‘Cryin’!’ ejaculated Isaac, in a kind of roar. ‘Stuff and nonsense! What had she to cry for?’
‘How should I know? Because prices had gone down, I suppose, since, according to you, they talk nothing but business when they are together.’
‘Oh, drop that,’ cried the farmer, losing patience at last. ‘What be you a-drivin’ at, Sam’el Cross, wi’ your hints?’
‘Why,’ rejoined Samuel, thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets—‘why, the remark as was passed by the young man that saw them in the lane will perhaps throw some light on the subject. Says he, “I believe,” he says, “as the widow Fiander be a-takin’ on wi’ the new love before she is off wi’ the old.” So if I do drop a hint, Mr. Sharpe’—and Samuel assumed a virtuous air, and struck an appropriate attitude—‘I do it in the way of kindness. Take my advice and look sharp—look like your name, sir! We lawyers see a deal of the world, a deal of the wickedness of the world, and we know that worthy folks are often caughtnapping. But don’t you be caught, farmer—keep a good look-out, or your bride will be snapped up from under your very nose.’
‘Now I’ll tell you what it is, Sam’el Cross,’ cried Isaac, who had been shifting from one foot to the other during the latter part of the clerk’s speech, and was purple in the face with suppressed ire, ‘since you’re so fond of advice maybe you’ll take a bit from me. Jist you keep that long tongue o’ yourn quiet. What do ye mean, ye little treecherous spy, by poking your nose into other people’s business and tryin’ to make mischief between them that’s as good as father and son? I know my nevvy a deal better than you know him. My nevvy bain’t a snapper, an’ so I tell ’ee! Now you jist take yourself off out of this, and don’t ’ee come here wi’ no more lyin’ tales, else maybe ye’ll find this here stick o’ mine laid about your shoulders. I bain’t so strong as I were, but I could make a shift to hit ’ee a crack or two—so now ye know.’
Samuel had started back as words and gestures grew threatening, and now deemed it better to beat a retreat; turning, however, at a safe distance to bestow a withering valedictory smile upon his adversary, and to remark that he was sorry for him.
Ever since his rejection by Rosalie he had been burning with resentment against her, and desirous of an opportunity of venting it. A chance meeting with Sam Belbin had resulted in the latter’s imparting to him a highly-coloured version of the scene which he had witnessed between Rosalie and Richard in the lane. The desired opportunity seemed to have arrived, and Samuel had hastened to take advantage of it, with, as has been seen, indifferent success. As he now hastened away as rapidly as his short legs would carry him he encountered the very person he had been so anxious to traduce. Richard nodded, and would have passed on, but that Cross, who was still suffering from a redundancy of spite, thought the opportunity favourable for venting it.
‘You are back already,’ he remarked. ‘I wonder you did n’t contrive to be a bit longer over yourbusiness! You would n’t ha’ been missed yonder. Your uncle seems quite content with your doings. As I told him just now—he has a confiding nature.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Richard, speaking in a low even voice, but with an ominous flash of the eyes.
‘Ha! you know what I mean well enough,you sly young dog! If you don’t, ask the fascinating young widow—ask lovely, dainty Mrs. F. She knows what she’s about, though she contrives to look so demure. Come,’ marking the expression of Richard’s face, ‘you need n’t turn rusty over it—I’ll tell no tales, bless you! But there’s others besides me that has been passing remarks about the Widow Fiander’s new business-manager. Ha! ha!—You may carry on, though, as far as I am concerned—perhaps I know a little too much about the lady to envy you; she has played a double game before now. As for the old man,he’llfind out nothing; he’s as blind as a bat—as blind as a bat!’
Here Mr. Cross thrust his tongue into his cheek, and made a hideous contortion of countenance calculated to convey an impression of his own extreme artfulness and of his contempt for the old farmer’s short-sightedness.
His own vision, perhaps, might with advantage have been a little clearer; a man of quicker perceptions would have realised that Richard’s persistent silence was more fraught with danger to him than a torrent of wrathful words. He was, therefore, considerably surprised when Marshall suddenly brought down his vigorous right hand upon the cheek atthat moment distended by Samuel’s malevolent tongue, and, before he had time to spring backwards, the other palm inflicted similar chastisement on its fellow.
The lawyer’s clerk gasped, spluttered, and finally uttered a choking howl.
‘Hang you! You’ve made me nearly bite my tongue off!’
‘Serve you right if I had,’ cried Richard. ‘You little reptile, if you so much as say another word of this kind I’ll half kill you!’
He had seized Samuel by the shoulders and was now shaking him slowly backwards and forwards:
‘Do you take back every word of your vile slanders?’
‘Ye—ye—yes,’ gasped Cross, in an agony of terror.
‘Will you give me your word to keep that foul tongue of yours quiet in future?’
‘Oh Lord, yes, Richard Marshall. For Heaven’s sake let me go! You’ve about half killed me as it is!’
Richard released him with a parting admonition to look out, and Cross went on his way with a staggering gait, and stuffing his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth.
Richard, still in a white heat of passion,was striding along at a tremendous rate, when he suddenly observed the large white-clad person of his uncle standing contemplatively some twenty yards away from the scene of the encounter. His good humoured face wore a pleasant and satisfied smile.
‘Well done, lad!’ he remarked, as soon as Richard came within hearing. ‘Ye did give it ’en in style! I never did see nothing more neat. I do rather think, Richard, as Mr. Sam’el Cross ’ull have the toothache. I d’ ’low he will.’
‘I only wish I had made every bone in his body ache!’ cried Richard, still fuming.
‘I d’ ’low as he said something as ann’yed ’ee, Richard,’ said the farmer, ceasing his placid chuckles and looking intently at his nephew.
‘Yes,’ returned Richard, ‘he annoyed me very much. He—in point of fact, he insulted me.’
‘Well, now,’ commented Isaac, ‘that was strange. I did n’t think he’d insult ’ee to your face, Richard. He was a-talkin’ to me jist now, and he did say some very insultin’ things agen you—but that was behind your back, d’ ye see? I did n’t think the chap would acshally go for to say ’em to your face.’
‘What did he say of me?’ said Richard breathlessly.
‘Why, he did say redic’lous things about you and Mrs. F. Ah, the little raskil could n’t so much as leave Mrs. F.’s name out! And he were very oncivil to me—ye ’d scarce believe how oncivil he were. Up and told me straight out as if I did n’t look out you’d be snappin’ up Mrs. F. without “By your leave,” or “With your leave.” But I give it ’en back well, I can tell ’ee. Says I, “My nevvy bain’t a snapper,” says I. Them was my very words. “Ye little treecherous spy,” I says, “don’t ’ee be a-pokin’ your nose into other folks’ business. I know my nevvy,” I says, “and my nevvy bain’t a snapper.”’
Here Isaac paused to chuckle jubilantly, and, turning, slapped his nephew jovially on the back.
‘What do you think of that for an answer, eh?’
‘Why, that it was an excellent one,’ said Richard, beginning to stride on again so rapidly that his uncle could scarcely keep pace with him.
‘And I told him too,’ pursued the latter, ‘that if he came agen with sich lyin’ tales I’d lay my stick about his shoulders.’
‘I’m glad you said that,’ exclaimed the young man without turning his head. ‘I’m glad you told him they were lying tales. Theyarelying tales!’
‘And the stick,’ Isaac reminded him with modest triumph. ‘I reckon I brought it in rather neat about the stick. Says I, “I bain’t quite so young as I were, but I could make shift to hit ’ee a crack or two yet.”’
‘I wish I had thrashed him within an inch of his life!’ came the savage comment thrown over Richard’s shoulder.
‘Lard, Richard, how you do lay them long legs o’ yourn to the ground,’ panted Isaac, pausing to wipe his brow. ‘I’m fair out o’ breath. Bide a bit—bide a bit; let me blow. There, don’t ’ee be in sich a takin’, lad. I reckon them there little taps as ye gave Sam’el Cross ’ull keep ’en quiet for some time. He be gone t’other way, anyhow; and it won’t do ’ee no good to run me off my legs.’
Richard came slowly back; his face was fixed and stern, but he spoke more quietly.
‘Uncle, I blame myself to a certain extent for what has happened. I might have guessed that in a gossiping little place like this people would talk if I went so often to Littlecomb. I must keep away altogether for the present.’
‘Nay now, don’t ’ee let yourself get so upset. What signifies a bit of idle chatter! You don’t need to take no notice of it at all.’
‘But I will take notice of it,’ cried Richard. ‘I don’t choose that people should take liberties with my name; and what is worse—with hers. I need not assure you, Uncle Isaac, that I have never said one word to Mrs. Fiander that anyone need find fault with.’
‘To be sure,’ agreed Isaac, ‘of course not.’ He came to a sudden pause, however, and cast a sidelong look at his nephew, scratching his jaw meditatively. ‘There was one day—one Sunday—Sam’el Cross was a-sayin’, somebody seed you both standin’ a-lookin’ over a gate, and Mrs. F. was a-cryin’. That was n’t very likely, I don’t think. ’T was n’t very likely as you’d say aught as ’ud make Mrs. F. cry.’
Richard drew a quick breath, and his hands involuntarily clenched themselves.
‘She did cry one day,’ he said. ‘It was the first Sunday you took me to Littlecomb. She imagined’—hesitatingly—‘that I had a bad opinion of her, and she cried, and said I was unjust.’
‘That’ll be the day you went to see the bigmead,’ said Farmer Sharpe reflectively. ‘Ye had n’t made friends then. Ye have n’t made her cry since, Richard, have ’ee?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Women be so fanciful. Ye did n’t really have a bad opinion of her, Richard?’
‘Far from it.’
‘She be a very dear woman—a very dear woman. ’T is n’t very likely as anybody ’ud have a bad opinion of Mrs. F. Well, ye be real trew friends now, and ye don’t need to take no notice of idle talk. Let there be no coolness between ye on that account.’
Richard, however, remained fixed in his determination to avoid Littlecomb for the future, and in spite of his uncle’s protests adhered to his resolution. On the following Sunday he was somewhat discomposed to find Rosalie’s eyes straying towards him once or twice as he knelt on the opposite side of the church, and it seemed to him that they wore a questioning, pleading expression.
His purpose, however, remained unshaken, and immediately after the early dinner he went out without saying anything to his uncle, and could not be found when the hour came for their weekly pilgrimage to Littlecomb. After waiting some time, and vainlybellowing his name, the farmer was obliged to go without him.
Richard was in a very taciturn mode at the evening meal, and his uncle’s announcement that Mrs. F. had inquired why he had not come and remarked that she saw nothing of him nowadays, did not render him more inclined for conversation. After supper, too, instead of smoking quietly, he sat fidgeting in his chair for a few minutes, and then, rising hastily, fell to pacing about the room.
‘You seem mortal onaisy this evening,’ remarked the farmer, after these perambulations had continued some time. ‘Sit down, and light up like a decent Christian.’
He pushed forward a chair invitingly with his foot, and Richard took it and drew his pipe from his pocket.
Ugh! How hot and stuffy it was in this kitchen, where, in spite of the warm weather, a fire was blazing! The windows had not been opened all day, he felt sure; the odour of their recent repast still lingered in the air, mingled with the fumes of the particularly rank pipe which his uncle was then enjoying. He thought of the cool twilight without, of the downs with the fresh breeze blowing across them, of the path beside the hedgethat led to Littlecomb, of the garden there—the garden where the thrush was singing, and where the roses and syringa were in full bloom. Ah, he could picture to himself the syringa with its white blossoms shining like pale lamps amid the dusky boughs. The garden still, and sweet, and dewy—where she was wandering at this hour!
‘Light up, man,’ said Isaac, pointing to Richard’s pipe.
His nephew obeyed, but held it absently between his fingers.
Isaac poked the blazing logs with his foot and bent forward, extending his hands to the glow; his big red face looked unnaturally large through the surrounding haze of smoke. Richard half rose from his chair, and then sank back again. Outside, came the tantalising thought again, outside—a few paces away, were the downs and the lonely path through the fields, and then the garden.
The farmer was slowly nodding in the comfortable radiance. Richard’s unused pipe had gone out.The garden!The garden!
Suddenly he rose from his chair, strode across the room, flung open the door, and was gone before his uncle had time to do more than turn his head.
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, away!Shelley.
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, away!
Shelley.
Onceoutside, Richard flew along as though pursued by a thousand demons; here were the downs, with their delicious tart air—but he raced across them without pausing to inhale it; now to swing over the hedge and to cover the ground that still lay between him and the garden. The garden and her! His heart was thumping loudly against his ribs; a sound as of a rushing sea was in his ears. On, on! there were the lights twinkling from under the dark eaves—there was the gate set in the high wall. How it shook beneath his violent hand as he flung it open! He stood still at last, hardly breathing in his suspense. Was she there? All was still save for the rustling of the boughs and the faint warbling of the birds—more than one was celebrating evensong to-night.What if she should not be there! He walked on, slowly and unsteadily now, and presently there was a movement amid the greenery close at hand. Out of a little arbour set amid the shrubs a figure came gliding forth to meet him. She paused two paces away from him and her hands fell by her sides.
‘It is you?’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘Yes, it is I.’
They stood facing each other in unbroken silence for a full minute, and then she asked, still in that breathless whisper:
‘Why did you come?’
‘Because I could not keep away.’
She turned and began slowly to pace down the path between the roses. Waves of perfume were wafted to their nostrils from the syringa blossom. Yes, yonder stood the bush just as he had pictured to himself. The remembrance suddenly flashed across Richard as he walked beside her that these shrubs were sometimes called ‘Mock Orange Trees.’Mock Orange Trees!Mock Orange Blossom!—he must not pursue that thought further.
‘I kept away for four days,’ he said suddenly. ‘I tried to keep away to-day.’
After a long pause she faltered:
‘I was wondering why you did not come.’
He made no answer, and they walked in silence till the end of the path was reached, and then she said, still falteringly:
‘I don’t think you ought to have come now.’
‘I know I ought not!’
They turned and began to retrace their steps, but when about mid-way up the garden she came to a standstill and looked him full in the face.
‘Go now,’ she said. ‘Go! You must not stay here any longer.’
Even in the dim light he could see that she was pale and that her figure wavered; but he gazed at her as though without realising the sense of her words.
‘Will you not leave me,’ she entreated, ‘when I ask you?’
He stood looking at her stupidly for a moment or two longer; then the meaning of her request seemed to reach his understanding.
‘I will go,’ he said hoarsely, ‘if you will give me those flowers in your hand.’
‘How foolish you are!’ she cried. ‘There, yes, take them, and for Heaven’s sake go!’
She thrust them towards him, and he took them from her hand—a cluster of roses, moist and sweet. Instead of fulfilling his promise, however, he made a step closer to her.
‘Will you put them in my coat?’ he asked. His eyes in his haggard face seemed to burn.
‘No,’ said Rosalie, drawing back.
The movement and the icy tone that accompanied it recalled him to himself. He, too, drew back, hesitated, and then, throwing the flowers on the ground with a passionate gesture, departed. Back again through the gate, across the yard, under the lea of the hedge, over the downs.
Here was home; there was the warm light of the fire by which his uncle sat. Now the door was open, and he stood once more in his presence; now, he, Richard, would be forced to look him in the face.
For a moment he stood with the door-handle in his hand, and then, as the old man turned to smile inquiringly upon him, he suddenly wheeled and fled.
‘I can’t,’ he cried, as he mounted the stairs. ‘I can’t!’
Isaac stared at the closed door for some moments as though expecting it to open again, then, slowly turning back to the fire, listened.
In the room overhead hasty steps were walking up and down.
‘He be gone to fetch summat, very like,’remarked the farmer as he restored his pipe to his mouth. But after smoking and listening a little longer, and marking that the pacing to and fro continued without intermission, he jerked his thumb upwards, nodded, and said, ‘He bain’t a-comin’ back.’ Then, after pausing a moment to ruminate over this circumstance, he made up his mind to the inevitable, tapped his pipe upon the hob, extinguished the lamp, and went upstairs to bed.
And long after he was sunk in dreamless slumbers those hasty footsteps might have been heard in the adjoining room, pacing up and down, up and down, like the restless tread of a caged beast.
Richard was not the only one who spent an unquiet night. Rosalie, too, could find no rest for her aching heart. After some hours of feverish tossing she rose, dressed in the dim grey light that was just stealing over the world, and seated herself by the open window. She could meditate here without risk of being disturbed, for the sun would not rise for an hour and more; and even the earliest of her men would not appear until some time after dawn.
With her chin resting on her hand, shehearkened vaguely to the succession of sounds which betokened the awakening of Nature. The cock had crowed long before she had left her uneasy pillow; the young sparrows had been chirping while she had clothed her weary frame; but now the cuckoo’s note was sounding faintly from a neighbouring copse, and the starlings were chattering in their nests on the ivied wall. The grey veil was being gradually withdrawn from the face of the earth, but even yet familiar objects were only half revealed, and the most well-known had a strange and unreal look.
The first sunbeam had not yet struck across the sky when Rosalie, whose eyes had been absently fixed upon the irregular line of hedge which marked the approach to the barton, saw a dark object moving slowly along it, and presently into the open space before her gate there stepped the figure of a man. She knew what man it was even before he had vaulted the locked gate and taken up his stand beneath her window. She would have given worlds to close this window and hasten out of sight, but a spell seemed to be laid upon her, and she could neither move nor speak, only gaze downward with dilated frightened eyes.
‘You are there?’ said Richard, looking upwith a face as drawn and white as her own. ‘Thank God! I wanted to see you before I go. I wanted to say Good-bye.’
The power of speech returned to her, and she leaned forth impulsively with a faint cry. ‘Going! You are going?’
‘Yes, I am going. Is it not the only thing I can do? Do you think I can bear to sit at his table and take his pay, and know that I am a traitor to him in my heart?’
Rosalie did not speak; but Richard, gazing upwards, saw the clasp of her hands tighten, as they rested on the sill, till the nails and knuckles showed white.
He went on passionately: ‘Every word he says to me stabs me. Every time I look at his honest, unsuspicious face I feel—surely you must know what I feel! I’m not quite a brute yet! And later, when you are his wife—do you think it would be possible for me to go on living within a stone’s throw—to see you every day—to keep up the farce of friendship? What do you think I am made of?’
Her face was set like marble; only the eyes moved. After a long pause she whispered: ‘Will you—ever come back?’
‘Who knows?’ he answered with a harshlaugh. ‘Some time perhaps—when I am quite old—when I can no longer feel.’
She put her hand before her eyes, and then let it drop. Richard saw the irrepressible anguish in them, and his face changed. He threw up his arms suddenly with a kind of a sob:
‘I will not go—if you tell me to stay!’
For a moment longer the agonised eyes looked down into his, and he thought he saw her waver; but it was only for a moment. Her lips moved, at first without emitting any sound, but presently mastering herself, she said firmly:
‘No, I tell you to go—it is right for you to go.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Richard hoarsely.
‘Good-bye,’ faltered Rosalie; and then there came a great sob: ‘God bless you!’
He turned as if to leave her, but wheeling round, looked back.
‘Am I to have nothing? Am I to be sent away without so much as a clasp of the hand?’
She had vanished from the window, and for a moment he stood holding his breath; would she come down to him—would she meet him at the door?
But within all was silent.
‘She will not come,’ he said to himself; and once more went on his way, staggering blindly forward, with his head sunk upon his breast.
Had he looked back again he might have seen her creep to the window and kneel by it, straining her eyes through streaming tears.
Poor Rosalie! Poor Beauty! Did she wake at last only to look upon the vanishing form of her Prince?
* * *
Later in the day Isaac Sharpe came to Littlecomb in great perturbation of mind. He found Rosalie lying on the couch in the parlour, the blind being drawn down—she had a headache, she said.
‘Dear heart alive!’ said Isaac, sitting down, a hand on either knee. ‘Everything d’ seem to be goin’ wrong this day! Here’s my nevvy gone off wi’ himself!’
‘Gone?’ echoed Rosalie, faintly, turning her face to the wall.
‘’Ees, took himself off this morning wi’out a word to anyone, and left this here bit of a note for to explain. I bain’t much of a hand at letter readin’, but Bithey did read it for me, and he does n’t seem to give no excuse atall, except that he were feelin’ restless. He says he al’ays told me he were a rover, and could n’t settle down, and now the travellin’ fit have come on him and he felt he must be off. And he thanks me very handsome, and he tells me he don’t know where he be a-goin’ to yet, but when he does he’ll write and let me know where to send his luggage. And that’s all.’
That’s all,’ repeated Rosalie, looking at the kind, troubled old face with a bewildered stare. That was all, of course; and she had known it before. She had with her own eyes watched Richard’s departing figure until it had disappeared from sight. She had known quite well that he would never return; she had even told him to go, agreed with him that it was the right and honourable thing to do—the only thing to do. Ever since the morning she had been telling herself so over and over again; yet none the less the farmer’s words fell like a knell upon her heart.
‘You do look bad, to be sure—I am sorry your head be so bad. Lard! Lard, what a world this be! I’m that upset I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.’
The quaver in his voice smote Rosalie. She must make an effort to overcome herselfish grief; above all, to conquer that mad spirit of rebellion which every now and then rose rampant within her. This good man had need of her sympathy; should she not give it all the more willingly that there was so large an element of remorse mingled with her misery? She sat up and looked affectionately towards him:
‘I’m very, very sorry for you,’ she said.
‘’T was so sudden, ye see,’ pursued Isaac dolefully. ‘He never so much as said a word to I—never so much as hinted as he war n’t satisfied. I mid ha’ seen that the restless fit were a-comin’ on if I had n’t ha’ been sich a sammy. Restless! He were that restless last night, he were more like a dog at a fair as had lost his master nor a reasonable human being! It was up and down, and in and out the whole blessed evening. Ah, I be terrible upset; I be oncommon fond o’ Richard, d’ ye see. Always was from the time he were a little ’un. I was oncommon fond o’ his mother afore him; she were the only woman I ever could put up wi’—present company excepted.’
As Isaac ducked his head towards her with a melancholy attempt at jocularity, Rosalie’s heart sank lower still; she turned away hastily that he might not see her face. At anearlier period she might have been gratified by the knowledge that she was one of the few women in the world whom Isaac Sharpe could ‘put up with’—phrases of the kind were his nearest approach to ardour, and indicated, as she knew, a considerable amount of solid attachment; but the passionate tones of Richard’s voice had rung too recently in her ear—the look in his eyes was too fresh in her memory. Ah, what had she not seen in those eyes!
‘’Ees,’ went on her unconscious future husband, ‘’ees, I’ll be like to miss ’en; him and me was the best of friends—and that’s not all. His leaving me like this be terrible ill-convenient just now—’t is the busy time of year, d’ye see—haymaking time—every pair o’ hands is wanted. Richard did very near the work o’ two men; and he must go trapesing off wi’ hisself, giving me no time at all to find somebody to take his place.’
There was a distinct sense of injury in his tone now.
‘I am sure he never thought of that,’ cried Rosalie, quickly and resentfully. How could Isaac find it in his heart to think of such things in the face of the overwhelming fact that Richard was gone!
‘Ah, sure he did n’t,’ agreed Isaac. ‘’T is a very bad job! A very bad job indeed; but I suppose there bain’t nothing to be done.’
Rosalie agreed with a sigh. It was too true; there was nothing to be done.
L’absence est à l’amourCe qu’est au feu le vent;Il éteint le petit,Mais it allume le grand.
L’absence est à l’amourCe qu’est au feu le vent;Il éteint le petit,Mais it allume le grand.
Severaldays passed, and Richard made no sign. Rosalie went about looking like the ghost of herself. It was known that she was suffering from a very severe attack of neuralgia, which, oddly enough, had first seized her on the very day of Richard Marshall’s sudden departure.
Some guileless people believed in the neuralgia—poor Mrs. Fiander did look so very bad, and a body could n’t make believe to be so pale. Others, among whom was Mrs. Belbin, folded their arms and assumed a knowing air. ’T was likely enough, averred this matron, for folks to look pale as had reason to. Mrs. Fiander’s conscience was very likely a-troublin’ o’ she. She was a terrible one for carryin’ on wi’ young men—a-leadin’ of them on, and then a-sendin’ themoff wi’out no reason. Her Sam could say somethin’ if he ’d a mind—her Sam did know more than he did like to talk about. Others, again, were of opinion that Mrs. Fiander was just wasting away for love of Mr. Sharpe’s nephew, and that that young man had gone of his own accord, and had not been dismissed by the widow. ’T was n’t very likely, said these sages, that Richard Marshall, who had his own way to make in the world, and who was known to have great expectations from his uncle, would wish to have any unpleasantness with him. In response to the suggestion that the young man would n’t be a-doin’ so very bad for hisself if he and Widow Fiander made a match of it, they returned conclusively that it was quite unpossible for him and Widow Fiander to make a match of it, since her banns were to be given out almost immediately with Farmer Sharpe. Somebody had up and axed Mrs. Fiander when the wedding was to be, and she had answered that the day was not yet fixed, but that the wedding was to take place as agreed at the end of July.
Isaac heard none of these rumours, but he too wandered about with an unusually lengthy and gloomy face.
One day, however, Rosalie, looking out from the darkened room where she was sitting, saw him hastening towards her house with every appearance of excitement, waving a piece of paper in his hand.
In a moment she stood on the threshold. ‘You have heard from Richard?’ she cried eagerly. ‘You have had a letter?’
‘Nay, my dear, I have n’t had no letter,’ panted Isaac, as soon as he was near enough. ‘I ’ve had a graft.’
‘You have had what?’ inquired Rosalie.
‘I have had a graft, my dear, a tele-graft—in one of them nasty-lookin’ yeller wrappers as al’ays seems to bring bad news.’
‘I hope it has n’t brought bad news this time,’ said she tremulously, as they went into the house together.
‘Nay, I hope not,’ said the farmer doubtfully. ‘It does n’t say much, d’ ye see—not much one way or t’ other.’
Smoothing out the paper, he handed it to her upside down.
Rosalie reversed it, and read the brief message:
‘Send luggage as soon as possible Lime Street Station, Liverpool, to be called for.—Richard.’
‘Liverpool! Then he must intend to go to America again!’
Isaac flushed, and his jaw dropped.
‘Now, Mrs. F., I do call that a-jumpin’ to conclusions,’ he said presently, quite testily for him. ‘You have n’t no earthly reason for sayin’ sich a thing. Is it likely my nevvy ’ud go off to ’Merica again when he’s only just a-comed back? Did n’t he say he was a-longin’ and a-longin’ to be back to the old country—’
‘I know,’ interrupted Rosalie quickly; ‘but for all that I’m sure he means to return to America now. He told me he landed at Liverpool, and, depend upon it, he intends to start from there again. Yes, yes, I’m quite sure of it. He did not rest, you see, until he had put the length of the country between us, and now he means to go further still—perhaps when he is at the other side of the world he will be contented.’
She spoke with irrepressible bitterness, but Isaac did not notice it.
‘If that’s your opinion, Mrs. F.,’ he said, ‘we ’d best lose no time in carryin’ out my little plan. I ’ve got a plan, d’ ye see,’ he added, with modest triumph. ‘Ah, it comed to me all of a sudden. We’ll write to him, Mrs. F.’
‘But what would be the use of writing?’ said Rosalie. ‘We cannot force him to come back against his will.’
‘Nay, we can’t force him, but I think ’t is only some notion the chap’s got in his head. He seemed quite settled till last week, and maybe the rovin’ fit will ha’ wore off a bit by now. He’s gone all the way to Liverpool, d’ ye see—that ought to ha’ let off a bit o’ steam. Maybe, if we wrote him a letter and just axed him straight out, he might change his mind. We can send a letter with his luggage—’t won’t be too late so long as he has n’t left the country; and he can’t leave the country wi’out his luggage, d’ ye see? We can but try.’
‘Of course—you can try,’ said Rosalie, pressing her hand to her head with a bewildered air.
‘So, I were thinkin’, Mrs. F., if ye ’d jist set down and drop a line to ’en for me—that’s to say, if your head bain’t a-troublin’ you too much—’
He was looking at her pleadingly, misunderstanding the expression of her face.
‘Oh, never mind about my head. I’m only wondering—I’m only thinking. Must the letter go to-day?’
‘Well ye see, Richard did ax most perticlarfor his traps to be sent off at once,’ replied the farmer, his eyes round with anxiety; ‘and if we don’t send the letter at the same time we mid miss him.’
‘Bithey used always to write to him for you, didn’t she?’ said Rosalie, catching at the last straw. ‘Perhaps it would have more effect if she wrote.’
‘Nay now, my dear, if ye ’d be so obligin’, I ’d take it very kind o’ you to do it. It d’ take Bithey very near three days to write a letter—I ’d be very much obliged to ’ee, my dear,’ he repeated persuasively.
Thus adjured she had no resource but to comply, and with a beating heart and throbbing brain she set about her preparations. Going to the window, she drew up the blind a little way, and then, collecting pen, ink, and paper, sat down opposite Isaac at the table. When she had thus inaugurated proceedings Isaac might have been observed to gather himself up, concentrating, as it were, all his forces in preparation to the effort of composition.
Having dipped her pen in the ink, Rosalie looked inquiringly at him.
‘How do you wish me to begin?’ she said.
‘Bithey do al’ays start off wi’ “My dear Nevvy,”’ responded Isaac in a husky tone, asthough he were speaking from beneath a blanket, which evidently resulted from the mighty constraint he was putting upon himself.
‘My dear Nephew,’ wrote Rosalie, and then she raised her eyes again.
The farmer cleared his throat, drew a long breath, and continued slowly, and with apparently immense difficulty:
‘Your uncle Isaac do say—’
‘Say,’ repeated Rosalie, when she had written the last word.
Isaac, crimson in the face, was absorbed in the mental struggle, but presently perceived with a start that her pen had stopped moving.
‘Have ’ee gotSay? Well,Your uncle Isaac do say—as I hope you’ll change your mind—’
‘Had n’t I better puthehopes?’ said the secretary.
The farmer came out of his brown study, and looked up at her inquiringly:
‘Who’s he?’
‘Why you, of course. If I say, “Your uncle Isaac,” I ought to go on in the same way, “He says.” If I say “I” it will look as if I were speaking of myself—as if it wereIwho wished he would change his mind.’
‘Well, and don’t ’ee wish it?’ asked Isaac sharply, but reproachfully too.
Rosalie bent her head over the paper, and answered hurriedly:
‘I? Oh, of course, of course; but it would not do for me to tell him so—it would be too much of a liberty.’
‘Lard, no, my dear. Richard would n’t think it such. But there, I be dathered with so much talk—you must n’t cut in again, Mrs. F.—’t is terrible hard work writin’ letters, and if ye go for to speak to I in the middle I’ll be all mixed up. Let me tell ’ee my own way, d’ ye see?—Richard knows my ways, and he’ll understand fast enough. Now, let me see:—“Your uncle Isaac wishes for to say as I hope ye’ll change your mind and come back.Mrs. F. is a-writin’ this for I,and she wishes for to say ’t is Uncle Isaac as wants ’ee back”—that’ll make it all right, d’ ye see?’ he continued, dropping the high unnatural tone which seemed essential to dictation, and adopting a confidential one—‘now he can’t go for to make no mistakes. Have ’ee wrote that?’
‘No.—Oh, don’t make me write that, Mr. Sharpe—I don’t want him to think me unkind.’
Isaac clicked his tongue in desperation.
‘Lard ha’ mercy!’ he ejaculated, ‘this here letter ’ull never get wrote. Now, my dear, jist put down what I d’ tell ’ee—and don’t flurry me. When I do get flurried I can’t for the life o’ me think o’ nothin’. Jist be a-puttin’ o’ that down, and I’ll go on thinkin’, d’ ye see. It’ll come right—ye’ll find it’ll come right.’
Rosalie reluctantly set down the required sentence, and found at its conclusion that Isaac had already inflated himself in preparation for a further effort.
‘Mrs. F. d’ wish ’ee to come back too,as is nat’ral,but she thinks it more becomin’ not to say so.’
He fixed his eyes sternly upon her as he enunciated this statement, and in sheer desperation Rosalie set it down.
‘Now ye have n’t nothing to complain of, I don’t think,’ he remarked triumphantly. ‘Now we can get on. Well—what next?’
After deep reflection the following words came forth:
‘’T is most onconvenient for ’ee to be a-leavin’ me at such short notice.I—wish—’ee—most—pertic’lar—to—come—back—to-week.We be a goin’ to cut the church meadow,andevery hand be wanted.I do feel a bit hurt in my feelin’s’—Here Isaac paused to brush his coat sleeve across his eyes, and continued brokenly—‘hurt in my feelin’s to think as you have a-left your old uncle like that. ’T war n’t well done o’ him,’ he muttered, parenthetically, ‘nay, I can’t say as it were well done o’ Richard.’
He wiped his eyes again, sniffed, drew an immense breath, and started off afresh:
‘Like that.I do think ye mid ha’ said a word,but I will not find fault no more,but jist ax ye to come straight back—an’ all will be forgive and forgot. Now I think, Mrs. F., we mid finish, ye mid jist write my name and I’ll put my mark to it.’
He heaved a deep sigh of relief, wiped his brow, and sat gazing at her as she appended his signature to the page.
‘That be my name, be it?’ he inquired. ‘It do look very pretty wrote out so nice and small. ’Ees, I can see as this here’s my name.I—S—A—. You putAtwice, Mrs. F.’
‘Yes, it should be written twice.’
‘Ah,’ said the farmer, gazing at the page doubtfully. ‘Bithey now do only put it once—it be a matter o’ taste, I suppose. Well, now, I’ll put my mark.’
He ground his pen slowly into the paper, horizontally and perpendicularly, and remained gazing at it with a certain modest pride.
‘There, shut ’en up now, and write his name outside.’
Rosalie obeyed, and held out the document towards Isaac, but as he was about to take it she drew it back, a deep flush overspreading her face. After a moment’s hesitation, however, she again tendered it to him.
‘There—take it,’ she said, with a note of sharpness in her voice which would have struck a more acute observer than Isaac; but he duly pocketed it without noticing that anything was amiss.
Left to herself she sat for a moment or two in deep thought, her chin propped upon her hands; then suddenly rising, rushed out into the yard.
‘Mr. Sharpe!’ she called. ‘Isaac!’
But the farmer’s broad back was already vanishing down the lane. Evidently her voice failed to reach him as he did not turn his head. Rosalie stood looking after him, without making further attempts to attract his attention, and then slowly returned to the house. Why should she call him back, after all—what need was there for her thus todisturb herself? Could she help writing the letter exactly as he wished; and how foolish were the qualms of conscience which the remembrance of certain phrases in it evoked. It was his letter, not hers: it was he who had insisted on stating that she wished Richard to return—she had never authorised him to do so. If Richard did come back she could not be blamed for it. If he did come back!
Again supporting her throbbing head with her hands, she tried to reason with herself, but the turmoil in heart and brain for a time forbade any consecutive train of ideas. During the long blank days which had passed since Richard’s departure, and often in the course of the weary, restless nights, this thought had constantly recurred to her with a never-failing stab:—He has gone—he will never come back!
And now, if he did come back—if he came back even for a little while! If she might just see him again, if it were only to be once or twice! At the mere suggestion she was conscious of a lifting of the load which had been crushing her. If he were made to know, through no fault of hers but rather against her will, that she did wish himto return—she who had let him go forth without a word to stay him—if he even guessed that she longed to see him—oh, it would be sweet to think he knew, that he would henceforth judge her less harshly, that he would realise how hard had been her struggle!
She raised her head, her lips parted in a smile, her eyes dreamily gazing at the strip of sunlit green outside her window. There he had stood; thence he had turned away so mournfully, and now he was to come back.To come back! Would he not read between the lines of the oddly composed missive—would not the very words have for him a deeper meaning than their guileless originator guessed at—would he not come flying to her side? In a few days—in little more than a few hours, perhaps, he would be with her; and then!
She gave a sudden gasp, and flung herself forward across the table. And then! In a moment the web of self-deception with which she had been endeavouring to cloak the situation was torn to shreds, and she saw the truth. A crisis was impending: it was folly to pretend that it would take her unawares, it was worse than folly to endeavour to shift theresponsibility to poor unsuspicious Isaac. If Richard returned the struggle would have to be gone through again: it would be even harder than before, for she would have lured him back after he had broken from her. If thus sorely tempted and wrongfully encouraged he were to speak those words which she had seen so often trembling on his lips, what answer could she make? Could she look him in the face and affect unconsciousness, or—what did she mean to do? Did she mean to keep her plighted troth as an honest woman should, or did she mean to cast aside, for good and all, truth, and honour, and self-respect, and jilt the man who had been her faithful friend?
‘I want to do right,’ said Rosalie, with another gasping sigh. ‘I have never told a lie in my life; I won’t tell one now; I won’t act one either. If he comes back it will only be on false pretences; he must n’t be allowed to come back.’
She lay still for a moment, her arms extended, a kind of tremor passing every now and then over her frame. Presently she said again, half aloud:
‘I won’t be deceitful; I won’t break my word; but oh, how hard it is to do right! God help me.’
She straightened herself all at once, and pushed back the hair from her forehead; then, drawing the blotter towards her, wrote a hasty line on a sheet of paper—‘Do not come back, I implore you. R. F.’—thrust it into an envelope, and directed it to Richard. With little convulsive sobs at intervals she went upstairs, bathed her swollen eyes, and put on her hat.
There was no one about the Down Farm when she approached it, but, on entering, she almost fell over a strapped portmanteau that had been placed just inside the doorway. As she recovered herself Bithey appeared at the kitchen door.
‘I thought you was the carrier,’ she remarked. ‘Master did say as he ’d sent for him to fetch that there box o’ Richard Marshall’s. ’T is to go to Liverpool to-day.’
‘Is Mr. Sharpe in?’ asked Rosalie falteringly. Somehow the sight of that portmanteau made her turn suddenly faint.
‘Nay, he bain’t. But I’m expectin’ him back every minute. He be gone some time now, and he said he ’d just catch the carrier. I had a hard job to get all packed and ready, but ’t is done now.’
It was all packed, the straps fastened, thelock made secure. Rosalie was too late after all; the important postscript which was to supplement the letter could not, as she intended, be slipped among Richard’s effects. Her heart gave a sudden throb that was not altogether of pain. She had honestly tried, but fate willed otherwise.
‘I don’t think I’ll wait,’ she stammered, scarcely knowing what she said. ‘I shall see Mr. Sharpe to-morrow, and I should only be in your way. I dare say you are busy.’
‘Nay, not that busy now, ma’am. I’m just a-makin’ a parcel of a big thick coat o’ Richard’s. ’T would n’t go in the box nohow, and I’m tryin’ to pack it in paper, but ’t is that heavy it do slip out at one side so soon as I get t’ other wrapped up.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Rosalie. ‘Four hands are better than two.’
She had never seen Richard wear this coat, yet the mere sight of it—the mere consciousness that it was his caused a recurrence of that strange wave of faintness.
‘We want a little bit more string, Bithey,’ she said with the quaver in her voice which had been noticeable before.
‘I think there’s a little bit on the dresser shelf,’ returned the old woman; and, droppingher end of the parcel, she went across the kitchen.
This was Rosalie’s chance. She was white to the very lips, but she did not flinch. With cold, trembling fingers, she hid away the note in the breast-pocket of the coat; he would be sure to find it there.
Bithey discovered nothing, and presently, the packet being secured, Rosalie betook herself homewards.
‘I ’ve done it!’ she said, pausing when she reached the solitude of the downs. ‘Thank God! I ’ve done it! It will be all right now.’
But it was not surprising that in the midst of her self-congratulations on having so successfully barred herself out of Eden she should once more melt into tears.
Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met, or never parted,We had ne’er been broken-hearted.Burns.
Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met, or never parted,We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
Burns.
Thecutting and making of Rosalie’s hay had been proceeding briskly in the Church Meadow; the last swathes had fallen, and every available pair of hands had been called upon to assist in the work, for experienced weather-prophets had foretold gloomily that the actual ‘fine spell’ could not be expected to last.
Towards evening on the second day Farmer Sharpe stood alone in the centre of the field; mopped, for the hundredth time, his perspiring brow, and cast a contemplative look round.
’T was past seven o’clock; the men had gone home some time before, but he had remained to take a final survey of the scene of their labours.
‘I don’t think it’s so very like to rain,’ remarked Isaac, looking up at the sky, where, indeed, no trace of a cloud was to be seen.‘Nay, I don’t hold wi’ Job—’t will keep up for a bit yet. Mrs. F. ’ull ha’ gone home by now, I should think—she’d begin to find it a bit damp in the dell. The dew be falling very fast. Well, I’ll go home to my supper.’
He passed through the gate at the further end of the field, and had traversed more than half the distance which separated him from his home when the sound of heavy but rapid steps behind him made him halt and turn round.
Job Hunt, who had evidently been hastening in pursuit of him, paused too, his great red face wearing an appearance of unusual excitement, and his sly blue eyes positively goggling in his head. Owing to the unusual press of work, and the need for accomplishing it in a given time, Isaac had persuaded Rosalie to consent to his engaging this unwelcome addition to her forces, and she had agreed with a meekness that sufficiently indicated her spiritless condition. Job it was who had been most energetic in foretelling a coming storm, partly in order to render his services the more valuable, and partly because of a natural pleasure in predicting disaster to Mrs. Fiander’s crops.
‘Well,’ said Isaac, gazing at him in astonishment.
‘Have ’ee seen what be goin’ on yonder, sir?’ was Job’s counter-query.
‘What be a-goin’ on where?’ inquired the farmer.
‘Why, there,’ returned Hunt, with a significant jerk of the thumb in the direction of the Church Meadow.
‘There bain’t nothin’ at all a-goin’ on there,’ returned his employer sternly. ‘I be just come from there—the field’s empty.’
‘Nay, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned Job, half closing one eye, and assuming a very knowing look. ‘Nay, it bain’t empty. Jist you step back and see. If you was to step up to the dell very cautious—I’d advise ’ee to go very cautious, sir—you ’d maybe see summat as ’ud surprise ’ee. Jist you come along wi’ I, Mr. Sharpe—I’ll show ’ee where to look, and I d’ ’low ye’ll be astonished.’
Isaac surveyed him for half a minute or so without speaking, and then slowly jerked his thumb forwards.
‘Cut away,’ he said briefly. ‘’Ees, I don’t mind if I do come, but I don’t expect to see nothin’ surprisin’ at all.’
Job grinned derisively for all rejoinder, and led the way as requested; walking with exaggerated caution, and turning his malevolentred-bearded face over his shoulder every now and then to make sure that Isaac was following. The latter shambled along at his usual pace and with a perfectly imperturbable face.
As they drew near the dell, a small cup-shaped pit surrounded by bushes at the upper end of the field, the sound of voices was distinctly audible—two voices, a man’s and a woman’s—speaking, however, so low that even when Isaac and his companion were close to the brink they could distinguish no words.
‘Jist step for’ard, Mr. Sharpe, sir,’ whispered Job excitedly. ‘Jist look down through the bushes; I’ll bide here till ye come back.’
Sharpe paused for a moment or two, staring at him with evident displeasure, and then went forward. Presently his tall form towered above the bushes, and he looked down into the pit beneath.
After a long and steady gaze he returned to Job, took him by the shoulder, and propelled him to a safe distance from the tantalising spot. Job, when finally released, examined him with great curiosity; but the farmer’s face, though a little redder than usual, in consequence probably of his recent exertions, was stolid as ever.
‘Well?’ he said in answer to the man’s inquiring gaze.
‘Well, sir, did ’ee see who was there?’
‘Of course I did. Mrs. Fiander was there, where I left her, and my nevvy was there. He ’ve comed home, I see, as I axed him.’
‘Oh,’ said Job, much disappointed, ‘I didn’t know you were expectin’ of him.’
‘Did n’t ’ee, Job? I ’ve been expectin’ of ’en all this week. I’m glad he’s come.’
‘It seems a bit queer as he should be in Mrs. Fiander’s hayfield, instead o’ goin’ straight to your place,’ urged Job almost plaintively. It was a little disappointing to find that his great discovery had been anticipated. ‘When I did see ’en bi-cycling along the road I made sure he must be going straight to you, and then when I did see his bi-cycle leanin’ agen’ the hedge, I jist thought I ’d see where he ’d got to—and there he were in the dell.’
‘And a very nat’ral place for ’en to be,’ returned Isaac in his most matter-of-fact tone. ‘I did tell ’en most pertic-lar we was cuttin’ the Church Meadow, and when he saw Mrs. Fiander in the dell ’t was most nat’ral he should go and speak to her. I don’t see nothin’ queer, Job Hunt.’
‘He was a-holdin’ o’ both her hands when I see ’en,’ muttered Job.
‘Ah,’ commented Isaac. ‘Well, he’ll be a-holdin’ both mine soon. I be main glad he be come back. Now I’m a-goin’ home to my supper, and I think you ’d do well to go back to yours, Job. I’ll expect you early in the field to-morrow; so the sooner ye get back to look arter your own business the better. I would n’t advise ’ee to go interfering wi’ my nevvy. He bain’t so very fond o’ folks axin’ questions or pryin’ about. Ah, I ’ve known ’en take his fists to a man once as he thought too curious. ’T is the way wi’ young chaps.’
He nodded, fixed his eyes impressively on Hunt, as though to make sure that the meaning of his words had penetrated to that somewhat dull-witted gentleman’s consciousness, and finally rolled homewards, to all appearance placid as ever.
He had not proceeded very far before he paused, however, shook his head, and finally stood stock-still.
‘Two hands,’ said Farmer Sharpe reflectively. ‘Two hands!’
* * *
It now becomes necessary to ascertain what passed before Isaac Sharpe, looking downthrough the willow-bushes, descried Richard Marshall in such close proximity to Mrs. Fiander.
Nothing certainly was farther from Rosalie’s thoughts when she had taken refuge in that sheltered spot from the glare of the afternoon sun than the expectation of the advent of this companion. She had, in fact, quite decided that he was by this time out of the country, and had, indeed, made up her mind to erase his image definitely from her memory. Henceforward, as she frequently told herself, she must think only of Isaac—Isaac, who had always been her friend, who was so soon to be her husband. Her husband!—she must face the thought though she unconsciously shrank from it. Oh, would—would that this sweet cup of forbidden love had never been held to her lips! She had dashed it from her, but the taste of it remained and had taken all the savour out of her life. It had been to her a poisonous cup, containing as it did wine from the fruit of the tree of knowledge. ‘You know very little of life,’ Richard had said to her once. Alas, alas! she knew now more than enough.
‘Oh, Elias—poor Elias,’ she groaned to herself sometimes, ‘why did you die? If youhad lived I should have known nothing—I should have guessed at nothing. I might have gone down to my grave without knowing that there was any other love besides that which I gave you.’
As an antidote to the rebellious longing of which she was too often conscious, Rosalie had recourse to the panacea she had hitherto found unfailing in times of affliction: hard work. Since the writing of that letter to Richard, and the subsequent battle with herself, she had resumed her old energetic habits. Once more she rose with the dawn, once more she passed hours in toil no less arduous than that allotted to her servants. She avoided solitude as much as possible, and strove by every means in her power to tire herself out.
So tired was she, indeed, on this particular afternoon, that, having sought the friendly shade of the grassy nook already referred to, she acknowledged herself to be incapable of further effort. Even when the great heat had somewhat abated, and the retreating voices and heavy tread of her labourers as they trooped homewards warned her that it was growing late, she sat on, her hands clasping her knees, her eyes gazing vacantly on the ground, too weary even to think.
A footstep sounded in the neighbourhood of her retreat, but she did not raise her eyes: it was some straggler, probably, hastening to rejoin the others. She could hear the bushes rustling, as though brushed by a passing form, and kept very still; she wanted nobody to speak to her, nobody even to look at her. But now the step faltered, halted—there was a pause; and then rapid feet began to descend towards where she sat. She raised her eyes, first in surprise and a little irritation, then in incredulous wonder, then—oh, what was it that Richard saw in them?
In a moment he was bending over her and both her hands were clasped in his.
Was it that particular moment that Job Hunt chose to pursue his investigations, or did the acknowledged lovers remain thus longer than they knew? Rosalie could never afterwards tell, nor could Richard. They felt as if they were in a dream; time, place, circumstances, were alike forgotten; a vague undefined bliss—the intangible bliss of dreams—haunted them both, and in the minds of both lurked the same dread of awakening.
It was Rosalie who was first recalled to life. Her eyes, which had been fixed on Richard’s face, dropped gradually to his hands; gazedidly, first at those hands, then at her own which he was holding; then the idea gradually took shape in her mind—those were her hands, Rosalie Fiander’s hands, that were lying in Richard’s clasp; and they had no right to be there!
She snatched them away instantly, and the charm was broken.
‘You have come back!’ she cried. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘I came,’ said he, ‘because I received your letter.’
Her face was white with anguish; his, on the contrary, flushed, eager, triumphant.
‘But did you not find the note which I put in your pocket?’ she murmured, gazing at him with frightened eyes. ‘I thought you would be sure to find it. The other was not—was not really mine. I had to write what he wanted.’
‘I know,’ he answered blithely. ‘I could see it plainly enough. It was not that which brought me home. It was your own precious little note—the little line which laid bare your heart to me. I had already sailed before I found it, but we touched at Queenstown and I landed there and took the first boat home. I have travelled night and day since.’
She was shaking like a reed in the wind. ‘But—I begged you not to come,’ she whispered.
‘You begged me not to come, sweet, and so I guessed, I knew—you betrayed your secret, my dear love, and I felt my own power.’
‘No, no,’ she gasped; ‘you must not speak to me like this, Richard—I will not listen. You know quite well that I cannot listen. I belong to another man!’
But Richard bent nearer still, his face alight with the same inexplicable triumph—a triumph that was almost fierce.
‘You belong to me,’ he said; and his words were perhaps the more passionate because spoken so low. ‘You have belonged to me from the first. Even from the moment when I saw you in the picture I said to myself—’
‘Oh, no,’ pleaded Rosalie, in tones as passionate as his, but infinitely piteous. ‘Do not say it, Richard—do not—do not put it into words!’
Her hand flew out involuntarily as though to stop his mouth: he caught it and kissed it though it fluttered in his grasp.
‘Why should I not say it—why should I not be brave enough to put into words the thought which has been in both our minds sooften? When I saw your picture I fancied myself standing beside you, bending over you—’
‘Oh, hush, hush!’
She had withdrawn her hand, and was covering her face.
‘I said to myself,’ he persevered, his words coming brokenly because of his quick breathing. ‘I said to myself, “If that woman lives she shall be my wife—I will search for her until I find her!” And then when I found you—I thought you were free.’
‘But I was not free,’ she interrupted, dropping her hands and looking up with eyes fierce and wild like those of a hunted animal. ‘I am not free now, neither are you free. You are bound to him as much as I am—your duty stares you in the face—’
‘It is too late to talk of duty! I ought never to have seen you. Do you suppose there is anything which you can tell me that I have not told myself a hundred times? He is my uncle—yes! He has been my benefactor always—more than a father to me—yes, yes! He is the kindest, the most warm-hearted, the most guileless of men. It would never enter his honest, innocent mind to suspect me of trying to supplant him; in actingas I do I am a traitor, a liar—vile, ungrateful, dishonourable, dishonest—Oh, there are no words strong enough, or black enough to paint me as I am! I know it and I agree to it; but I love you, Rosalie, and I will not give you up!’
Some of his words were scarcely audible as they came in gusts from his quivering lips; the veins on his forehead stood out; there was no mistaking the bitter contempt with which he stigmatised his own conduct, but there was even less possibility of misapprehending his deadly earnestness of purpose.
‘I mean to have you,’ he went on; ‘I mean to let everything go—except you.’
She was so much taken aback at the suddenness of the onslaught, so confounded at the quickness with which he had forestalled all she had intended to urge, that she stood before him for a moment absolutely mute; trembling, moreover, with the growing consciousness of her own weakness, and at his confident assumption of mastery over her.
Meanwhile he, with his eyes fixed upon her face, read it like a book. His own suddenly changed.
‘It is useless to struggle, love,’ he said, speaking very gently and tenderly. ‘Wehave both done our best—we have tried to do right, but Fate has been too strong for us. We must just make up our minds to let ourselves go with the tide—and be happy.’
Rosalie was, as has been seen, very impressionable, very emotional—in a word, very womanly; but for all that there was at her heart’s core the little kernel of strength which is to be found in the hearts of most good women—an instinctive sense of rectitude, the love of duty for duty’s sake, even when the accomplishment of it involves great sacrifice. She looked Richard full in the face now.
‘No,’ she said; ‘I will not take any happiness that has to be bought by doing wrong. I made my own choice and fixed my lot in life before I knew you, and now I will abide by it.’
The very severity of the struggle gave her courage, and Richard, all passion-swayed as he was, had in him a certain element of chivalrousness that responded to the effort she was making.