‘Go and get it then. Your cap, I think, is on the table.’
She fumbled in her pocket for a moment, and presently drew forth her purse, from which she counted out the sum of fourteen shillings. Her eyes had a steely glitter in them as she fixed them on Sam.
‘Here are your week’s wages,’ she said. ‘Take them, and walk out of this house.’
‘Mum,’ pleaded Sam piteously. ‘Missus—!’
‘Go out of this house,’ repeated Rosalie, pointing mercilessly to the door; ‘and never let me see your face again. Out of my sight!’ she added quickly, as he still hesitated.
Sam’s inarticulate protests died upon his lips, and he turned and left her, Rosalie looking after him with gleaming eyes until his figure was lost to sight.
Follow a shadow, it still flies you,Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?Ben Jonson.Who by resolves and vows engag’d does standFor days that yet belong to Fate,Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his estateBefore it falls into his hand.Abraham Cowley.
Follow a shadow, it still flies you,Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone she will court you.Say, are not women truly, then,Styled but the shadows of us men?
Ben Jonson.
Who by resolves and vows engag’d does standFor days that yet belong to Fate,Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his estateBefore it falls into his hand.
Abraham Cowley.
Isaac Sharpe, receiving no answer to his knock, walked straight into the parlour. The room was dark save for the smouldering glow of the fire, and it was some time before he discovered Rosalie’s figure huddled up in Elias’s chair.
‘Why, what be to do?’ he inquired, stooping over her.
‘Oh, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned she, with a strangled sob, ‘I have had such a day—I have been so insulted. Oh, how shall I ever forget it! What can I have done to bring about such a thing!’
‘Come,’ cried the farmer, much alarmed, ‘whatever is it, my dear? Out wi’ it; and let’s have some light to see ourselves by.’
With that he seized the poker and stirred the logs on the hearth, until they flared up with a brightness almost painful to Rosalie’s aching eyes. He saw the traces of tears upon her flushed face, and his concern increased.
‘I heard ye was in trouble again,’ he said, ‘and I thought I’d look in—Them cheeses as ye’ve been a-making of ever since midsummer is back on your hands, they tell me.’
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie faintly. ‘There are piles and piles of them in the dairy; and Mr. Hardy wrote a most ill-natured letter about them, and everyone in the place will think me a fool. But it is n’t that I mind so much—I shall sell those cheeses somewhere, I suppose, and I know Mr. Hardy only sent them back out of spite because I would n’t marry John—’
‘Ah,’ put in Isaac, interested; ‘John Hardy axed ye, did he? And you would n’t have ’en?’
‘Of course not,’ she returned petulantly.
‘Well, Mrs. F.,’ said Isaac, leaning forward in his chair, and speaking solemnly, ‘ye mid ha’ done worse nor take him. ’T is in my mind,’ he went on emphatically, ‘as soon orlate ye’ll have to take a second. But, tell me, what was it as upset ye so much to-day?’
‘I am almost ashamed to say it. Sam Belbin—you know Sam, that common lad that I made cowman out of pure kindness and because I thought him faithful—he—he—that lout, has actually dared to make love to me!’
‘Well, now,’ commented Isaac, nodding.
‘Are you not amazed? Did you ever hear of such impudence? He dared to call me “my dear”; and he seemed to think thatI, his mistress, had actually encouraged him! He said something about my dropping a hint. But I soon let him see what I thought of him. I packed him off on the moment!’
‘Did ye?’ said Isaac. ‘Well, my dear—I beg pardon—Mrs. Fiander, I should say—’
‘Oh, of course,’ she put in quickly, ‘I don’t mindyoursayingmy dear—’t is a very different matter.’
‘Well, as I was a-sayin’,’ pursued the farmer, ignoring these niceties, ‘I bain’t altogether so very much surprised. I’ve a-heard some queer talk about you and Sam Belbin—only this very day I’ve a-heard queer talk—and, to say the truth, that were the reason whyI looked in this arternoon—I thought it best not to wait till Sunday. I’m not one to meddle, but I thought it only kind to let ye know what folks in the village be sayin’.’
‘Mr. Sharpe!’—and her eyes positively blazed—‘do you mean to tell me that people know me so little as to gossip about me and that low fellow?’
‘Ah, my dear,’ cried Isaac, catching the infection of her excitement, ‘there’s no knowing what folks do say—they be ready to believe any scandelious thing. Why, Bithey did actually tell me ’t is common talk o’ the village as you and me be a-goin’ to make a match of it.’
Rosalie, who had been leaning forward in her chair, suddenly sank back; she drew a long breath, and then said in a very small voice:
‘Well, Isaac, I believe it will have to come to that.’
Not even Sam Belbin, withering under his mistress’s scornful gaze, had stared at her with such blank dismay as that now perceptible on Farmer Sharpe’s face.
Rosalie covered her own with both hands, but presently dropped them again.
‘Everything points to it,’ she said firmly. ‘You see yourself things cannot go on as theyare. I find I can’t manage the men—’
Here her voice broke, but she pursued after a minute: ‘Even the work which I am competent to undertake has not succeeded. Elias would be sorely grieved to see everything going wrong like this, he who was such a good man of business—always so regular and particular.’
‘Ah,’ groaned Isaac, ‘I d’ ’low, it ’ud very near break his heart.’
‘There must be a master here,’ went on Rosalie. ‘Even you were forced to own just now that I ought to marry again.’
‘’Ees,’ agreed Isaac unwillingly, ‘oh, ’ees, it ’ud be a very good thing; but I—’
He broke off, gazing at her with an expression almost akin to terror.
‘Do you suppose for a moment,’ she cried with spirit, ‘that I would ever consent to put a stranger in my dear Elias’s place? Could you—you who have been his friend so long, bear to see one of the Branston counter-jumpers master here? I wonder at you, Isaac Sharpe!’
‘Nay now,’ protested the farmer; ‘I did n’t say I wished no such thing, Mrs. Fiander. I said ’t was my opinion as you’d be forced to take a second, and you might do worse nor think o’ John Hardy.’
‘Pray, is n’t he a counter-jumper?’ interrupted Rosalie vehemently.
‘Well, there’s others besides he,’ returned Sharpe weakly.
‘Whom would you choose, then?’ cried she. ‘Wilson, to drink, and race away my husband’s hard-earned money? Andrew Burge, perhaps, whom you drove out of this house with your own hands? Or that little ferret-faced Samuel Cross—he’d know how to manage a dairy-farm, would n’t he? You’d like to see him strutting about, and giving orders here? I tell you what it is, Isaac Sharpe, if you have no respect for dear Elias’s memory, you should be glad that I have.’
‘Who says I have n’t respect for ’Lias’s memory?’ thundered Isaac, now almost goaded into a fury. ‘I’ve known ’en a deal longer nor you have, Widow Fiander, and there’s no one in this world as thought more on him. All I says is—I bain’t a marryin’ man—’Lias knowed I were n’t never a marryin’ man. I don’t believe,’ added Isaac, with an emphatic thump on the table, ‘I don’t believe as if ’Lias were alive he’d expect it of me.’
‘But he’s dead, you see,’ returned Rosalie with a sudden pathetic change of tone—‘he’s dead, and that is why everything is goingwrong. I should n’t think of making a change myself if I did n’t feel it was the only thing to do. You loved Elias; you knew his ways; you would carry on the work just as he used to do—it would n’t be like putting a stranger in his place. I would n’t do it if I could help it,’ she added, sobbing; ‘but I think we—we should both try to do our duty by Elias.’
Isaac, visibly moved, rolled his eyes towards her and heaved a mighty sigh.
‘Of course, if you put it that way,’ he began; and then his courage failed him, and be became once more mute.
‘It would n’t be such a bad thing for you, Mr. Sharpe,’ went on Rosalie faintly. ‘’T is a very fine farm, and a good business. It would be convenient for you to work the two farms together. You’d have quite a large property—and this is a very comfortable house.’
‘Ah,’ agreed Isaac, ‘’t is a good house, but I have n’t no need for two houses. I’m content wi’ the one where I were born.’
‘Oh, but that won’t do at all,’ cried Rosalie with sudden animation; ‘you would have to live here—the object of my marrying you would be that you should live here.’
‘I’ve a-lived in my own house ever sin’ Iwere born,’ said the farmer obstinately, ‘and when a man weds he takes his wife to live wi’ him.’
‘Not when the wife has got the best house of the two,’ retorted Mrs. Fiander.
‘A man can’t live in two houses,’ asserted Isaac; adding, after a pause: ‘What would ye have me do with mine, then?’
‘You could put your head-man to live in it,’ returned she, ‘paying you rent, of course. Or you could let it to somebody else—you would make money in that way.’
One by one Isaac’s entrenchments were being carried: no resource remained open to him but to capitulate or to take flight. He chose the latter alternative.
‘’T is not a thing as a body can make up his mind to in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I must think it over, Mrs. Fiander.’
Then before she could make the sharp retort which had risen to her lips he had darted to the door.
As it closed behind him Rosalie sprang to her feet, and began to pace hastily about the room. What had she done? She had actually in so many words made an offer of marriage to Isaac Sharpe—and she was not quite sure of being accepted! There was the rub!Elias was an old man, yet he had wooed her, in her homeless, penniless condition, with a certain amount of ardour. In her widowhood she had been courted, doubtless as much on account of her wealth as of her beauty, but certainly with no lack of eagerness. And now, when she had turned with affectionate confidence to this old friend, and practically laid herself, her good looks, and good fortune at his feet, he had promised unwillingly to think it over. It was not to be endured—she would send him to the right-about on his return, let his decision be what it might. But then came the sickening remembrance of the failures and humiliations which had attended her unassisted enterprises; the importunities of distasteful suitors—worst of all, the confident leer on Sam Belbin’s face. Great Heavens! What a miserable fate was hers! She dared not so much as trust a servant but he must needs try to take advantage of her unprotected condition.
The lamp was lit and tea set forth, but Rosalie left it untasted upon the table. She was still pacing restlessly about the room when Isaac walked in; this time without any preliminary knock.
He closed the door behind him andadvanced towards the young woman, his face wearing a benign if somewhat sheepish smile.
‘I be come to tell you,’ he said, ‘as I’ve come round to the notion.’
He paused, beaming down at her with the air of a man who was making an indubitably pleasant announcement; and Rosalie, who was gifted with a very genuine sense of humour, could not for the life of her help laughing.
‘’Ees,’ repeated Isaac valiantly. ‘I’ve a-comed round to the notion. I was al’ays a bit shy o’ materimony, by reason o’ the cat-and-dog life as my mother and father did lead; but I d’ ’low as I’ve no need to be fearful about you. You’re made different, my dear; and ye’ve been a good wife to ’Lias. What’s more,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘as I was a-thinkin’ to myself, ’t is n’t same as if I was to go and put myself in the wrong box, so to speak, by beggin’ and prayin’ of ye to have me; then ye mid very well cast up at me some day if I was n’tsatisfiedwi’ the bargain. But when a young woman comes and axes a man as a favour to marry her it be a different story, bain’t it?’
Rosalie stopped laughing and glanced at him indignantly.
‘If that’s the way in which you look at it, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said, ‘I think we had better give up the idea. How dare you,’ she burst out suddenly—‘how dare you tell me to my face that I asked you as a favour? I am not the kind of person to pray and beseech you. You know as well as I do that other people are ready to fall on their knees if I but hold up a finger.’
‘Ah, a good few of them are,’ agreed Isaac dispassionately; ‘but ye don’t want ’em, ye see. Well, and at the first go off, when I was took by surprise, so to speak, I thought I did n’t want you. Not as I’ve any personal objections to you,’ he added handsomely, ‘but because I never reckoned on changing my state. But now, as I’ve a-thought it over, I’m agreeable, my dear.’
Rosalie remained silent, her eyes downcast, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping each other.
‘I’m willin’,’ he went on, ‘to do my dooty by ’Lias and my dooty by you, Rosalie. You’ve been a good wife to he, and ye’ll be the same to me, I’ve no doubt.’
He paused, passing his hand meditatively over his grizzled locks and probably comforting himself with the reflection that in thiscase at least there would be no need to supply himself with such a box as that so often dolefully shown to him by his father.
‘I want to do my duty by Elias,’ said the poor young widow at last, in a choked voice, ‘but I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself, since you feel it is a sacrifice. If you hate me so much don’t marry me, Isaac,’ she added passionately.
‘Lard, my dear, who ever said I hated ’ee? Far from it! I do like ’ee very much; I’ve liked ’ee from the first. ’Lias knowed I liked ’ee. Say no more about a sacrifice; it bain’t no sacrifice to speak on. I was real upset to see how bad you was a-gettin’ on, an’ it’ll be a comfort to think as I can look arter you, and look arter the place. You and me was al’ays the best o’ friends, and we’ll go on bein’ the best o’ friends when we are man and wife. I can’t say no fairer than that.’
He stretched out his large brown palm, and Rosalie laid her cold fingers in it, and the compact was concluded by a silent hand-shake.
Then Isaac, who was a practical man, pointed out to Rosalie that her tea was growing cold, and remarked placidly that he would smoke a bit of a pipe by the fire while she partook of it.
As she approached the table and began tremulously to fill her cup he drew forward a chair and sat down.
Rosalie glanced round at him and started; the new era had already begun. Isaac was sitting in Elias’s chair!
’Mong blooming woods, at twilight dim,The throstle chants with glee, o!But the plover sings his evening hymnTo the ferny wild so free, o!Wild an’ free!Wild an’ free!Where the moorland breezes blow!Edwin Waugh.L’amour nous enlève notre libre-arbitre: on peut choisir ses amitiés, mais on subit l’amour.Princesse Karadja.
’Mong blooming woods, at twilight dim,The throstle chants with glee, o!But the plover sings his evening hymnTo the ferny wild so free, o!Wild an’ free!Wild an’ free!Where the moorland breezes blow!
Edwin Waugh.
L’amour nous enlève notre libre-arbitre: on peut choisir ses amitiés, mais on subit l’amour.
Princesse Karadja.
Onelovely sparkling April day a man was slowly pushing his bicycle up a certain steep incline which is situated a little way out of Dorchester, and which is known as Yellowham Hill.
The road climbed upwards between woods, the banks on either side being surmounted by a dense growth of rhododendrons and gorse, the latter in full bloom, its brilliant yellow contrasting with the glossy dark leaves of thebushes behind, which were already covered with a myriad of buds, and the little bronze crooks of the bracken curling upwards through the moss beneath.
The long spring day wanted yet some hours of its close, but already delicious spicy odours came forth from the woods, which spoke of falling dew; and the birds were making mysterious rustlings in the boughs, as though preparing to go to roost.
The young man paused every now and then to draw a long breath, and to look round him with evident delight.
‘This is good,’ he said to himself once. ‘This is fairyland—the place is full of magic.’ Then a sudden change came over his face, and he added: ‘It is better than fairyland—it is home.’
He was a pleasant-looking young fellow, with a handsome intelligent face and a tall well-knit figure. He had grey eyes, very alert and keen in their expression, and when he smiled his face lit up in an unexpected and attractive way. His complexion was browner than might have been looked for in connection with his hair, which was not very dark, and he had a certain wideawake air as of one who had seen many men and things.
He had almost reached the crest of the hill when his glance, sweeping appreciatively over the curving bank at the turn of the road, rested upon a woman’s figure amid the tangle of sunlit green and gold which crowned it.
Rosalie Fiander—who would be Rosalie Fiander for some three months longer, it having been agreed between her and Isaac that their marriage should not take place till her year’s widowhood was completed—had halted here on her return to Branston, after a flying business-visit to Dorchester.
These Yellowham Woods had been much loved by her during her childhood, and she had yielded to the temptation of alighting from the gig to spend a few minutes in what had once been to her a very paradise.
Nigger was placidly cropping the grass at a little distance from her, and she had been on her way to re-enter the vehicle, when she had paused for a last glance round.
She had marked, at first idly, then with some interest, the figure which was toiling up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed when she discovered on its nearer approach that she was herself the object of a somewhat unusual scrutiny. The grey eyes which looked at her so intently from out of the brown face had avery peculiar mixture of expressions. There was curiosity in them and admiration—to that she was accustomed—but there was something more: a wonder, an almost incredulous delight. Thus might a man look upon the face of a very dear friend whom he had not expected to see—thus almost might he meet the sweetheart from whom he had been parted for years.
As he approached the bank he slackened his pace, and presently came to a standstill immediately beneath Rosalie’s pinnacle of moss-grown earth.
They remained face to face with each other for a moment or two, Rosalie gazing down, fascinated, at the man’s eyes, in which the joyful wonder was growing ever brighter. Rousing herself at last with an effort, and colouring high, she turned and hastened along the crest of the bank until she came to the gig, descended, rapidly gathered up the reins, and mounted into the vehicle.
Seeing that the stranger, though he had begun to walk slowly on, continued to watch her, and being, besides, annoyed and confused at her own temporary embarrassment, she jerked the reins somewhat sharply, and touched up Nigger with the whip. Theastonished animal, unaccustomed to such treatment, started off at a brisk pace, and the gig rattled down the steep incline with a speed which would have filled its late owner with horror.
The disaster which he would certainly have prophesied was not long in coming. Nigger’s legs were not quite on a par with his mettle, and presently, stumbling over a loose stone, he was unable to recover himself, and dropped fairly and squarely on both knees.
He was up in an instant, but Rosalie, jumping out of the cart, and running to his head, uttered a cry of anguish. Through the white patches of dust which testified to Nigger’s misfortune she saw blood trickling. A moment later rapid footsteps were heard descending the hill, and the bicyclist came to her assistance.
Bending forward, he carefully examined Nigger’s knees, and then turned to Rosalie; the curious expression which had so puzzled and annoyed her having completely vanished and given place to one of respectful concern.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said; ‘it is not much—barely skin-deep—I doubt if there will be any marks.’
‘He has never been down before,’ said shetearfully. ‘Poor Nigger! Good old fellow! I should n’t have driven you so fast down the hill.’
‘His legs should be attended to at once,’ said the stranger practically. ‘Have you far to go?’
‘Oh yes—sixteen miles. To Branston.’
He darted a keen glance at her.
‘Branston,’ he echoed. ‘I am going there myself to-morrow, or rather I am going to a place about a mile this side of it.’
‘Well, I, too, stop a little this side of the town,’ said Rosalie. ‘But poor Nigger will never get so far. What am I to do? I must get home to-night.’
‘There is a village a mile or so from here,’ observed the young man. ‘I think your best plan would be to leave the horse at the inn there. They would probably lend you another to take you home. If you will get into the trap I will lead the horse slowly back.’
‘Oh no, I will walk,’ cried Rosalie; ‘I can lead him myself,’ she added diffidently. ‘I don’t like to take you out of your way—besides, you have your bicycle. I suppose you are going to Dorchester?’
‘I can go to Dorchester any time,’ returned he. ‘’T is merely a fancy of mine that takesme there. I’ve a wish to see the old place again, having been away from it for ten years. But I am really on my way to visit my uncle. If you know Branston, I dare say you have met him. He lives near Littlecomb Village, at a place called the Down Farm.’
‘Mr. Isaac Sharpe!’ ejaculated Rosalie. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I live next door to him.’
She broke off, not deeming it necessary to disclose, on so short an acquaintance, her peculiar relations with the person in question.
‘Good!’ cried the young man gaily. ‘It is strange our meeting like this. I am Richard Marshall, his nephew. You live next door to him, you say,’ he added, with a puzzled look; ‘then you must be—you are—?’
‘I am Mrs. Fiander,’ returned she. ‘You remember Elias Fiander, of Littlecomb Farm?’
‘Of course I do; and I used to know his wife.’
‘Oh, you have been so long away that a great many changes have taken place. I was Elias Fiander’s third wife.’
‘Was?’ cried he.
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie blushing, she knew not why. ‘My dear husband died last July.’
The look of blank dismay which hadoverspread the young man’s face gave way to an expression of relief; but he made no reply.
Rosalie took hold of the nearest rein, turned Nigger round, and began to lead him slowly up the hill again.
‘I can really manage quite well,’ she said, somewhat stiffly.
‘I must see you out of your difficulties,’ returned the other with quiet determination; and he too began to retrace his steps, pausing a moment at the crest of the hill to repossess himself of his bicycle, which he had left propped against the bank.
‘I will ride on to the village,’ he said, ‘and make arrangements about leaving your horse there and getting a fresh one. It will save time, and there is none to spare if you want to get home before dusk.’
He raised his cap, mounted, and disappeared before Rosalie had time to protest.
Indeed, she was glad enough of Richard Marshall’s helpful company when she presently arrived at the Black Horse Inn, where, in spite of the framed poetical effusion which hung beneath the sign, and which testified to the merits of the establishment, there was some difficulty in procuring accommodation and attention for poor Nigger, and even greaterin finding a substitute. In fact, the only animal available proved to be a huge rawboned three-year-old, who was with great difficulty persuaded to enter the shafts of the gig, and who, when harnessed, tilted up the vehicle in such a peculiar manner that Rosalie shrank back in alarm.
‘He does n’t look safe,’ she faltered; ‘and I’m quite sure that boy is n’t capable of driving him. I have been shaken by the fright, I suppose, for I feel quite unnerved.’
‘I will drive you,’ said Richard, with decision, waving aside the lad who had been appointed charioteer and who now began to assert his perfect competence to perform the task. ‘I guess I can manage most things in the way of horseflesh; and in any case I intended to go to my uncle’s to-morrow.’
‘Oh no; I could n’t think—’ Rosalie was beginning, when he interrupted her eagerly:
‘Nothing will be easier, I assure you; my bag is here, strapped on to my bicycle. I meant to take my uncle by surprise—he does n’t know I am in England. You can send back the horse to-morrow—even if you took the lad, it would be difficult for him to return to-night. My bicycle can stay here until Isend for it or fetch it. Perhaps I had better get in first, Mrs. Fiander, to keep this wild animal quiet, while you get up. Hand over the reins here—that’s it; hold on by his head till the lady mounts. Put that machine of mine in a dry place, will you? Now then, Mrs. Fiander, give me your hand. Whoa, boy! Steady! There we are—Let go!’
He laid the whip lightly on the animal’s back, and they were off before Rosalie had had time to protest or to demur.
The long legs of the three-year-old covered the ground in a marvellous manner, and with that tall masterful figure by her side she could feel no fear. Indeed the sensation of swinging along through the brisk air was pleasant enough, though she felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of the astonishment which her arrival in such company would produce at home; and she was, moreover, not quite certain if she relished being thus peremptorily taken possession of by the new-comer. Rosalie was used to think and act for herself and it was quite a new experience to her to have her will gainsaid and her objections overborne, even in her own interests. But, after all, the man was Isaac’s nephew, and no one could find fault with her for accepting his assistance.In a few months’ time she would be his aunt—perhaps he would then allow her wishes to have more weight. She smiled to herself as she glanced up at him—what would he say if she told him the relationship which he would shortly bear to her? He would be her nephew. How ridiculous it seemed! He must be some years older than she was; there were firm lines in that brown face, and the hands looked capable and strong, as if they had accomplished plenty of work.
When they reached Yellowham Hill once more and began to descend at a foot’s pace, Richard broke silence.
‘I have seen and done a good many things in the course of my travels, but I have never come across so beautiful a spot as this, and none of my adventures have been so curious as the one which introduced me to you.’
‘Really,’ said Rosalie drily; ‘I cannot see that there was anything so very extraordinary in it. Even if Nigger had not had this accident we should have been certain to meet while you are staying at Mr. Sharpe’s.’
‘I wonder,’ said the young man, speaking half to himself and half to her—‘I wonder if I should have preferred to meet you first in your own fields—in a cornfield. But thecorn, of course, will not be ripe for months to come. No, on the whole I am content. I said to myself when I was climbing the hill, “There is magic in this place,” and I felt it was home.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Rosalie. ‘What can it matter where one first meets a new acquaintance, and why should it be in a cornfield?’
‘I saw you first in a cornfield,’ said he.
‘But surely you were not in England last harvest time,’ she cried. ‘What are you talking about? You have only just said that you would like tohave metme first in a cornfield, which proves—what is true—that you have never seen me before.’
‘I have seen you before,’ he murmured in a low voice.
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ she cried sharply; ‘you must have dreamt it.’
‘Yes—I did dream—about you,’ he owned, glancing at her; and once more that curious look of wondering joy stole over his face.
Rosalie drew a little away from him in a displeasure which he was quick to observe.
‘I will explain some day,’ he said, looking down at her with a smile which disarmed her; and then, having reached the bottom of thehill, he chirruped to the horse, and they sped along once more at an exhilarating pace.
By-and-by he began to talk about his uncle, speaking of him with such evident affection that the heart of the future Mrs. Sharpe warmed to him. Her grateful regard for Isaac had increased during their four months’ betrothal. Indeed, it could not have been otherwise: he was so placid, and good-natured, and obliging. Moreover, he took a lot of trouble off her hands, for he had assumed the management of the farm immediately after their engagement. No one could cavil at this arrangement: it was natural that the man who was so shortly to be master should at once take over the control of affairs. Even the gossips of the neighbourhood could make no ill-natured comments; one and all, indeed, agreeing that it was pretty behaviour on the part of the Widow Fiander to postpone the wedding till after the year was out.
So Rosalie listened, well pleased, while Richard spoke of Isaac’s past generosity to him and his mother, of the high esteem in which he held him, and of his desire to spend a few weeks in his company before going out into the world afresh.
‘Perhaps I ought to tell him that I amgoing to marry his uncle,’ thought Rosalie, and then she dismissed the notion. Let Isaac make the announcement himself; she felt rather shy about it—and possibly Richard Marshall might not like the idea.
She began to question him, instead, anent his past achievements and future prospects, and heard with astonishment and concern that the young man had not only failed to make his fortune in the distant lands he had visited, but had come back in some ways poorer than he had set out.
‘Only in some things, though,’ he said. ‘I reckon I am richer on the whole.’
‘How are you poorer and how are you richer?’ queried Rosalie.
‘I am poorer in pocket; my uncle sent me out with a nice little sum to start me in life. Ah, as I tell you, he’s a first-rate old chap. He could n’t have done more for me if I had been his son. Well, that’s gone long ago, but I have come back richer all the same—rich in experience, for one thing. I have seen a lot and learnt a lot. I educated myself out there in more ways than one. Dear old Dorset holds a very fine place on the map of England, yet ’t is but a tiny corner of the world after all.’
As she listened there came to Rosalie a sudden inexplicable envy. She had never been out of her native county—she had never wanted to travel beyond its borders, but for a moment the thought struck her that it might be a fine and desirable thing to see the world.
‘I wonder,’ she said tartly, for her irritation at this discovery recoiled on its unsuspicious cause—‘I wonder, Mr. Marshall, you should care to come back to Dorset since you have such a poor opinion of it. Why did n’t you settle out there?’
‘Out where?’ he inquired with a smile. ‘I have tried to settle in a good many places. I was in a newspaper office in New York—it was while I was there that I did most in the way of educating myself—and then I went to San Francisco, and then to Texas. I’ve been pretty well over the States, in fact, and I’ve been to Mexico and Brazil and Canada. I might have done well in several places if I could have made up my mind to stick to the job in hand—but I could n’t. Something was drawing me all the time—drawing me back to England—drawing me home, so that at last I felt I must come back.’
‘And what will you do now?’ she inquired with curiosity.
‘Oh,’ he cried, drawing a deep breath, ‘I must work on a farm. The love for farm-work is in my blood, I believe. I want the smell of the fresh-turned earth; I want my arms to be tired heaving the sheaves into the waggons; I want to lead out the horses early in the morning into the dewy fields—I want, oh, many things!’
Rosalie considered him wonderingly: these things were done around her every day as a matter of course, but how curiously the man spoke of them, how unaccountable was that longing of which he spoke! She had never seen anyone the least like him, and, now that the conversation had drifted away from herself, she felt a real pleasure and interest in listening to his talk. As they drove onward through the gathering twilight she, too, was moved to talk, and was charmed by his quick understanding and ready response. Her own wits were quick enough, but she had fallen into the habit of keeping her opinions on abstract subjects to herself: the concrete was all that the people with whom she associated were capable of discussing; and, indeed, they had not much to say on any matter at any time. This young bright personality was something so absolutely new to her, his pointof view so original and vigorous, and his sympathy so magnetic, that Rosalie enjoyed her adventure as she had never enjoyed anything in her life before. Her eyes shone, her cheeks flushed, her merry laugh rang out; she felt that she, too, was young and light-hearted, and that life and youth and gay companionship made a very delightful combination.
As they drew near their destination a sudden silence fell between them, and presently Richard broke it, speaking in a soft and altered tone.
‘How familiar the country grows! Even in the dark I recognise a friend at every turn. Is not that your house yonder where the lights are glimmering?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, with a little unconscious sigh.
‘The cornfield where I saw you lies just to the right of it.’
‘I wish you would not talk in riddles,’ said Rosalie, breathing rather quickly. Through the dusk he could see the wrathful fire in her eyes.
‘Do not be angry,’ he said quickly; ‘I meant to tell you another time when I had come to know you better, but after all why should I not tell you now? I saw a picture of you inLondon. I stayed a day or two there on my way through from Liverpool—I had some business to do for a friend in New York—and I went to the Academy, and there, in the very first room, I saw your picture.’
‘My picture!’ ejaculated she. ‘It must have been the one that London gentleman said he would paint.’
‘Yes, it was you—you yourself; and you were lying in a cornfield under a shock of wheat, and the corner of your house could just be seen in the distance, and some of the men were reaping a little way off—but you were fast asleep.’
Rosalie’s heart was thumping in a most unusual way, and her breath came so pantingly that she did not trust herself to speak.
‘’T was a big picture,’ he said; ‘full of sunshine, and when I saw it—the whole thing—the great field stretching away, and the men working, and the quiet old house in the distance, and the girl sleeping so placidly—it was all so glowing, and yet so peaceful and homelike that my heart went out to it. “That’s Dorset,” I said, and I believe I cried—I know I felt as if I could cry. After all those years of wandering to find, when I thought myself all alone in a great strangecity, that piece of home smiling at one—I tell you it made one feel queer.’
Rosalie remained silent, angry with herself for the agitation which had taken possession of her.
‘So you see I was not quite so far wrong in saying that to-day’s meeting was a very strange one. The first instant my eyes fell upon you I recognised you.’
She felt she must say something, but her voice sounded husky and quite unlike itself when she spoke.
‘It certainly was odd that we should come across each other near Dorchester. It would of course have been quite natural if you had recognised me when you came to your uncle’s.’
‘I thought you would have been more interested in my story,’ he said reproachfully, after a pause.
‘I am—I am very much interested; I think it a very funny story.’
‘Funny!’ he repeated, and then relapsed into silence, which remained unbroken until they turned in at Rosalie’s gate.
A thousand thorns, and briers, and stingsI have in my poor breast;Yet ne’er can see that salve which bringsMy passion any rest.Herrick.
A thousand thorns, and briers, and stingsI have in my poor breast;Yet ne’er can see that salve which bringsMy passion any rest.
Herrick.
‘Well, my boy, I be main glad you be come back. There bain’t no place like home, be there?’
As Isaac Sharpe repeated these words for the twentieth time since his nephew’s arrival, he beamed affectionately upon him through the fragrant steam of the bowl of punch specially brewed in his honour, and then, leaning back in his chair, sighed and shook his head.
‘Ye be wonderful like your mother, Richard,’ he said, and sighed again, and groaned, and took another sip of punch, blinking the while, partly from the strength of the decoction and partly because he was overcome by emotion.
Richard, sitting opposite to him, stretched out his legs luxuriously to the warmth of the crackling wood fire, and, removing his pipefrom his lips, gazed contentedly round the familiar kitchen, which was now looking its best in the homely radiance.
‘It is good to come back to the dear old place and to find everything exactly the same as ever. You don’t seem to have grown a day older, Uncle Isaac—nothing is changed. I can’t tell you how delightful that is. I had been tormenting myself during the journey with fancying I should find things altered—but, thank Heaven, they are not.’
He glanced brightly at the broad, rubicund face opposite to him, and took his glass from the table.
‘Your health, Uncle! May you live a thousand years, and may you be the same at the end of them!’
He half emptied his glass, and set it down with a cheery laugh.
Isaac drank slowly from his, peering meanwhile at his nephew over the rim.
‘Thank you, my lad,’ he said, replacing it on the table at last. ‘I’m obliged to you, Richard. ’T is kindly meant, but changes, d’ ye see’—here he paused and coughed—‘changes, Richard, is what must be looked for in this here world.’
His colour, always sufficiently ruddy, wasnow so much heightened, and his face assumed so curiously solemn an expression, that Richard paused with his pipe half-way to his lips and stared at him with amazement and gathering alarm.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, anxiously. ‘Are n’t you feeling well? You’re looking first-rate.’
‘Never felt better in my life,’ rejoined his uncle in sepulchral tones.
‘Come, that’s all right! You quite frightened me. What do you mean by talking about changes?’
Isaac took a gulp from his tumbler and fixed his round eyes dismally on the young man.
‘There may be sich things as changes for the better,’ he remarked, still in his deepest bass.
‘Don’t believe in ’em,’ cried Richard gaily. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to turn Methody, or Salvationist, or anything of that kind. I like you as you are—and I don’t want you to be any better.’
‘Dear heart alive, what notions the chap d’ take in his head!’ ejaculated the farmer, relaxing into a smile. ‘Nay now, I never thought on sich things; but there’ll be a change in this here house for all that,Richard. I be a-goin’’—here Isaac leaned forward, with a hand on either knee, and fixed his eyes earnestly, almost tragically, on his nephew—‘I be a-goin’, Richard, for to change my state.’
He slowly resumed an upright position, drawing in his breath through dilated nostrils.
‘I be a-goin’, Richard,’ he continued, observing the other’s blank and uncomprehending stare—‘I be a-goin’ to get married.’
‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Richard, taken aback for a moment; then rising from his chair he stepped up to his uncle, and slapped him heartily on the back. ‘Well done!’ he cried. ‘Well done! I give you joy! Upon my life I did n’t think you had so much go in you—you’re a splendid old chap!’
‘Thank ’ee,’ said Isaac, without much enthusiasm. ‘I’m glad you’re not agen it.’
‘Why should I be against it?’ returned Richard hilariously. ‘I’m a little surprised, because I did n’t think that was in your line; but, after all, “Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” the saying goes—your case is the reverse; you have taken your time about marrying, so perhaps it will be all the better for you.’
‘I hope so, I’m sure,’ said thebridegroom-elect, dolefully; adding, as Richard, still laughing, resumed his seat, ‘I thought I’d best tell ’ee at once as there was goin’ to be a change.’
‘Well, well, a change for the better, as you say,’ cried the other. ‘There’ll be two to welcome me when I pay the Down Farm a visit instead of one. I shall find a jolly old aunt as well as a jolly old uncle.’
Isaac took his pipe out of his mouth with a perturbed expression.
‘She bain’t so very old,’ he remarked.
‘No, no—of course not. Neither are you for that matter. May she be an evergreen like yourself!’
‘Thank ’ee, Richard, thank ’ee. I’m glad as you approve o’ my thinking on matrimony.’
‘Why, matrimony’s the best thing going,’ said Richard, still gaily, yet with an undercurrent of something curiously like tenderness. ‘Every grief is lessened by half, and every joy is doubled. Always a bright cheery face at the fireside, always a kind true hand in yours—a woman’s wit to point out where the man has been at fault.’
‘Ah,’ interrupted his uncle, with a groan, ‘they be willin’ enough to do that!’
‘Always ready to comfort you when youare in trouble,’ went on the young man without heeding him, ‘ready to advise you when you are in a difficulty—the best of companions, the most faithful of friends, the kindest of helpmates—that’s a wife!’
The farmer was gazing across at him with bewilderment mixed with delight.
‘Well said, Richard,—very well said! Ye be wonderful quick wi’ your tongue. If that’s the way ye feel about wedlock you ought to be lookin’ out for a wife o’ your own.’
‘Nonsense, Uncle Isaac. Why, I have n’t a penny. I shall have hard work to keep myself to begin with.’
‘Come, come, we mid be able to manage summat. I’ve a notion in my head. Ye be a-goin’ to take up farm-work agen, ye tell me; well, an’ as I says to you: Why not work on the farm where ye was brought up, and why not take wage from your own flesh and blood instead of lookin’ to strangers for ’t?’
‘There’s no one I should like to work for better than you, Uncle Isaac—you know that.’
‘I do know it, Richard. I d’ know it very well. “But,” says you to me, “I must have somewheres to live,” says you.’
‘No, I don’t, Uncle Isaac! I say nothingof the kind,’ put in the young man hastily. ‘If you intended to remain a bachelor it would be a different matter, but—’
‘I’m not axing you to live wi’ me,’ returned Isaac, throwing out his hand in a lordly manner. ‘If I was a-goin’ to keep single it ’ud come nat’ral enough, but my new missus—Well, ’t is this way. She have got a house of her own, and she’s anxious for me to live over there along o’ her.’
‘I see,’ said Richard, looking rather astonished, however.
‘’Ees, I were agen it at first, but I come round to it arter. So I reckoned to let this here house to somebody—one of the men, p’r’aps; but now has you’ve a-comed back, Richard, my boy, there bain’t nobody I’d like to see livin’ here so much as yourself. My notion ’ud be for you to settle down wi’ a wife to do for you and keep the place tidy, and work this here farm under me. My hands ’ull be pretty full, and I’ll be glad o’ your help.She’sgot a biggish place to manage, and I’ll be glad to think as there’s somebody here as I can rely on. Well, what do you say?’
‘What do I say?’ cried Richard, stammering with joy. ‘What can I say? I don’t know how to thank you!’
‘Well,’ said the farmer jovially; ‘and now, what about the missus? ’Ave ’ee got your eye on anyone as ’ud suit?’
‘Why,’ began Richard eagerly; he paused, and then continued laughingly, ‘you must give me a little time, you know. I’ve only been a few days in England.’
‘That’s true. I’m glad to think, my lad, as you don’t want to take a wife from abroad. Nay, don’t ye go travellin’ for a wife. Take my word for ’t, the best is often to be picked up close at hand. Not always, though,’ he continued, reflectively. ‘Poor Elias Fiander—ye mind ’Lias Fiander? He went travellin’ all the way to Dorchester to buy a turmit-hoin’ machine, and it was there, nigh upon eighteen miles off, as he come across his last missus. But you know her,’ he went on with animation—‘aye, now as I call it to mind, you were a-tellin’ me how you drove her back to-day. Ah, sure, so ye did.’
‘Yes,’ said Richard quickly; ‘yes, I told you all about that.’
‘Ah, so ye did. ’Twere funny how you come across her. I be pleased to think as ye’ve met. She were a good missus to Elias—she were, indeed—and a good missus to one man is like to be a good one to another.’
Richard caught his breath and leaned forward; his face was flushed, his eyes shining.
‘Why do you say this to me now?’ he said eagerly.
His uncle removed his pipe from his mouth, took a sip of punch, and then looked at him solemnly.
‘Because, Richard, my boy, ’t is but nat’ral I should talk of her, seein’ as we be goin’ to be man an’ wife so soon.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Richard, almost violently. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why,’ returned Isaac, raising his voice to a kind of mild roar, ‘you have n’t been listenin’ to me. I’ve been a-talkin’ about Mrs. Fiander—’Lias’s widow. I be a-goin’ to get married to she!’
‘You!’ exclaimed his nephew in the same loud fierce tone.
‘’Ees,’ bellowed Farmer Sharpe. ‘Have n’t I been a-tellin’ ye this hour and more? Did n’t I say I were a-goin’ to change my state, and did n’t I tell ’ee she’d a house of her own and wanted me to live over there along of her? But your brains was wool-gatherin’—I’ll lay a shillin’ you was a-thinkin’ o’ your own young woman!’ cried Isaac, witha roar of laughter, stretching forward a long arm that he might give his nephew a facetious dig on the nearest available portion of his person.
Richard laughed too, spasmodically, and with a wry face.
‘You’re a sly dog, Uncle Isaac,’ he said. ‘Ah, you’re a cunning old chap—you’ve got your wits about you if mine have gone astray! Yes, and you’ve very good taste too—you’ve picked out the greatest beauty in Dorset.’
‘Except your young woman, eh?’ put in Isaac, with a chuckle and another dig.
‘Except my young woman, of course,’ agreed Richard, laughing again with that odd contortion of the face. ‘But I have n’t found her yet, you know.’
‘My weddin’-day is fixed for the end o’ Ju—ly,’ said his uncle ruminatively. You’ll have to look out for your missus afore that time. I doubt as you and Bithey ’ud scarce get on so very well—I’m used to her, you see, but she’s a cranky old body, and it ’ud never do for ye to settle down wi’out a woman o’ some kind to do for ’ee. We might ha’ the two weddin’s same day: I’d like to know as you was settled when I have to shift.’
‘Thank you kindly, uncle; you’ve alwaysbeen like a father to me, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for the welcome you’ve given me, and for wanting to do so much for me. But I don’t know about settling down after all—I’ve been a rover so long, you see, I—I might n’t be able to stick to it and then you might be disappointed.’
‘Stuff an’ nonsense! I’ll not hear o’ no objections. Why, Richard, you never were one to blow hot one minute and cold the next. It bain’t half an hour since you said there was naught you wished for so much as to take up farm-work again and live on the old place—did n’t ’ee?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But nothin’! You’re a-wool-gatherin’—that’s it. Your thoughts is a-wanderin’ off to the new missus.’
‘Is not that to be expected?’ returned his nephew idly.
Resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands he leaned forward, gazing thoughtfully into the fire:
‘I have n’t got over my surprise at your piece of news yet,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I thought you so determined a bachelor.’
‘So I thought myself,’ put in Isaac with a nod.
‘And then—from what I’ve seen of Mrs. Fiander I should never have imagined that she would be the wife you would choose when you did make up your mind to take one.’
‘Why so?’ inquired Isaac, somewhat roughly.
‘She’s so young—forty years younger than you, I should think.’
‘Thirty-nine,’ corrected his uncle succinctly.
‘Then she is so beautiful—so full of life, and spirit, and dash. I can’t imagine how you came to think of her.’
There was a pause, during which Isaac meditatively smoked and rubbed his knees.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I did n’t exactly think of it myself, ye see—but I could n’t someways find it in my heart to say No.’
‘To say what?’ cried the young man, dropping his hands and whisking round in his chair.
Isaac gazed at him mildly, and continued to polish his corduroys.
‘To say No,’ he repeated, slightly uplifting his voice, and speaking very slowly and distinctly. ‘I say I could n’t find it i’ my ’eart to—say—No—when she axed me!’
‘She asked you! Do you mean to say that the proposal came from her?’
His uncle nodded.
‘’T war n’t very likely it ’ud ha’ come fro’ me,’ he remarked dispassionately. ‘As I told her at the time, I never was a marryin’ man.’
A silence ensued, during which Richard vainly endeavoured to readjust his ideas. At length he said faintly:
‘And what did she say to that?’
‘She said,’ returned Farmer Sharpe stolidly, ‘that it would n’t be a bad thing for me—“’t is a fine farm,” says she, “and a good business. You could easy work the two farms together,” says she.’
Richard gazed at his uncle with starting eyes and a dropping jaw.
‘But why, in the name of Fortune?’ he ejaculated. ‘I could understand her marrying again—but why you?’
‘She knowed I’d work the farm right, d’ ye see? Things was goin’ wrong all round, and she knowed I understood the work. Ah, I told her myself at the time that she ought to look out for a younger man; but she says, “I don’t want no counter-jumpers,” says she—meanin’ the Branston folks. Ah, there were a good few after her, but she did n’t fancy none o’ them. She thought some was arterthe money, and none o’ them knowed anythin’ about dairy-farmin’.’
‘In fact,’ struck in Richard, rising from his chair and beginning to pace hastily about the room, ‘she has proved herself to be a most practical woman. You won’t make away with her money—you won’t allow mismanagement of the business.’
‘Jist so,’ agreed his uncle, sucking vigorously at his partially extinguished pipe.
Richard continued to walk about the room, and presently paused opposite the hearth.
‘Did she make an offer to Elias Fiander too?’ he inquired sharply.
Isaac removed his pipe and stared up at him. The idea was evidently presented to him for the first time.
‘He never telled me so,’ he said. ‘It were made up in a hurry, to be sure. ’Lias had n’t no notion o’ sich a thing when he started off from here. He went arter a turnip-hoer arter her granfer’s death. They sold ’en up, poor old chap, and Rosalie—that’s Mrs. Fiander—had n’t nowhere to go.’
‘Ha!’ remarked Richard sardonically.
‘But I think,’ pursued the farmer, averting his eyes from his nephew’s face and gazing stolidly at the fire—‘Ithink’twas ’Lias asaxed her. ’Ees, now I can mind he told me so at the time. “Me wantin’ a wife so bad,” says he, “and her bein’ such a good hand at the dairy-work, I thought I’d make sure o’ her,” he says.’
‘She told him, I suppose, that she was a good hand at dairy-work,’ commented Marshall. ‘Yes, I understand the matter now. She is, as I say, a practical woman.’
‘She is—she is,’ agreed Farmer Sharpe warmly. ‘She be a wonderful good manager. Many’s the time I’ve said that. Ah, I reckon I can say I’m in luck.’
Richard murmured something inarticulate and returned to his chair, re-lighting his pipe and beginning to smoke without further remark. On the opposite side of the hearth Isaac ruminated contentedly, without appearing to notice his nephew’s preoccupation, and tumblers and pipes were emptied in almost unbroken silence.
When Richard sought his room that night—the familiar little attic-room which had been his in childhood—his first act after a cursory glance of recognition and approval was to set down his candle on the little deal table and to draw carefully from his pocket a large envelope. Opening this, he took out aprint, evidently cut from some illustrated paper, or collection of ‘Pictures of the Year.’ Holding it close to the light, he looked at it intently. Underneath were the words, ‘A Sleeping Beauty,’ followed by the artist’s name. The picture represented a cornfield with a large ‘shock’ of sheaves to the front, beneath which lay the outstretched figure of a girl asleep. Even in this rough reproduction a certain likeness to Rosalie was discernible, and Richard’s fancy supplied the rest. Indeed, as he gazed, he contemplated not only the glowing and highly-finished work of art which had haunted him persistently since he had first beheld it, but the vision of that afternoon—the exquisite face, the lithe, graceful form which had suddenly appeared to him against its background of bloom and sunlit green. He seemed to hear again the blithe young voice which had thrilled him as it prattled at his side; he seemed to see the large eyes lifted a little shyly to his, and then modestly dropped because of his too evident admiration.
He had deemed these things the outward indication of absolute womanly perfection. His young imagination, fired by the unexpected meeting with Rosalie, and furtherstimulated by his uncle’s chance remarks, had created a marvellous romance before Isaac had pronounced the name of his own future bride. Now the golden glow had vanished, all was flat, and dull, and grey; and, what was worse, he knew his ideal to have been delusive. Young bloom and beauty and fascination meant nothing—Rosalie Fiander was a calculating, mercenary woman, devoid even of feminine reticence. Not content with ‘setting her cap’—odious phrase!—at the man whom she considered best likely to protect her interests, she had actually offered herself to him, haggled over the prospective bargain, weighed with him the gains which must accrue to both. When she was little more than a child she had angled for old Elias Fiander. Well, she was homeless and penniless then, and might from her extreme youth be supposed to know no better, but now in the ripeness of her womanhood, with wealth, liberty, all that she could desire, at her command, she must needs sell herself again! Pah! such a nature must positively be depraved.
With an impetuous movement he held the paper over the candle, but as suddenly snatched it away again, extinguishing theflame with his finger and thumb, and rubbing the burnt edge ruefully:
‘This at least is a thing of beauty,’ he said; ‘why destroy it?’
Then, hastily restoring the print to its wrapper and thrusting it into his pocket again, he muttered: ‘I wish I had never seen her.’
Butter? rolls o’t!Cream? why, bowls o’t!William Barnes.Come, come away,Or let me go;Must I here stay?* * *Troth, lady, no!Herrick.
Butter? rolls o’t!Cream? why, bowls o’t!
William Barnes.
Come, come away,Or let me go;Must I here stay?* * *Troth, lady, no!
Herrick.
Isaacwas somewhat disappointed at his nephew’s lack of enthusiasm over a project which had at first seemed to take his fancy so much. Talk as he might about Richard’s future, and his own desire that he should pass the remainder of his days on the Down Farm, he could extract nothing from the young man but vague expressions of gratitude, and a doubtful promise to think the matter over.
‘I’m goin’ up yonder to Fiander’s,’ remarked Isaac, after breakfast; ‘there’s a little matter there as I must see to. Ye mid as well step up along wi’ me, Richard.’
‘I was thinking of taking a stroll round this place,’ rejoined Richard.
‘Why, what’s all your hurry? Ye may as well wait till I am ready to go wi’ ye. I’ll not be above two or three minutes at Littlecomb, and then we mid walk round together. Besides, ye’ll be wantin’ to pay your respects to Mrs. Fiander, won’t ye, arter drivin’ her from Dorchester yesterday—and her that’s goin’ to be your aunt?’
‘To be sure: I must keep on good terms with my aunt, must n’t I? Else perhaps she won’t make me welcome when I come to see you.’
‘No fear o’ that—she’ll make ’ee welcome enough. She al’ays behaved uncommon civil and respectful to I in ’Lias’s time. Ah, sure, that she did.’
‘Perhaps she won’t be pleased at my calling so early?’
‘Early! Dear heart alive! You don’t know that woman, Richard. She’s astir soon arter four in the morning, and she has her maids afoot afore that. Aye, and the men knows if they comes late they’ll get fined. Ah, she be a wonderful manager.’
‘Then, what in the name of wonder,’ said Richard to himself, as he followed the portly white figure across the yard and over the downs—‘what in the name of wonder can she want with you?’
Despite Farmer Sharpe’s protest most people would have considered the hour at which they betook themselves to call at Littlecomb Farm a sufficiently early one. The dew lay thick and sparkling upon the short herbage of the downs, and the air was still sharp and keen. A lark was circling over their heads, its jubilant notes piercing Richard’s heart with an odd sense of pain. What was this heaviness which had come upon him, and which even the brisk walk through the exhilarating air, and the delightfully familiar scents, and sounds, and sights could not drive away?
Now they had entered Rosalie’s demesne. These wide fields were hers; yonder were her cattle grazing by the river; and here, peeping through the trees and compassed about by a goodly array of stacks, was her house with its bodyguard of farm-buildings.
Richard, who had not spoken much throughout the walk, became altogether silent as he crossed the well-kept yard, and even lagged behind when his uncle approached the open milkhouse door. Through this open door the sound of female voices could be heard, raised, one in voluble excuse, another, whose tone Richard recognised with a little shiverof inexplicable anguish, in vituperation. But Isaac Sharpe boldly advanced into the building, and beckoned to him to follow.
‘Why, what’s the matter here?’ he inquired good-humouredly. ‘Fine mornin’, Mrs. F. I’ve brought my nevvy to see ye.’
‘He’ll find us rather in a mess, I’m afraid,’ returned Rosalie’s clear voice, still with a distinct note of sharpness in it; ‘but I am very glad he has come; I want to thank him for his kindness to me yesterday.’
Peering over his uncle Richard descried the mistress of the establishment stooping over the large cheese-vat already alluded to, one white arm, bare almost to the shoulder, vigorously kneading and stirring a huge mass of curds. Her buff print dress appeared to imprison the sunshine, and attitude and movement alike showed off her supple figure to the very best advantage.
Most lovers, thought the young man, would have been unable to resist the temptation of putting an arm about that inviting waist for the morning greeting—the arm of the future husband had surely a right to be there. But Isaac Sharpe stood bluff and square in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his hat on his head.
‘You’ll excuse my shaking hands,’ said Rosalie, looking up with eyes in which the angry light still lingered, and a puckered brow. ‘Everything is upset, and I can’t leave the curds for a minute. Indeed, as it is I fancy the whole of this batch will be good for nothing.’
A hitherto imperceptible dimple peeped out near her lips when she spoke—such red ripe lips! Such a bewitching dimple! Isaac, however, merely thrust his hands a little deeper into his pockets, and again inquired with increased concern:
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘This morning I happened to be late,’ said Rosalie, uplifting her voice, evidently for the benefit of the culprit, Jane, who had suddenly melted into tears; a fact which was betrayed by her heaving shoulders as she stood with her back to the visitors.
‘I happened to be a little late,’ repeated Rosalie severely, ‘so I desired one of the maids’—here Jane sniffed deprecatingly—‘to start work without me. And when I came down, what do you think? I actually found the careless girl pouring the rennet in out of the bottle.’
‘Tch, tch, tch!’ commented the farmer, clicking his tongue commiseratingly.
‘There were n’t but a few spoonfuls left,’ explained Jane, almost inarticulately.
‘How could you possibly tell how many were left?’ retorted her mistress, with increased acerbity. ‘You know how particular I always am to measure it out drop for drop almost—a spoonful too much may make all the difference—particularly at this time of year. I call it downright wicked of you to run the risk of spoiling the whole vat-ful! There are a hundred and fifty gallons of milk in this vat—it should make nearly a hundredweight of cheese. And just because you are so idle and careless it may all go to waste!’