, I never was one for writing much—nay, I was n’t.’
He continued to roll his shoulders and to chuckle ‘nay’ meditatively at intervals, but his eyes were meanwhile fixed appealingly upon the face of Richard, who remained obstinately dumb.
Presently their hostess came to his assistance.
‘I suppose, now that you are here, you’ll remain some time, Mr. Marshall?’ she asked, without looking round; her voice in consequence sounding nearly as muffled as the young man’s own as she bent over her cauldron.
‘That depends, Mrs. Fiander. Of course I want to see as much as I can of my uncle,but I’m restless by nature, and—and I never stay very long in one place.’
‘There now,’ cried Isaac, in loud remonstrance. ‘What, ye be at it again, be ye? Did n’t we arguefy enough about it last night? I’ll not take No, an’ so I tell ’ee! Ye’ve a-comed home, and now ye may bide at home. Lard, I did n’t think ye could be sich a voolish chap. What need have ye to go travellin’ the world when ye have a good berth offered ye, an’ them that’s al’ays been your friends ready an’ anxious to keep ye? Here’s Mrs. F. will tell ’ee the same as I do, won’t ’ee, my dear?’
‘I don’t quite understand what it is all about,’ said Rosalie, pausing in her labours, however, and straightening herself.
Why, ’t is this way,’ explained the farmer. ‘When Richard come last night he says to me, says he, “I’ve been a-longing for years an’ years to get back to the wold place. An’ now,” says he, “I d’ feel as if I could n’t settle to naught but the old work. Farm-work,” he says. “Well then, this here house ’ull be empty afore very long; an’, moreover,” says I, “I shall need to have somebody responsible to look after this place,” for it stands to reason, Mrs. F., as I can’t be in two places at one time.’
Rosalie endorsed this statement with an inarticulate murmur, and he continued:
‘“Well, then,” says I, “since you want to come back to the wold place an’ take up the farm-work, why not live here and work for I?”’
‘Why not, indeed?’ said Rosalie.
‘Jist what I d’ say,’ said the farmer indignantly; ‘why not? First he were quite took wi’ the notion, but arter a bit he did n’t seem to relish it. Now I want to know,’ pursued Isaac, extending an aggrieved forefinger, ‘why don’t ’ee relish it, Richard?’
‘Suppose you should be disappointed in me—suppose I should n’t give you satisfaction?’ said Richard hesitatingly.
‘Pooh! nonsense! I’ll let ’ee know fast enough if ye don’t give satisfaction. Have n’t I brought ’ee up? Bain’t he much same as a son to I?’
‘But if—if I should find I could n’t settle, then you’d be more vexed than if I had n’t given in to the plan.’
‘But why should n’t ’ee settle, that’s what I want to know? Ax ’en that, Mrs. F., ax ’en why he should n’t settle? Ha’n’t ’ee travelled enough?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rosalie, ‘I should thinkyou ought to be glad of a little quiet, Mr. Marshall.’
‘Well said!’ cried Isaac. ‘Tell ’en he’ll be a fool if he lets my offer slip.’
‘Indeed,’ repeated Rosalie, gazing in surprise from the heated and excited countenance of the elder man to the inscrutable one of his nephew—‘indeed I think Mr. Marshall would be very unwise if he did not accept it. It seems to me entirely to his advantage.’
‘And of course,’ said Richard, with a momentary gleam in his steel-grey eyes, ‘of course my personal advantage should outweigh every other consideration! It is obvious. Nothing like a woman’s clear head for solving a difficulty. I will take your advice.’
Rosalie’s pretty face wore a look of such absolute bewilderment, and she was evidently so much at a loss to account for his sarcastic tone, that Richard suddenly burst out laughing; the cloud lifted from his brow, giving place to an expression of frank good-humour. ‘Uncle Isaac,’ he cried, clapping him heartily on the shoulder, ‘forgive my chopping and changing so often; this time my mind is made up. I accept your offer. Shake hands on it!’
The blackthorn-flower hath fallen away—The blackthorn-flower that wise men sayKeeps wild and variable skiesAs long as it may stay;But here’s the gorse, and here’s the whin,And here the pearlèd may appears,And poison-weeds of satin skinThrough every bank prick long green earsTo hear the cuckoo-cries.Elinor Sweetman.To gather flowers Sappho went,And homeward she did bring,Within her lawny continent,The treasure of the spring.Herrick.
The blackthorn-flower hath fallen away—The blackthorn-flower that wise men sayKeeps wild and variable skiesAs long as it may stay;But here’s the gorse, and here’s the whin,And here the pearlèd may appears,And poison-weeds of satin skinThrough every bank prick long green earsTo hear the cuckoo-cries.
Elinor Sweetman.
To gather flowers Sappho went,And homeward she did bring,Within her lawny continent,The treasure of the spring.
Herrick.
Richard Marshalldrove the plough slowly up the brown slope, half turned at the summit, halted, and, having established his horses at a comfortable angle, sat down, with his back against a tall mossy bank sheltered by a little copse, to eat his breakfast.
He had already partaken of a ‘dew bit’ shortly after dawn; but two or three hours’ exercise in the brisk morning air had whettedhis appetite afresh, and he now fell to work on his bread and bacon with the utmost zest and relish.
The great field, all glittering green save for the brown strip which testified to recent labours, stretched away for many goodly acres. On a lesser slope beneath he could see the roofs of Littlecomb Farm and its appurtenances, but the sight of the amber and ruddy outlines awakened in him now no feeling of repulsion. During the past weeks he had laughed himself out of his whilom fancy for the fascinating and disappointing widow; he had even taken himself to task somewhat severely for his strictures on that unconscious young woman. Was it her fault, after all, that her outer parts belied her real self? Why had he been so unreasonably angry because she had failed to correspond to the high estimate which he had formed on slight and inadequate premises? She was a very beautiful creature, and, no doubt, good enough in her way; if she was common-place, and had a sharp eye for the main chance, she would make the better wife to a practical farmer. He would in all probability get on well enough with her when she became his aunt, but meanwhile life was too full ofcongenial work and ever-growing interest to admit of his wasting time in improving his acquaintance with the future Mrs. Sharpe.
He had thrown himself into his new pursuits with characteristic energy, and found them daily more and more engrossing. He possessed a gift not often to be met with in the cultivator of the soil—a love of Nature for her own sake—a sympathy with her moods, not from the practical, but from the poetical standpoint. Clouds and sunlight, frosts and dew, meant more to him than to his brother-toiler; the very odour of the damp earth, the fragrance of the bursting buds in copse and hedgerow, of the crushed herbage beneath his feet, intoxicated him. The homely thud of the horses’ hoofs as they trod the furrow, the ripping up of the green sod as he drove the plough through it, the mere consciousness of his own vigour and life and manhood dominating this solitude, filled him with a kind of ecstasy. ‘This is what I want,’ he had said to himself over and over again that morning; ‘this is what I have always wanted!’
He had finished his breakfast now, but he permitted himself the luxury of repose for a few moments longer. He threw himself back on the bank, his head resting on his claspedhands, and his eyes gazing up, up, through the interlacing boughs of the trees, outlined now with shifting silver in the morning light, through the ethereal leafage, still half unfolded, up to the heights of delicate blue beyond. He had fancied that there was not much breeze this morning; yet, as he lay thus quiet he could hear a faint rustling in the undergrowth, and the occasional crackling of twigs—a squirrel perhaps; but when was a wood known to be absolutely still? Besides the incidental noises attending the passage of living things—flying, running, creeping—the creaking and swaying of boughs, the fluttering of leaves, had not such places a mysterious movement and vitality of their own? Was there not always a stir, a whisper, in their midst produced by no ostensible cause?
Smiling upwards, his head still pillowed on his hands, Richard was meditating on some half-forgotten page of Thoreau which seemed to bear upon this fancy of his, when suddenly a woman’s figure appeared on the crest of the bank close to him, and without warning sprang down beside him. Rosalie Fiander, with the skirt of her print gown gathered up so as to form a receptacle for the mass ofprimroses which she had been gathering, and the fragrance of which was now wafted to Richard’s nostrils—Rosalie Fiander, with minute dewdrops clinging to her dark hair, with morning roses on her cheeks, and the morning light shining in her eyes—a vision of grace and beauty, more captivating even than the glowing pictured Rosalie of the cornfield or the stately heroine of Yellowham Woods.
Richard sat up, the colour rushing over his sunburnt face; he had divested himself of hat and coat, his waistcoat hung loosely open, and his shirt was unfastened at the throat. For a moment Rosalie did not identify him; then, as he slowly rose to his feet, she too blushed.
‘I beg your pardon; I did not know anyone was here. I had a half-hour to spare before breakfast and ran out to pick some primroses. This is my wood, you know,’ she added hastily; ‘I am not trespassing unless when I take a short cut home across your uncle’s field.’
Ploughman Richard, with his bare brown arms and ruffled head, was not at all alarming. She scarcely recognised in him the trim, severe young man who had called on her ceremoniously a few weeks before, still lessthe mysterious personage who had driven her home from Dorchester, who had said such strange things, and looked at her so oddly—Isaac Sharpe’s nephew was just like anybody else after all. Being blithe of heart this bright spring morning, she smiled on him pleasantly, and, lowering the folds of her gown, displayed the primroses.
‘Are they not lovely? I like them better than any other flower—in fact, I love them. Almost the first thing that I can remember is holding on to my mother’s finger while she took me up to a bank of primroses; afterwards, when I grew old enough to pick them for myself, oh, the delight, each spring, of finding the first primrose!’
Now, curiously enough, the gay tone and easy manner had the effect of filling Richard with wrath; the very grace of her attitude, the child-like candour of her eyes were to him obnoxious, the more so because he could not repress a momentary thrill of admiration. He knew how much they were worth; he knew the sordid nature beneath this attractive disguise.
‘Primroses are fine things,’ he said, with assumed carelessness. ‘You should have picked some before the nineteenth; then you would have had a good sale for them.’
‘But I don’t want to sell them,’ cried she, her white teeth flashing out as she laughed, and the dimples coming and going. ‘I picked them for myself—I shall fill every vase in the house. Primroses should never be sold; those you see in the streets look so miserable, all huddled together with their dear little faces crushed and faded, and even their scent gone! It seems a sin to sell primroses.’
‘Yes, particularly as I don’t suppose they fetch a big price in the market.’
She had gathered up a bunch in one hand, and now raised it to her soft cheek.
‘They are like satin,’ she said.
Somehow the gesture and the smile which accompanied it provoked Richard beyond endurance.
‘They are pretty little yellow things,’ he said, ‘but not worth the attention of practical people. There are other yellow things more deserving of admiration—rolls of beautiful fresh butter, for instance; fine round cheeses!—The beauty of these is that they can be exchanged for still finer yellow things—golden coin, Mrs. Fiander, that is the only yellow thing really worth thinking about.’
‘Are you so fond of money?’ she asked innocently; and once more she laid thedew-drenched flowers caressingly against her cheek. How could she look so guileless; how had she the face to turn the tables on him thus; above all, how dared she be so beautiful! He had almost succeeded in forgetting his transitory hallucination; he wanted to ignore her charm—and here she was tantalising him afresh.
‘Are we not all fond of money?’ he said, with a forced laugh. ‘Are not you fond of money?’
‘Am I?’ queried she; and the blue eyes glanced up with genuine astonishment.
‘Why, of course you are! We’re all fond of it, I say. We men toil for it: we sell our brains for it—we sell our strength and power, and the best years of our lives for it. And you women—’
He paused. Rosalie, surprised at his vehemence, but still half amused, inquired lightly:
‘Well, what do we do? Take care of it when we’ve got it, and do without it when we have n’t?’
‘Not always,’ he added; and this time there was no mistaking the deliberate insolence of his tone. ‘Sometimes a woman sells herself when she has n’t got it, and sometimes, mistrusting her own powers of management, she invites other people to take care of it for her.’
There was a dead silence for a moment. Richard, fixing his merciless gaze upon her face, saw the colour ebb from it, leaving the very lips white. His shot had struck home—he was glad of it.
‘What do you mean?’ said Rosalie at last, lifting her eyes, which she had involuntarily lowered, and looking at him steadily.
‘I think you must know what I mean,’ he returned, with a smile almost insulting in its contemptuousness.
‘Why should you attack me?’ she inquired, without flinching, though her large eyes looked pathetic in their surprise and pain.
‘Am I attacking you? I am merely stating facts. When a penniless young girl marries a prosperous old man one is bound to conclude that his money is the chief attraction, and when that same girl, finding herself a few years later rich and free, offers herself for the second time to a man forty years older than herself—’
‘Offers herself?’ cried Rosalie, turning upon him fiercely while the blood returned impetuously to her face; ‘how dare you say such an insulting thing to me?’
‘Is it not true?’ he inquired. ‘I have the statement on most excellent authority.’
Rosalie dropped her flower-laden skirt, a yellow shower falling at her feet, and buried her face in her hands.
‘Oh,’ she groaned, ‘Isaac told you that! He—he said—oh, how could he!’
The beautiful shoulders heaved, tears trickled through her fingers, but Richard steeled his heart against her. Let her suffer—let her cry! These selfish tears could not expiate the things that she had done. Tears and subterfuges were woman’s natural weapons, but they should not avail her. She should be made to realise her own vileness.
‘Do you deny it?’ he said sternly.
Rosalie dropped her hands, and raised her head: her lip was still quivering, but her eyes shone through the tears.
‘I deny nothing,’ she said; and without another word walked away from him, down the slope, and across the field, passing through a gate at the further end.
Richard stood looking after her until she was out of sight; then his eyes reverted to the heap of primroses lying at his feet—a tumbled heap, sweet, and dewy, and fresh—just as they had fallen from her gown.
Mechanically he stooped and began togather them together, but presently he threw back again the flowers he had picked up.
‘What should I do with them?’ he murmured, half aloud. Straightening himself he passed his hand across his brow, and looked round him with a blank stare. ‘What have I done?’ he said.
Colin, the grass was grey and wet the sodO’er which I heard her velvet footfall come;But heaven, where yet no pallid crescent rode,Flowered in fire behind the bloomless plum;There stirred no wing nor wind, the wood was dumb,Only blown roses shook their leaves abroadOn stems more tender than an infant’s thumb—Soft leaves, soft hued, and curled like Cupid’s lip—And each dim tree shed sweetness over me,From honey-dews that breathless boughs let slipIn the orchard by the sea.Elinor Sweetman.
Colin, the grass was grey and wet the sodO’er which I heard her velvet footfall come;But heaven, where yet no pallid crescent rode,Flowered in fire behind the bloomless plum;There stirred no wing nor wind, the wood was dumb,Only blown roses shook their leaves abroadOn stems more tender than an infant’s thumb—Soft leaves, soft hued, and curled like Cupid’s lip—And each dim tree shed sweetness over me,From honey-dews that breathless boughs let slipIn the orchard by the sea.
Elinor Sweetman.
‘Yebain’t sich very good company to-night, Richard,’ remarked Mr. Sharpe, laying down his knife and fork, and gazing critically at his nephew. ‘Nay, I can’t say as ye be. You have n’t opened your mouth since we sat down, except just to put a bit into it now and again, and not too often neither. Ye bain’t eatin’ nothing to speak on, an’ ye have n’t a word to throw to a dog. What’s amiss?’
‘Why—nothing,’ returned Richard, rousing himself with a startled look from the brown study into which he had fallen. ‘I suppose I am tired,’ he added, as an afterthought.
‘Ah, very like ye be,’ agreed the farmer commiseratingly. ‘It just depends on what a man’s used to how soon he gets knocked up. You be used to town, an’ travellin’, and that, and when you come back to the ploughin’ it tries you a bit to start wi’. ’T is just the other way wi’ I; I’m used to the country, d’ ye see, and when I do have to go to town—to Dorchester, or Weymouth, or any big place like that—Lard, I do get mortal tired! Walkin’ them streets, now, and lookin’ in at the shop-winders—dear heart alive, it makes me so weary as I could very nigh drop down in the middle of ’em! As for travellin’—goin’ in trains an’ sich-like—it do make me so stiff I can scarce lay legs to the ground when I do ’light from ’em. But I dare say you found it a hardish bit o’ work turnin’ up the big field yonder?’
His nephew made no response, and Isaac bawled out the question afresh.
The young man, who had been absently balancing a fork on his fore-finger, started, and replied hastily that he had n’t found it at all hard—at least—yes, perhaps rather hard, but very pleasant; and he liked the work.
Isaac took a farewell pull at his pint mug, set it down, and pushed his plate away.
‘Draw up to the fire, lad,’ he said, ‘and smoke your pipe quick, and then turn in—ye bain’t fit for nothin’ but bed.’
‘No, no,’ returned Richard hastily, as he rose, ‘I could not go to bed yet—it is not much past eight. I don’t think I’ll sit down by the fire—I’ll go out for a stroll to stretch my legs.’
‘Stretch your legs!’ commented his uncle indignantly. ‘Ha’n’t ye stretched them enough to-day already? You’ve a-worked hard enough for two men.’
‘No remedy so good as a hair of the dog that bit you, you know,’ said Richard. ‘A brisk turn will take the stiffness off, and it is a lovely evening.’
‘Lard, how restless these young chaps do be!’ ejaculated Isaac, as he scraped his chair across the tiled floor to the hearth; ‘a body mid think he’d be glad enough to set down for a bit. I’ll engage he’ll find it hard enough to turn out to-morrow morn.’
When Richard had proceeded a little way he paused, and drew a long breath; then, wheeling round swiftly, began to retrace his steps, brought himself to a stand-still for the second time, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed; finally, crying aloud: ‘I will do it—I must doit!’ He turned once more, and pursued his former course.
The sun had set some time before, but the heavens were still luminous; the rosy glow which lingered at the horizon merging into soft primrose, which in its turn melted into an exquisite ethereal green. Against this lambent background the hills and woods stood out darkly purple, while the little copses scattered here and there upon the downs, and the hedge at the further end, appeared to be almost black. Little parties of his uncle’s sheep scurried out of Richard’s way, a bell tinkling here and there among them; birds flew almost into his face as he passed the groups of trees before alluded to; when he forced his way through the hedge a trailing tendril of honeysuckle, wet with the heavy dew, flapped against his face; every now and then a rabbit crossed his path, its passage scarcely noticeable in the dusk save for the flash of its little white tail. There must have been thyme growing on or about those downs, for its fragrance was strong in the air. Richard did not, however, pause to inhale it—it is even doubtful if he noticed it; yet, when by-and-by entering Rosalie’s fields he skirted a bank overgrown with primroses, their perfume for a moment turned him almost faint.
Here was the house at last—how quiet at this hour! Nothing seemed to be stirring; no one was about.
Susan appeared in answer to a somewhat tremulous knock, and informed him that her mistress was in the garden.
‘I’ll soon call her,’ she added.
‘No, no,’ he returned quickly. ‘I will go to her—I only want to see her for a moment.’
Who knew? She might refuse to obey the summons; it was best to come upon her without warning.
‘Round to the left,’ explained Susan; ‘the path leads you up to the gate.’
Following her directions, and passing through the little wicket, Richard presently found himself in the walled enclosure which had once been the Manor House garden, for Littlecomb had been the dower house of a noble family; along the straight prim paths stately ladies had loved to pace, and the lavender hedge which was Rosalie’s pride had been the pride of many a titled dame before her. It was more of a pleasant wilderness than a garden now, having been neglected by Elias and his predecessors on the farm; but Rosalie was endeavouring to reclaim it, andalready had made progress with the work. Richard, walking slowly onward, glanced anxiously down the dim alleys, and peered into various overgrown bowers. At length, amid a mass of distant greenery, he descried a moving figure, and, quickening his pace, advanced towards it. The afterglow had now almost faded, and the moon had not yet risen; here beneath these high walls and amid this dense growth everything looked shadowy and unreal.
He would scarcely have distinguished which was path and which was flower-border had he not been guided towards the spot where she stood by a double line of white pinks. Now a blossom-laden apple-bough barred his progress; now he passed beneath an arch of monthly roses, brushing off the moisture from leaf and bloom as he went.
All at once Rosalie’s voice called through the dusk:
‘Is that you, Susan? Come here for a moment; I want you to hold this branch.’
Richard made no reply, but hastened on. The shadowy figure turned, and he saw the pale silhouette of her face. She was standing beneath a great bush laden with white blossoms, which from their size and perfume he judged to be lilac; she had drawn down abranch and was endeavouring to detach one of the clustering blooms.
‘Who is it?’ she said quickly.
‘It is I,’ he returned.
She loosed the branch, which flew rustling up to join its fellows, and made a step forward; he could see her face more clearly now; the gleam of her white teeth between her parted lips; he even fancied that he could detect an angry sparkle in her eyes.
‘Why do you come here?’ she said. ‘Here at least I supposed myself safe.’
‘I came,’ replied Richard, in an unsteady voice, ‘to beg your pardon most humbly, most sincerely, for my conduct to you to-day.’
‘It was inexcusable,’ she said, after a pause. It seemed to him that she was breathing quickly—perhaps with a just and natural anger.
‘I do not attempt to excuse it,’ he murmured.
‘I cannot even understand it,’ she pursued. ‘What had I done to you? How do my private concerns affect you?’
There was a long silence, and then Richard said, almost in a whisper:
‘I can make no excuse—I think I must have been mad! When I came to myself I felt—as if I could kill myself for my brutalityto you. All day the shame of it has been eating into my soul—I feel branded, disgraced! I cannot rest until you tell me you have forgiven me.’
There was silence again, broken only by the faint warbling of a thrush singing to his mate in the warm dusk.
‘You ask a great deal,’ said Rosalie at last. ‘I scarcely know how I can forgive you.’
She saw the dark figure sway a little, but he spoke quietly:
‘I can only say that I would give my life to recall those insulting words of mine.’
‘Words!’ she repeated. ‘Words count for little! That you should think of me thus—that you should judge me so harshly!’
He said nothing; the thrush sang on, the liquid notes rising and falling with almost unendurable sweetness.
Then, ‘I entreat you!’ he pleaded once more. ‘I entreat you to forgive me!’
She stretched out her hand in silence, and he took it without a word; it was cold, very cold, and it trembled.
She drew it away almost as soon as his fingers had closed upon it, and he turned and went away, his footsteps falling withunaccustomed heaviness on the little path; and presently the gate swung to behind him.
Isaac was sitting by the dying fire, a foot resting on either hob, and surrounded by a haze of tobacco-smoke, when his nephew entered. He looked towards Richard with an aggrieved expression as he crossed the room.
‘Well, them there legs o’ yourn should be pretty well stretched by now. I was wonderin’ whether you were comin’ back at all to-night. Where have ye been all this while?’
Richard hesitated, and then, throwing back his head, answered deliberately:
‘I’ve been to see Mrs. Fiander.’
‘What! to Littlecomb at this time o’ night! What ever took ’ee there so late?’
‘Why, to tell you the truth, I went to make an apology to Mrs. Fiander. She came across the top field to-day when I was ploughing, and I said something which hurt her feelings—in fact, I offended her very much, and I felt I could not rest to-night without begging her pardon.’
‘Oh,’ said the farmer, and then paused, eyes and mouth round with astonished concern. ‘Well,’ he continued presently, ‘I’m glad as ye ’polygised. I’m very glad as ye’polygised, Richard. ’Ees, that was very well done of ’ee. But what did you go for to offend her for?’
He leaned forward, anxious wrinkles still furrowing his brow, and puckering up his mouth as though he was going to whistle. By-and-by, indeed, he did actually whistle under his breath and without any regard for tune. Richard, meanwhile, stood looking down into the fire as though he had not heard the question.
‘Eh?’ hinted his uncle at last.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon! I can’t think, I’m sure, how I came to forget myself so. I was out of temper, I suppose.’
‘Ah,’ commented the farmer. ‘Well, I can say truly as she and me ha’ never had a word, not since I knowed her. Nay, not so much as one word! We did al’ays get on wonderful well in ’Lias’ time, and now I do really think as we gets on better than ever.’
‘So you ought to,’ said Richard, a trifle irritably; then he added in a softer tone: ‘I don’t believe anyone could quarrel with you, Uncle Isaac.’
‘Well, d’ ye see,’ explained Isaac, waving his pipe impressively, ‘even if I was a quarrelsome man—which I bain’t—I never shouldax to quarrel wi’ she. I’m oncommon fond o’ Mrs. F.!’
To this Richard made no rejoinder. Stretching out his foot he pushed the logs together, and then stood looking down at them again.
‘I’m sorry, Richard, as ye should ha’ hurt her feelings,’ went on the farmer, after ruminating for some time in evident distress of mind. ‘Ah, I be very sorry for that, but ye could n’t do no more nor ’polygise; nay, ye could n’t do more nor that. I’m glad ye did ’polygise, Richard.’
‘So am I,’ said Richard huskily; adding, with the same irritation which he had previously displayed: ‘Not that it makes much difference one way or the other.’
‘’T is a bad thing,’ went on the farmer, ‘for to hurt a woman’s feelin’s in the beginning of acquaintance; it makes a bad start, d’ ye see? It do rouse up notions as they’d maybe never ha’ thought on if they was n’t crossed in the beginning. Now my poor mother—your grandmother, Richard—she did have sich tender feelin’s there was no livin’ in th’ house wi’ her. And my father—ah, I’ve heard ’en tell the tale many a time—he did always set it down to his not havin’ beencareful to keep the right side o’ her when they was a-coortin’. ’Twas this way, d’ ye see? My father was a bit of a buck in his day, an’ a’most up to the time when he had his banns put up wi’ my mother he liked to have his fling, d’ye see? He’d walk o’ one Sunday wi’ one maid, and the next maybe he’d go along wi’ another; and the third maybe he’d go a-fishin’, and there’d be my poor mother wi’ her best bonnet on all the time a-lookin’ out for ’en so anxious. And she got that upset in her feelin’s, and that nervous, ye know, that she was n’t the better for it all her life after. Ah, I’ve heard my father say often when she’d scratched his face for him, or thrown his hat into the wash-tub, “’T is my own fault,” he ’d say, “I did n’t use to consider her feelin’s as a young ’un, and her feelin’s is a-comin’ agen me now.”’
Isaac shook his head slowly over this affecting reminiscence, and restored his pipe to its favourite corner. Richard said nothing for a moment, but presently turned towards his uncle with a smile.
‘Don’t you be afraid, Uncle Isaac. Mrs. Fiander’s temper is perfect, I am sure. I was entirely in fault to-day, and I will promise most faithfully not to do anythingwhich might disturb your peace of mind in future.’
Though he spoke with assumed lightness, there was an earnest look in his eyes.
Some friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh, ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!Shakespeare.
Some friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh, ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!
Shakespeare.
WhenSunday came round Isaac Sharpe surprised his nephew by inviting him to accompany him on his usual visit to Littlecomb.
‘I don’t think you want me,’ said Richard, colouring and hesitating; ‘I should only be in the way. Two are company, and three are none, you know.’
‘Nay now, ’t is a silly notion that. “The more the merrier,” I say. Besides, I have particular reasons for wanting you to come to-day. You and Mrs. F. have n’t met since that night as ye ’polygised, have ye?’
‘No,’ said Richard.
‘And I noticed you hung behind when I was talkin’ to her arter church this mornin’. Was ’ee ashamed o’ meetin’ her?’
‘That’s about it,’ said Richard.
‘Nay, but that will never do. If ye go on a-hangin’ back, and a-keepin’ out o’ her way,things will get awk’arder and awk’arder a-tween ye. Now, take my advice and come along wi’ I quite quiet and nat’ral; it’ll all pass off so easy as ye could wish. Just drop in same as myself. I want ’ee to be friends.’
‘Well, I can’t refuse if you put it like that,’ said Marshall. And the two sallied forth together.
In spite of Mr. Sharpe’s prognostication, there was decidedly a little awkwardness about the young people’s meeting. Rosalie greeted Richard somewhat stiffly, and invited him with formal politeness to take a seat.
‘’T is a fine day,’ began Isaac, as he installed himself in the high-backed elbow-chair which had now become his by consecrated right. Rosalie responded hastily that it was a very fine day.
‘Ah,’ remarked the farmer, with a covert note of warning in his voice, ‘my nevvy was a-sayin’ as we come along that it was a wonderful fine day for the time o’ year—did n’t ’ee, Richard?’
As it happened to be the time of year when fine days were not uncommon, this alleged observation would not have testified to any extraordinary perspicacity on Richard’s part; but as a matter of fact it wasentirely fictitious. Nevertheless the young man did not repudiate it.
‘Yes,’ he said, with his eyes on the floor; ‘yes, to be sure.’
‘Did n’t ’ee find it oncommon warm in church, Mrs. F.?’ pursued Mr. Sharpe, after a short silence.
‘Yes, I did,’ agreed she. ‘I was longing for someone to open the door.’
‘Mrs. F. d’ say,’ cried Isaac, turning to his nephew with an explanatory bawl, which was intended to stimulate him to further efforts at conversation—‘Mrs. F. d’ say, Richard, as she found it oncommon warm in church.’
Richard’s eyes travelled slowly from the carpet to his uncle’s face, where they rested; for the life of him he could not muster courage to move them to the blooming face on the other side.
‘Oh,’ he commented faintly, ‘did she?’
‘’Ees,’ said Isaac emphatically; ‘do ’ee ax her—’ Here he jerked his thumb significantly in Rosalie’s direction. ‘She d’ say as she was a-wishin’ as somebody ’ud open the door—did n’t ’ee, my dear?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rosalie.
‘Ah, she’ll tell ’ee about that, Richard,’ went on Isaac; and his enormous boot cameslowly sliding across the floor till it reached Richard’s foot, which it proceeded to kick in an admonitory fashion. ‘Jist ax her about that—If ye’d ha’ known she was wantin’ the door open you’d ha’ opened it fast enough for Mrs. F., would n’t ’ee, Richard?’
‘Certainly,’ responded Marshall, with his eyes still glued on his uncle’s face.
‘Ah, you can jist talk about that,’ hinted the latter, as he proceeded to search in his pocket for his pipe.
A dead silence ensued. Isaac looked from one to the other, and the perspiration stood upon his brow. His strenuous efforts had exhausted him, but the desired consummation seemed just as far off as ever.
‘Have you got your tobacco-box, Uncle Isaac?’ inquired the dutiful nephew presently.
‘Let me give you a light,’ said Rosalie.
There they were again! What was the good of their talking to him? He wanted them to talk to each other.
‘Richard,’ said Isaac, after sucking for a moment at his pipe—when Rosalie applied the match a flash of inspiration had come to him—‘Richard, my boy, ye have n’t been round this here farm since ye come home, have ’ee?’
‘No,’ said Richard; ‘but I know it well of old.’
‘Ah, but there’s been improvement since ye left—there’s been a many improvements. Ye’d better take him round, Mrs. F., and show him all what’s been done the last few years. He be oncommon fond o’ stretching his legs—Richard be—and it’ll just suit him—won’t it, Richard?’
Richard stammered confusedly that he should like it of all things.
‘And you be a wonderful one for fresh air yourself, Mrs. F.,’ went on the diplomatist. ‘Jist take ’en out and show ’en everything, there’s a good soul.’
Rosalie had risen willingly enough, for she had found the previous constraint exceedingly uncomfortable; but she now paused hesitatingly.
‘Are n’t you coming, Mr. Sharpe?’
‘Nay, my dear, I’ll stay where I be. ’T is very comfortable here i’ th’ chimney corner, and I bain’t so young as I was, d’ ye see? Nay, you two young folks can go out and freshen yourselves up a bit, and make acquaintance; and the wold man will bide at home, and smoke his pipe, and be ready for tea when you come back.’
He nodded at them both with an air of finality, and twisted round his chair so as to present to their gaze a large and inflexible back.
‘Well, then, we had better start if we are to be back by tea-time,’ said Rosalie, a little sharply; and Richard took up his hat, and followed her out in silence.
The whole place was wrapped in Sabbath stillness; milking was over, and a distant line of red and dappled cows was vanishing down the lane, followed by one or two of the dairy ‘chaps,’ with white pinners protecting their Sunday clothes. Save for the calves, which thrust their blunt, moist noses through the bars of their enclosure, and the fowl cackling lazily as they lay sunning themselves in the angle of the barn, the barton was absolutely deserted.
‘We drained the big mead four years ago,’ said Rosalie, ‘and threw the twenty-acre into it; ’t is beautiful pasture now. Would you like to see it?’
Richard hurriedly expressed a desire to that effect, and the two betook themselves in silence along a narrow farm-track to the rear of the house, which led to the field in question. They walked with the breadth ofthe lane between them, and in unbroken silence; their eyes, by common accord, gazing straight in front, and both secretly rebelling against the expedient which Isaac had deemed so happily devised. At length they came to a gate set in the hedge, and turned to look over it. A great green expanse stretched away before their gaze, meeting the sky-line on one side where it sloped upwards, and melting on the other into the lighter, more delicate green of springing corn; beyond were the woods, which, as well as the low line of hills behind them, were covered by a gentle haze.
Richard leaned his elbows on the topmost rail of the gate, and his face gradually cleared as his eyes roamed over the landscape.
This county of Dorset has given birth to more than one great writer of lowly origin, whose early nurture amid field, and heath, and woodland has fostered an intimate and loving sympathy with Nature, to which each in turn has given exquisite expression. Richard Marshall, born of the same sturdy peasant stock, brought up amid the same pastoral surroundings, possessed a somewhat kindred spirit, though he was denied this gift of expression. Yet the inglorious rusticMilton was not always mute; he had read so much, and meditated so much, and, above all, felt so deeply, that at times something of what he thought and felt struggled to his lips and found vent in words, inadequate, indeed, but suggestive.
‘How beautiful it all is!’ he said, turning to Rosalie, with a very poet’s rapture in his eyes. ‘It seems to fill one like music.’
‘Yet I suppose you have seen far finer sights during your travels,’ returned she, speaking naturally for the first time, as she too leaned over the gate.
‘Finer things? Oh, yes, perhaps; but this homely beauty touches me as no other sight could do. Something about a great sketch of green like this always affects me curiously. I love these wide fields.’
‘Yes, I remember your saying so,’ said Rosalie. The ice was broken now and she could talk to him freely, even taking courage to broach a subject which had much occupied her thoughts lately. ‘You told me, you know, how pleased you were at the sight of the cornfield in—in my picture.’
He did not turn towards her, and continued to scan the mead; but over his brown face she saw the colour rush quickly.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said; ‘of course I remember telling you about it.’
‘I wanted to ask you was—was the picture a very large one; and was it well painted?’
‘Yes, very large indeed, and beautifully painted. There was an iron railing in front of it because people pressed round it so. I was told it was the picture of the year.’
‘Was it?’ cried Rosalie; and at the note of delight in her voice he turned and looked at her with a smile. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes shining. ‘Oh!’ she cried, with a sigh of longing, ‘I would give anything to see it.’
‘I have a little print of it here,’ returned he impulsively; ‘I cut it out of a paper. It will give you some idea of it, though of course a very poor one.’
In another moment he partly withdrew from its enclosure the print in question, holding the envelope firmly in his own hand, however, so that the charred margin was hidden.
‘See,’ he said, pointing with his disengaged hand, ‘there is your house—over there in the corner, and here are your men, and here, under the piled-up sheaves, are you. But of course the figure in the picture is far more like you.’
‘I see,’ said Rosalie. ‘Yes, it must be a nice picture; and you say it is beautifully done?’
‘It is beautifully done. It is so real, so vivid, that I felt as if I could walk into the picture. These sheaves stand out so that one might think it easy to pass behind them.’
He glanced up as he said these words, and was surprised to see Rosalie colour almost to the temples. His own heart gave a sudden throb. Was it possible that she had divined the audacious thought which had so often come to him as he recalled that picture, and which, since his uncle’s revelations, he had resolutely striven to banish?
As a matter of fact there did happen to be a certain similarity between this thought of his and that which had caused Rosalie to change colour. For there had flashed across her mind the remembrance of the unknown artist’s words: ‘Perhaps if I come across a very attractive specimen of a rustic I may place him just behind the stook.’
‘This is the name underneath, I suppose?’ she said hastily. ‘What is the picture called? I cannot see from here.’
‘It is called “A Sleeping Beauty,”’ returned Richard.
She was dumb for a moment, hot waves ofcolour rushing over brow and neck. What was it the man had said last year? ‘You will wake up some day, my beauty.’ Words of ill omen! They had often tantalised and tormented her, but now, as they recurred to her, her heart seemed to stand still. Ashamed of her burning face, on which the young man’s eyes were now fixed, and of the agitation which she could not master, she suddenly bent forward confusedly.
‘What is the name of the painter? Let me look.’
Before Richard could divine her intention she had snatched the print from his hand, its black and jagged edges immediately catching her eye.
‘Why,’ she said in an altered tone—‘why, it is burnt.’
It was now Richard’s turn to look confused. ‘I began to burn it, but repented of my intention.’
‘You wanted to burn it,’ said Rosalie, ‘because you were so angry with me. Why were you so angry with me? Was it because of—of what your uncle told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know he did not mean to do me harm,’ said Rosalie tremulously, ‘but I don’t thinkhe—he can have made you understand properly. Everything was going wrong, and—and I was so much bothered; I found I could not manage by myself, and he had been my poor Elias’s friend’—she was beginning to sob now—‘and I knew I could trust him not to do anything Elias would n’t have liked, and—oh, it is so difficult to explain!’
‘Pray do not try to explain,’ said Richard very gently.
‘But you should n’t misjudge me as you do,’ cried she, and then burst into tears.
‘I do not misjudge you now,’ said Richard in a low voice. ‘Oh, don’t cry! I assure you I understand. You have been quite right—quite right all along.’
The big tearful blue eyes looked at him over the crumpled handkerchief.
‘But you said—you said I sold myself,’ she gasped. ‘You should n’t have said that! I loved my husband.’
‘I am sure you did,’ said Richard gravely and tenderly.
‘Yes, indeed I did. I loved him from the first. He was like a father to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Richard, and he looked at her with an odd mixture of wonder and compassion.
‘He was just as kind and dotingly fond of me as my own dear granfer.’
‘To be sure,’ said Richard. ‘Yes; no wonder you loved him.’
Something in his tone caused Rosalie to pull down her handkerchief and to cast a keen glance at him.
‘Why do you look at me like that?’ she said passionately.
‘Was I looking at you in any particular way?’ returned he, averting his eyes quickly.
‘Yes, you were. You were looking at me as if you were sorry for me! How dare you be sorry for me?’
‘Were you not telling me,’ he said quietly, ‘how much you felt the loss of your good old husband?’
‘You know it was not that,’ she retorted. ‘You looked at me as if I were a child who had no sense—as if I did not know what I was saying.’
‘Did I?’ said Richard. ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Is that what you really think of me?’ pursued she, her eyes full of wrathful fire, though the tears were still standing on her cheeks. ‘Answer me—I insist on your answering me!’
Richard’s gaze had been fixed on the littleprint which she was holding, and Rosalie, marking this, had felt an increase of indignation. Did he dare to share the opinion which the artist had so impertinently pronounced? Rousing himself, however, he turned towards her, and their eyes met.
‘I do think,’ he said, ‘that you know very little of life. Perhaps it is all the better for you. The fruit of the tree of knowledge is nearly always bitter—and sometimes it is poisonous.’
Rosalie was about to make a very angry rejoinder when the sound of steps close to them made them both suddenly start; on looking round they beheld a loving couple, such as are so frequently to be met with in rural districts on Sunday afternoons, sauntering down the lane.
Rosalie hastily restored her handkerchief to her pocket, and again leaned over the gate, endeavouring to assume a careless attitude; but she was secretly much annoyed, for the young man who was so gallantly escorting a much befringed and beribboned lady was no other than Sam Belbin. At any other time she would have been somewhat amused on discovering how soon her lowly admirer had consoled himself. He was working atBranston now, and his companion was evidently a townswoman; but that he should come on her just then, in the midst of her tears and wrath, with Richard Marshall in such close proximity, was most vexatious.
Sam stared hard as he approached, taking in, as Rosalie felt though she did not again look towards him, every compromising detail of the situation. When they had passed on he made some facetious remark to the girl on whose arm he was hanging, to which she responded by loud laughter.
The little incident impressed Rosalie disagreeably: she turned to Richard petulantly, holding out the little print which had been the cause of so much agitation.
‘You had better finish burning this,’ she said.
‘Perhaps I had,’ returned he, with unexpected docility.
Isaac looked so placid and cheery when they entered, and greeted them with so bright a smile, that Rosalie was conscious of a sudden rush of remorse.
Going up to him she placed her hand upon his shoulder, a caress which astonished its recipient mightily, for he was not accustomed to endearments from her. Rosalie kept herhand there, however, glancing defiantly at Richard the while, as though to say, ‘You are wrong in thinking me so ignorant; see how I love and appreciate this good man;’ and Richard smiled back kindly, as if replying, ‘I see it, indeed, and I am glad that you are content.’
‘Well,’ said Isaac, squinting down sideways at Rosalie’s hand. ‘Well, Mrs. F., did you take ’en all over the place?’
‘I took Mr. Marshall to see the big mead,’ returned she, a little doubtfully.
‘Ah, I’m sure he thought that improved. Well, and then you took ’en up to see the root crop?’
‘No—no, we did n’t go there; we did n’t like to go too far, as you were here by yourself.’
‘Why, I were all right.’ Here Isaac slowly lifted the shoulder on which Rosalie’s hand still lingered, and again glanced down at it. As, taking the hint, she withdrew it, he gently rubbed the place where it had rested.
‘You took ’en down to the carnfield, though,’ he continued. ‘I’ll engage he thought them oats was a-comin’ on wonderful.’
But they had not been to the cornfield, it appeared, nor yet to see the potatoes, norround by the vegetable garden, nor through the orchard; they had just been to the big mead and back.
‘Well,’ commented Mr. Sharpe, gazing at them in amazement, ‘ye must ha’ walked oncommon slow!’
‘We stood for some time looking at the view,’ said Richard, seeing Rosalie somewhat confounded.
‘Lookin’ at the view, eh?’ echoed his uncle. ‘There bain’t any view to speak on from the mead. If you’d ha’ gone a bit further up the lane and turned the corner ye’d ha’ had a beautiful view o’ Branston. But if you enj’yed yourselves it’s all right.’
He wheeled round in his chair as he made this last remark, and looked from one to the other of the young folks. Both faces were alike downcast, and somewhat paler than usual. After a moment’s scrutiny Isaac became as crestfallen as they.
‘So long as you enj’yed yourselves,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So long as ye’ve a-made friends—I want ’ee to be friends, d’ ye see?’
Rosalie and Richard glanced at each other. He read in her face a kind of antagonism mingled with fear, and dropped his eyes quickly lest they might betray the anguishand longing with which his heart was full to bursting.
‘I want ’ee to be friends, d’ ye see?’ repeated the farmer anxiously and pleadingly. ‘There’s me and you, Mrs. F., as friendly as can be; and there’s you and me, Richard—you’re much the same’s a son to me, bain’t ye?—well, then there’s you and Mrs. F., why should n’t ’ee be friendly wi’ her?’
Richard, to whom the question was directed, remained dumb.Friends! Could they ever be friends?
Rosalie, however, made a step forward and extended her hand.
‘Why should we not, indeed?’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, Isaac, we have done nothing but quarrel since we first met each other, which was very silly and unreasonable of us. Now, for your sake I am determined not to quarrel any more; and for your sake, I think, he too should be willing to keep the peace.’
‘Well said!’ cried Isaac heartily. ‘Well said, Mrs. F.! Now, Richard, my boy, where’s your hand? Just catch hold o’ Mrs. F.’s. That’s it—that’s it! Shake it well!’ Here he thumped the arm of his chair jubilantly. ‘You’ll be the best o’ friends from this dayfor’ard! Here we be, we three, friends all! Jist as me and poor ’Lias and Mrs. F. was friends—dear heart alive! yes, we was friends too—the best o’ friends! We was three then, and we be three now, bain’t us, Mrs. F.? We three! I do mind a old song as your poor dear mother used to sing, Richard:
‘When shall we three meet agen?In starm, in zunshine, ar in rain!’
‘When shall we three meet agen?In starm, in zunshine, ar in rain!’
Lard, yes, she used to sing it, poor soul! Well, now we be three agen, bain’t us? Three good friends! So, if you’ll mix the usu’l glass, Mrs. F., we’ll drink to the bond o’ good fellowship.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Rosalie indistinctly. ‘I forgot all about your glass, Isaac; I’m so sorry; I’ll see to it at once.’
She ran out of the room, glad to make her escape, and Richard sat down near the hearth.
Friends! They were to be friends as his uncle, and Elias, and Rosalie had once been friends! He had felt her hand twitch in his as Isaac had spoken; to her the proposition was doubtless as distasteful as to him it was impossible. What was his uncle thinking of? There were some things which flesh and blood—young flesh and blood—could notbrook, and this triangular bond was one of them. But he would be patient for a little while; he would choke down his rebellious sense of injury. His secret, thank Heaven! was secure; neither the guileless Isaac nor Rosalie herself had the faintest idea of the miserable passion which he was striving so hard to conquer. What was it she had said? They were to be friends—friends for his uncle’s sake. His uncle, to whom he owed everything—his kind, faithful, generous old benefactor. Well, he would try.
That night, in the seclusion of his attic room, he once more drew forth Rosalie’s picture.
‘Sleep on, Beauty,’ he said. ‘Sleep on in peace! I shall not try to wake you. Sleep soundly; do not even dream.’
And, after a last silent look, he held it steadily in the flame of the candle, watching its destruction unflinchingly until the last feathery film dropped from his fingers.
And times he saith: ‘Why must man aye forego?And why is life a nobler thing through pain?’And times: ‘Since Love’s sweet apple hangs so low,Shall I not strongly grasp and count it gain?’Elinor Sweetman.
And times he saith: ‘Why must man aye forego?And why is life a nobler thing through pain?’And times: ‘Since Love’s sweet apple hangs so low,Shall I not strongly grasp and count it gain?’
Elinor Sweetman.
For some time after Isaac’s apparently successful peace-making the friendly relations between the parties concerned remained unbroken. Richard was frequently sent on messages to Littlecomb, acquitting himself on these occasions in a strictly business-like manner; and when he accompanied his uncle thither he made such strenuous efforts to appear at his ease and to entertain its hostess that Isaac was delighted beyond measure.
‘How th’ chap d’ talk!’ he would say sometimes under his breath, with an admiring nod and wink. ‘Bless me, he d’ talk like prent! I d’ ’low there is n’t very much as my nevvy don’t know.’
Richard, indeed, in his desire to avoid those terrible long silences which had so much discomposed him during his first visits to Littlecomb,embarked upon wild flights of fancy, related at length his past experiences, and delivered his opinion upon men and things with a fluency which frequently surprised himself. The fact was that he was afraid to pause; were he to come to a halt when those blue eyes were fixed upon him, could he ever take up the thread of his discourse again? Even as it was, the mere consciousness of that intent gaze made him sometimes falter; but, recovering himself, he would go on with a rush, knowing that he was making many wild statements, but persevering nevertheless. He was bound to do all the talking, if talking there must be, for Rosalie was very silent, and his uncle was at no time garrulous.
But the harmony of these relations was rudely broken by an unexpected incident.
One warm afternoon, early in June, Farmer Sharpe chanced to be standing by his own gate, gazing abstractedly up and down the lane. Presently he descried an undersized, narrow-chested figure making its way towards him, and, as it drew near, recognised Mr. Samuel Cross.
‘Fine evenin’,’ remarked Isaac, nodding sideways in his direction, and expecting him to pass on.
‘A very fine evening, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned Samuel, pausing, and leaning against the gatepost, with the evident intention of entering into conversation. ‘The very evenin’ for a quiet walk.’
‘Walkin’ bain’t much in my line,’ returned Isaac. ‘Nay, not without I’m obliged to—seein’ after the men and goin’ round the fields, and across the downs to look after the sheep; but walkin’—meanin’ goin’ for a walk jist for pleasure—it bain’t in my line at all.’
‘It’s in other people’s line, though,’ said Samuel; and he shot a cunning glance at the older man out of his little red-rimmed eyes. ‘I met your nephew strolling up towards Littlecomb just now.’
‘Very like ye did,’ agreed Sharpe. ‘He do often go up there on business.’
‘Lucky chap!’ exclaimed Cross. ‘The rest of us don’t often contrive to make business agree so well with pleasure.’
He paused to snigger, and Isaac turned his mild grey eyes inquiringly upon him.
‘Nay, Samuel Cross,’ he remarked, ‘I don’t suppose asyoudo.’
The slight stress laid upon the personal pronoun appeared to irritate the young gentleman, and he replied with a certain acerbity:
‘There is n’t, as a rule, much pleasure to be found in doing honest business, Mr. Sharpe.’
‘Not among lawyers,’ said Isaac, nodding placidly. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘There’s others besides lawyers, though,’ cried Samuel, ‘as are n’t so very honest! He! he! You’re a very confiding man, Mr. Sharpe—a very confiding uncle. ’T is n’t everyone in your situation that would care to make such a handsome young man his business-manager where a handsome young woman was concerned. He! he! Your nephew, no doubt, will do the business thoroughly—perhaps a little too thoroughly.’
‘My nevvy,’ returned Isaac loftily, ‘may be trusted to do his dooty, Sam’el. ’T is more nor can be said for many folks as be all for pokin’ their noses where they bain’t wanted!’
Mr. Cross’s always sallow complexion assumed an even more jaundiced hue as he retorted:
‘Most people do no business on Sunday—in England they don’t at least; but I suppose Mr. Richard Marshall has brought foreign notions back with him. He was seen two or three weeks ago doingbusinesswith Mrs. Fiander quite as per usual. They were standin’ close together lookin’ over a gate, just as if he andshe were keepin’ company. And he was tellin’ her such touchin’ business details that she was actually crying, Mr. Sharpe.’