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diff --git a/old/66622-0.txt b/old/66622-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 12b4a66..0000000 --- a/old/66622-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8597 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Fiander's Widow, by M. E. Francis - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Fiander's Widow - A Novel - - -Author: M. E. Francis - - - -Release Date: October 27, 2021 [eBook #66622] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIANDER'S WIDOW*** - - -This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler - - - - - - FIANDER’S WIDOW - - - A Novel - - * * * * * - - BY - - M. E. FRANCIS - - (MRS. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) - - Author of “Pastorals of Dorset,” “The Duenna of a Genius,” - etc., etc. - - * * * * * - - LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. - - 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK - - LONDON AND BOMBAY - - 1901 - - * * * * * - - _Copyright_, _1901_, - BY LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. - - _All rights reserved_ - - * * * * * - - UNIVERSITY PRESS • JOHN WILSON - AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. - - * * * * * - - _I dedicate this Rural Romance_ - - _to_ - - _MY KIND HOSTESSES OF TENANTREES_ - - _True Daughters of_ “_Dorset Dear_,” - - _Under whose auspices I first became acquainted_ - _with the peculiarities of its dialect and_ - _the humours of its people_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - _PROLOGUE_ - Page -THE BRIDE 1 - _PART I_ -THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 27 - _PART II_ -THE PRINCE 185 - -PROLOGUE -THE BRIDE - - - A man of reverend age, - But stout and hale . . . - - WORDSWORTH. - - A wife’s be the cheapest ov hands. - - WILLIAM BARNES. - -THE sale was over: live stock, implements, corn and hay, turnips and -potatoes, even apples, had duly been entered to their various buyers; and -now such smaller articles as milk-pails, cheese-tubs, cream-tins, weights -and scales, and other items of a dairy-farmer’s gear were passing under -the hammer. The auction had been well attended, for it had been known -beforehand that things would go cheap, and though the melancholy -circumstances under which the sale took place called forth many -expressions of regret and compassion, they in no way lessened the general -eagerness to secure good bargains. - -Old Giles Stelling had always kept pace with the times, and had been -among the first to adopt new appliances and avail himself of the lights -which advancing science throws even upon the avocations of the farmer. -He had gone a little too fast, as his neighbours now agreed with many -doleful ‘ah’s’ and ‘ayes’ and shakings of heads. All these grand new -machines of his had helped to precipitate the catastrophe which had -overtaken him—a catastrophe which was tragic indeed, for the old farmer, -overcome by the prospect of impending ruin, had been carried off by an -apoplectic fit even before this enforced sale of his effects. - -Nevertheless, though many considered these strange new-fangled -reapers-and-binders, these unnatural-looking double-ploughs, a kind of -flying in the face of Providence, a few spirited individuals had made up -their minds to bid for them, and one energetic purchaser had even driven -eighteen miles from the other side of the county to secure one -particularly complicated machine. - -The bidding was still proceeding briskly in the great barn when this -person shouldered his way through the crowd and made a tour of inspection -of the premises, previous to setting forth again on his return journey. -He was a middle-sized elderly man, with bright blue eyes that looked -forth kindly if keenly from beneath bushy grizzled brows; the ruddy face, -set off by a fringe of white beard and whisker, looked good-humoured and -prosperous enough, but the somewhat stooping shoulders bore witness to -the constant and arduous labour which had been Elias Fiander’s lot in -early life. - -He sauntered across the great yard, so desolate to-day albeit crowded at -the upper end nearest the barn; the suspension of the ordinary life of -the place gave it an air of supreme melancholy and even loneliness. The -cattle thrusting at each other in their enclosures and bellowing -dismally, the sheep hurdled off in convenient lots, the very fowl penned -up and squawking lamentably, for the more valuable specimens were tied -together in bunches by the legs—all these dumb things seemed to have a -kind of instinctive understanding that something unusual and tragic was -going forward. - -‘Poor beasts, they do make a deal o’ noise,’ muttered Elias half aloud; -‘a body might think they was a-cryin’ for their master. Well, well, ’t -is an ill wind what blows nobody good, and that there turnip-hoer was a -wonderful bargain. It won’t do him no harm as I should ha’ picked it up -so cheap. Nay, nay, ’t won’t do him no harm where he be gone to; and I -might as well ha’ bought it as another.’ - -Having satisfied a passing twinge of conscience with this reflection, he -stepped into the great rickyard, and stood a moment gazing from one to -the other of the golden and russet stacks. - -‘Prime stuff!’ he muttered to himself. ‘That be real old hay in the -corner, and this here wheat-rick—there’s a goodish lot o’ money in that -or I’m much mistaken. Here be another, half thrashed—ah, fine stuff. ’T -is a pity the poor old master did n’t live to see the end o’ that -job—though if the money were n’t a-goin’ into his own pocket he wouldn’t -ha’ been much the better for ’t.’ - -He was wandering round the rick in question, gazing at it from every -point, and even thrusting his hands upwards into the loosened sheaves of -that portion which had been unroofed and partially thrashed, when a -sudden rustle close to him made him start. - -Lo! perched high upon the ledge of the half-demolished stack a figure was -standing, knee-deep among the roughly piled-up sheaves, the tall and -shapely figure of a young girl. She was dressed in black, and from under -the wide sombre brim of her straw hat a pair of blue eyes looked down -fiercely at the farmer. The face in which they were set was oval in -shape, and at that moment very pale; the lips were parted, showing a -gleam of white teeth. - -‘Why, my dear,’ said Fiander, stepping a little further away from the -stack and gazing up at her in mild astonishment—‘why, whatever might you -be doin’ up there? You did gi’ me quite a start, I do assure ye.’ - -‘I’m looking at something I don’t like to see,’ returned the girl in a -choked voice; and her bosom heaved with a quick angry sob. - -‘Ah!’ said the other tentatively. Setting his hat a little further back -on his head and wrinkling up his eyes he examined her more closely. The -black dress, the wrathful, miserable face told their own tale. ‘I do -’low ye be somebody belongin’ to the poor old master?’ he continued -respectfully. - -She sobbed again for all response. - -‘Ah!’ said Fiander again, with a world of sympathy in his blue eyes, ‘’t -is a melancholy sight for ye, sure. You’re Mr. Stelling’s daughter very -like.’ - -‘Granddaughter,’ corrected the girl. - -‘Dear heart alive, ’t is sad—’t is very sad for ye, miss, but I’m sure -I’d never keep a-standin’ on the stack frettin’ yourself so, I would n’t, -truly. ’T is a very sad business altogether, Miss Stelling, but you’ll -be upsettin’ yourself worse if ye bide here.’ - -The girl stepped across the sheaves and drew near the edge of the stack. -Fiander stretched out his hand to assist her down. - -‘That’s it,’ he remarked encouragingly; ‘I’m main glad to see you are so -sensible and ready to take advice, Miss Stelling. Here, let me help ye -down.’ - -‘No, thank you,’ she replied, ‘and my name is n’t Stelling!’ - -Stooping, and supporting herself with one hand against the edge of the -ledge, she swung herself gracefully down, her hat dropping off as she did -so; the face thus exposed to view proved even younger than Fiander had -anticipated, and, were he a more impressionable man, he might well have -been startled at its beauty. - -Even though he had attained the respectable age of fifty-eight and had -not long buried a most faithful and hard-working helpmate, the worthy -farmer was conscious of a glow of admiration. Though the girl’s eyes -were blue, the hair and brows were distinctly dark, and the complexion of -the brunette order—a combination somewhat unusual and very striking. Her -figure was, as has been said, tall and slight, yet with vigour as well as -grace in every movement: she alighted on the ground as easily and as -lightly as though she had been a bird. - -‘Well done!’ ejaculated Fiander. ‘And what might your name be if it -bain’t Stelling?’ - -‘My name is Goldring,’ she replied a little haughtily. ‘Rosalie -Goldring. My mother was Mr. Stelling’s daughter.’ - -‘Well now,’ returned the farmer, smiling cheerfully, ‘Goldring! and -that’s a pretty name too—partic’lar for a maid—a token I might say! -Rosalie did you tell me, miss? I do mind a song as I used to hear when I -were a boy about Rosalie the Prairie Flower.’ She had picked up her hat -and stood gazing at him discontentedly. - -‘I suppose everything is sold by this time?’ she said. ‘My dear -grandfather’s mare, and the trap, and even my cocks and hens. Dear -grandfather! he always used to tell me that everything in the whole place -was to be mine when he died—and now they won’t so much as leave me the -old rooster.’ - -‘Poor maid!’ ejaculated Fiander, full of commiseration, and guiltily -conscious of having bought that turnip-hoer a bargain. ‘’T is -unfort’nate for ye, I’m sure. Did n’t your grandfather make no provision -for ’ee?’ - -‘Oh, it is n’t that I mind,’ retorted Rosalie quickly; ‘it’s seeing -everything go. Everything that I love—all the live things that I knew -and used to take care of—even my churn, and my cheese-presses—granfer -used always to say I was wonderful about cheese-making—and the pails and -pans out of my dairy—everything that I kept so nice and took such pride -in. They’ll all go to strangers now—all scattered about, one here, one -there. And to-morrow they’ll be selling the things out of the house. If -they leave me the clothes I stand up in that’ll be all.’ - -She sobbed so pitifully and looked so forlorn that Fiander’s heart was -positively wrung. - -‘My word!’ he ejaculated, ‘I do ’low it’s hard—’t is that, ’t is cruel -hard; what was ye thinkin’ o’ doin’, my dear? You’ll have some relations -most like as ’ll be glad to take ye in?’ - -‘I have n’t a relation in the world,’ returned Rosalie with another sob; -‘I had nobody but grandfather. If I had,’ she added quickly, ‘I don’t -know that I should have gone to them—I don’t like to be beholden to -anybody. I’ll earn my own bread, though I don’t know how I shall do it; -grandfather could never bear the notion of my going to service.’ - -‘Ah! and could n’t he?’ returned Fiander, deeply interested. - -‘No, indeed. Of course when he was alive we never thought of things -coming to this pass. He always told me I should be mistress here when he -was gone, and that I should be well off. Dear granfer, he grudged me -nothing.’ - -‘Such a good education as he gi’ed ye too!’ observed Elias -commiseratingly. - -‘Oh, yes. I was at boarding-school for three years. I can play the -piano and work the crewel-work, and I learnt French.’ - -‘Dear heart alive!’ groaned Fiander, ‘and now ye be a-thrown upon the -world. But I was meanin’ another kind of education. Cheese-making and -dairy-work and that—you was sayin’ you was a good hand at suchlike.’ -While he spoke he eyed her sharply, and listened eagerly for the -response. - -‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Rosalie, ‘I can do all that. We made all kinds of -cheeses every day in the winter, “Ramil,” and “Ha’skim,” and “Blue Vinny” -and all. Yes, I was kept busy—my butter always took top price in the -market; and then there were the accounts to make up of an evening. My -life was n’t all play, I can tell you, but I was very happy.’ - -‘My missus,’ remarked Fiander, following out his own train of -thoughts—‘that’s the second one: I buried her a year come Michaelmas—she -was a wonderful hand at the Ha’skim cheeses. A very stirring body she -was! I do miss her dreadful; and these here dairy-women as ye hire they -be terrible folk for waste—terrible! I reckon I’ll be a lot out of -pocket this year.’ - -‘We all have our troubles, you see,’ said Rosalie, with tears still -hanging on her black lashes. ‘Well, I thank you for your kind words, -sir; they seem to have done me good. I think I’ll go in, now. I don’t -want to meet any of the folk.’ - -‘Bide a bit, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘bide a bit! I’ve summat to ax -ye. You bain’t thinkin’ of going to service, ye say, and ye don’t -rightly know where to look for a home?’ - -Rosalie stared at him. He was laughing in a confused, awkward way, and -his face was growing redder and redder. Before she could answer he went -on: - -‘There’s your name now—it be a pretty ’un. I do ’low it ’ud seem almost -a pity to change it, an’ yet if ye was to lose the name ye might get the -thing.’ - -‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ cried she, growing red in her turn. - -‘Why, Goldring, you know. ’T is a token, as I said jist now. If you was -to get married you would n’t be Goldring no more, and yet ye’d be getting -a Gold Ring, d’ye see—a weddin’-ring!’ - -‘Oh,’ said Rosalie distantly. - -‘If I might make so bold as to ax, have ye been a-keepin’ company wi’ any -young man, miss?’ - -‘No,’ she returned, ‘I don’t care for young men.’ - -‘Well done,’ cried Fiander excitedly, ‘well done, my dear! That shows -your spirit. Come, what ’ud ye say to an old one?’ - -His blue eyes were nearly jumping out of his head, his honest face was -all puckered into smiles. - -‘Come,’ he cried, ‘’t is an offer! Here be I, an old one, yet not so -very old neither, and uncommon tough. I wants a missus terrible bad. -I’ve a-been on the look-out for one this half-year, but I did n’t expect -to take up with a leading article like you. Well, and ye be lookin’ for -a home, and ye bain’t a-keepin’ company wi’ nobody. I ’d make ye so -comfortable as ever I could. I ’d not grudge ye nothing, no more than -your grandfather. I’ve a-worked hard all my life and I’ve got together a -nice bit o’ money, and bought my farm. There’s seventy head of milch -cows on it now, not to speak o’ young beasts and pigs and that. Ye might -be missus there, and make so many cheeses as ever ye pleased. How old -might ye be, my maid?’ - -‘Eighteen,’ returned Rosalie tremulously; she had been gazing at him with -large startled eyes, but had made no attempt to interrupt him. - -‘Eighteen! Well, and I’m fifty-eight. There’s forty years a-tween us, -but, Lord, what’s forty years? I can mind when I were eighteen year of -age the same as if ’t were yesterday, and I can mind as I did think -myself as old and as wise as I be now. Come, my dear, what’s forty year? -I’m hale and hearty, and I’d be so good to ye as ever I could; and you be -lonesome and desolate—thrown upon the world, as I say. Come, let’s make -it up together comfortable. Say the word, and ye can snap your fingers -at anyone who interferes wi’ ye. My place is just so big as this—bigger. -Well, now, is it a bargain?’ - -‘I think it is,’ murmured Rosalie. ‘I—I don’t know what else to do, and -I think you look kind.’ - - * * * - -Late on that same evening Mr. Fiander reached home; and after attending -to his horse and casting a cursory glance round to ascertain that nothing -had gone wrong in his absence, he betook himself across the fields to the -house of his next neighbour and great crony, Isaac Sharpe. - -He found his friend seated in the armchair by the chimney corner. Isaac, -being a bachelor-man, paid small heed to the refinements which were -recently beginning to be in vogue among his class, and habitually sat in -the kitchen. The old woman who acted as housekeeper to him had gone -home, and he was alone in the wide, flagged room, which looked cheerful -enough just now, lit up as it was by the wood fire, which danced gaily on -the yellow walls, and threw gigantic shadows of the hams and flitches -suspended from the great oaken beams, on the ceiling. He was just in the -act of shaking out the ashes from his pipe, previous to retiring for the -night, when Elias entered, and greeted him with no small astonishment. - -‘Be it you, ’Lias? I were just a-goin’ to lock up and go to roost.’ - -Elias creaked noisily across the great kitchen, and, standing opposite -Sharpe in the chimney corner, looked down at him for a moment without -speaking. The other tapped his pipe on the iron hob nearest him and -continued to gaze interrogatively at the new-comer. He was about the -same age as Fiander but looked younger, his burly form being straight and -his sunburnt face more lightly touched by the hand of time. Hair, beard, -and whiskers, alike abundant, were of a uniform pepper-and-salt—there -being more pepper than salt in the mixture; when he smiled he displayed a -set of teeth in no less excellent preservation. - -As Elias continued to gaze down at him with an odd sheepish expression, -and without speaking, he himself took the initiative. - -‘Ye called round to tell me about the sale, I suppose? Well, I take it -very kind of ye, ’Lias, though I was n’t for your goin’ after that -new-fangled machine. I do ’low ye’ll ha’ give a big price for ’t.’ - -His tone had a tinge of severity, and it was noticeable throughout that -his attitude towards Fiander was somewhat dictatorial, though in truth -Fiander was the older as well as the richer man. - -‘Nay now, nay now,’ the latter returned quickly, ‘ye be wrong for once, -Isaac. ’T is a wonderful bargain: things was goin’ oncommon cheap. -There was hurdles to be picked up for next to nothin’. I were a-thinkin’ -of you, Isaac, and a-wishin’ ye’d ha’ comed wi’ me. Yes, hurdles was -goin’ wonderful cheap. They’d ha’ come in handy for your sheep.’ - -Isaac grunted; since he had not thought fit to accompany his friend, he -was rather annoyed at being told of the bargains he had missed. - -‘It was a long way to travel,’ he remarked. ‘Did you have to go into -Dorchester?’ - -‘Nay I turned off by Yellowham Hill. Banford’s about four mile out o’ -Dorchester, and I cut off a good bit that way.’ - -‘Well, ye’ve a-got the hoer,’ grunted Isaac. ‘Did you bid for anything -else?’ - -‘No, I did n’t bid for it,’ returned Elias with a sheepish chuckle; ‘but -I’ve a-met with a wonderful piece of luck out yonder.’ - -He paused, slowly rubbed his hands, chuckled again, and, finally bending -down so that his face was on a level with Sharpe’s, said slowly and -emphatically: - -‘Isaac, you’ll be a-hearing summat on Sunday as ’ull surprise ye.’ - -Isaac, who from force of habit had replaced his empty pipe in his mouth, -now took it out, gaped at his interlocutor for a full half-minute, and -finally said: - -‘What be I a-goin’ to hear o’ Sunday?’ - -‘Banns! My banns,’ announced Fiander, triumphant, but shamefaced too. - -‘What!’ ejaculated Isaac, in a tone of immeasurable disgust. ‘Ye be at -it again, be ye? I never did see sich a man for wedlock. Why, this here -’ull make the third of ’em.’ - -‘Come,’ returned Elias plaintively, ‘that’s none of my fault. My -missuses don’t last—that’s where ’t is. I did think the last ’un ’ud ha’ -done my time, but she goes an’ drops off just at our busiest season. If -I be so much o’ a marryin’ man, ’t is because the Lord in His -mystreerious ways has seen fit to deal hardly wi’ I. Ye know as well as -me, don’t ye, Isaac, as a dairy-farmer can’t get on nohow wi’out a wife.’ - -‘Aye, ’t is what I’ve always said,’ agreed Isaac. ‘There may be profit -in the dairy-farming, but there’s a deal o’ risk. What wi’ cows dyin’, -and bein’ forced to toll a woman about, ’t is more bother nor it’s worth. -Why did n’t ye do same as me, and keep sheep and grow roots? Ah, what -with roots, and what with corn, a man can get on as well that way as your -way—and there’s less risk.’ - -‘Well, I’ve a-been brought up to it, d’ye see, Isaac—that’s it. My -father was a dairyman before me—in a less way, to be sure. Ah, it were a -struggle for him, I tell ye. He did ha’ to pay thirteen pound for every -cow he rented of old Meatyard, what was master then. Thirteen pound! -Think of that. Why, I used to hear him say as pounds and pounds went -through his hands before he could count as he’d made a penny.’ - -‘Ah!’ remarked Mr. Sharpe, with the placid interest of one who hears an -oft-told tale. But then pastures and house-rent and all were counted in -that—your father paid no rent for ’em, did he? And Meatyard found him in -cows, and kept him in hay and oil-cake and that?’ - -‘Yes,’ agreed Elias unwillingly; for the enumeration of these extenuating -circumstances detracted from the picturesque aspect of the case. ‘Oh, -yes, he did that, but my father he al’ays said it were a poor way o’ -makin’ a livin’. “Save up, ’Lias, my boy,” he al’ays did use to say to -I. “Save up and buy a bit o’ land for yourself.” So I scraped and -scrimped and laid by; and my first missus, she were a very thrifty body, -a very thrifty body she were. She put her shoulder to the wheel too, and -when old Meatyard died we bought the farm, and things did prosper wi’ us -very well since—till my last poor wife died; then all did go wrong wi’ I. -Aye, as I say, if I do seem more set on matrimony than other folks, ’t is -because the Lord ha’ marked I out for ’t. Now you, Isaac, never was -called that way, seemingly.’ - -‘Nay,’ agreed Isaac, ‘I never were a-called that way. I never could do -wi’ women-folk about. I’ve seed too much of ’em when I were a young ’un. -Lord, what a cat-and-dog life my poor father and mother did lead, to be -sure! He liked a drop o’ drink, my father did; and when he’d had a glass -too much I’ve seen my mother pull the hair out of his head by -handfuls—ah, that I have. But father, he’d never complain. Soon as she -’d leave go of him he’d stoop down and pick up all the hair as she ’d -a-pulled out of his head. He’d put it in a box—ah, many’s the time he’ve -a-showed it to me arter him and her had had a fallin’ out, and he’d say -to me, “Never you go fur to get married, my boy,” and I’d say, “Nay, -father,” and I’ve a-kept my word.’ - -‘Your poor sister kep’ house for you a good bit, though, did n’t she, -after she lost her husband? And you were uncommon fond o’ the boy.’ - -‘Yes, it be different wi’ a sister—particularly one as knows she have n’t -got no right to be there. She were a very quiet body, poor Eliza were. -I were quite sorry when she and the little chap shifted to Dorchester; -but she thought she’d do better in business.’ - -‘Well, but you were a good friend to she,’ remarked Elias, ‘both to she -and her boy. Ye paid his passage to ’Merica arter she died, poor thing, -did n’t ye?’ - -‘Ah, I did pay his passage to ’Merica, and I did gi’ him a bit o’ money -in hand to start wi’, out there. Well, but you ha’n’t told me the name -o’ your new missus.’ - -‘Rosalie Goldring is her name,’ returned Elias, lowering his voice -confidentially. ‘Rosalie Goldring—nice name, bain’t it? Soon’s I heard -her name I took it for a kind o’ token.’ - -‘Ah! there be a good many Goldrings Dorchester side,’ remarked Isaac. -‘Was that what took you off so far away? You’ve been a-coortin’ and -never dropped a hint o’ it.’ - -‘Nay now, I never so much as set eyes on her till this very day. But -being so bad off for a wife, and so put about wi’ all the waste as is -a-goin’ on at my place, I thought I’d make sure o’ her, so I axed her. -And she were glad enough to take me—she’s Giles Stelling’s granddaughter, -d’ ye see, and she has to turn out now.’ - -‘Old Stelling’s granddaughter,’ repeated Isaac with emphasis. -‘Granddaughter? He must ha’ been a terrible old man.’ - -‘I do ’low he were—old enough,’ replied Elias hastily. ‘Well, now I’ve -a-told ye the news, Isaac, I think I might as well take myself home -again. My head be all in a whirl wi’ so much travellin’ and one thing -and another. Good-night to ye, Isaac; ye must be sure an’ come over to -see the new turnip-hoer to-morrow.’ - -A little more than three weeks later Fiander brought home his bride, and -Isaac Sharpe cleaned himself, and strolled up in the evening to -congratulate the couple. Elias admitted him, his face wreathed with -smiles, and his whole person smartened up and rejuvenated. - -‘Come in, Isaac, come in. The wife’s gone upstairs to get ready for -supper, but she’ll be down in a minute.’ - -‘I give you joy,’ said Sharpe gruffly. - -‘Thank’ee, Isaac, thank’ee. Come in and take a chair. Ye may fill your -pipe too—she does n’t object to a pipe.’ - -‘_Who_ does n’t object to a pipe?’ said Isaac staring, with a great hand -on each knee. - -‘Why, Mrs. Fiander does n’t. Oh, Isaac, I be a-favoured so. I told you -the A’mighty had marked me out for wedlock; well, I can truly say that -this here missus promises to be the best o’ the three. Wait till ye see -her, and you’ll think I’m in luck.’ - -Isaac gazed at him with a kind of stolid compassion, shook his head, -deliberately filled his pipe, and fell to smoking. Elias did the same, -and after he had puffed for a moment or two broke silence. - -‘Ah! ye’ll find her most agree’ble. I did mention to her that you be -used to drop in of a Sunday, and she did make no objections—no objections -at all.’ - -‘Did n’t she?’ returned Isaac. ‘Come, that’s a good thing.’ He paused -for a moment, the veins in his forehead swelling. ‘I don’t know but if -she had made objections I should n’t ha’ come all the same,’ he continued -presently. ‘I’ve a-come here Sunday arter Sunday for twenty year and -more. It would n’t seem very natural to stop away now.’ - -‘Nay, sure,’ agreed Fiander nervously; ‘’t would n’t seem at all -natural.’ - -The sound of a light foot was now heard crossing the room overhead and -descending the stairs. - -‘That be her,’ remarked Elias excitedly. - -The door opened, and a tall well-formed figure stood outlined against the -background of fire-lit kitchen. It was almost dusk in the parlour where -the two men sat. - -‘Why, you’re all in the dark here!’ observed a cheerful voice. ‘Shall I -light the lamp, Elias?’ - -‘Do, my dear, do. This here be Mr. Isaac Sharpe, our next neighbour, as -you’ve a-heard me talk on often. Isaac, here’s Mrs. Fiander.’ - -Isaac wedged his pipe firmly into the corner of his mouth, and extended a -large hand; according to the code of manners prevalent in that -neighbourhood, it was not considered necessary to rise when you greeted a -lady. - -‘How d’ ye do, mum? I give you joy,’ he remarked. - -When her hand was released Mrs. Fiander sought and found lamp and -matches, and removed the shade and chimney, always with such quick -decided movements that Isaac remarked to himself approvingly that she was -n’t very slack about her work. She struck a match, bending over the -lamp, and suddenly the light flared up. Isaac leaned forward in his -favourite attitude, a hand on either knee, and took a good look at the -new-comer; then drawing himself back, and removing his pipe from his -mouth, he shot an indignant glance at Fiander. - -‘Come, that looks more cheerful,’ remarked the unconscious bride; ‘and -supper will be ready in a minute. I’ll go and get the cloth.’ - -As she vanished the new-made husband bent over anxiously to his friend. - -‘What do you think of her?’ he remarked, jerking his thumb over his -shoulder. - -‘Elias,’ returned his friend wrathfully and reproachfully, ‘I did n’t -expect it of ye; no, that I did n’t. At your time of life and arter -buryin’ two of ’em! Nay now, I did n’t think it of you. The least you -might do was to pick out a staid woman.’ - -‘Come, come,’ retorted Fiander; ‘she’s young, but that’ll wear off, -Isaac—she’ll mend in time.’ - -‘It bain’t only that she be young,’ resumed Sharpe, still severe and -indignant. ‘But I do think, ’Lias, takin’ everything into consideration, -that it ’ud ha’ been more natural and more decent, I might say, for you -to ha’ got married to somebody more suited to ye. Why, man, your new -missus be a regular beauty!’ - - - - -PART I -_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_ - - -CHAPTER I - - - Oh, Sir! the good die first . . . - - WORDSWORTH. - - Aa! Nichol’s now laid in his grave, - Bi t’ side of his fadder and mudder; - The warl not frae deoth could yen save, - We a’ gang off,—teane after t’ other. - - A CUMBERLAND BALLAD. - -SUNDAY noontide; and a warm Sunday too. The little congregation pouring -out of the ivy-grown church in the hollow seemed to have found the heat -within oppressive; the men were wiping their moist brows previous to -assuming the hard uncompromising hats which alone could do justice to the -day, and the women fanned themselves with their clean white -handkerchiefs, or sniffed ostentatiously at the squat, oddly shaped -bottles of smelling-salts, or nosegays of jessamine and southernwood, -with which they had provided themselves. In the village proper sundry -non-churchgoers waited the return of their more pious brethren; one or -two lads sat expectantly on stiles, on the look-out for their respective -sweethearts, whom they would escort homewards, and with whom they would -possibly make appointments for a stroll at some later hour of the day. -Children, with important faces, might be seen returning from the -bakehouse, carefully carrying the Sunday dinner covered with a clean -cloth; and a few older men and women stood about their doorsteps, or -leaned over their garden gates, with the intention of waylaying their -homeward-bound neighbours and extracting from them items concerning a -very important event which had recently taken place in the vicinity. - -One very fat old lady, propping herself with difficulty against the -lintel of her door, hailed her opposite neighbour eagerly. - -‘Good-day, Mrs. Paddock. Did ye chance to notice if master have a-gone -by yet?’ - -‘Nay, he have n’t a-come this way—not so far as I know,’ returned the -other. ‘They do say he takes on terrible about poor Mr. Fiander.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the first speaker with a long-drawn breath, ‘he’d be like to, -I do ’low, seein’ what friends they was. Folks d’ say as Fiander have -very like left him summat.’ - -‘Nay, nay, he’ll leave it all in a lump to she. He thought the world of -the missus. He’ll be sure to ha’ left it to she—wi’out she marries -again. Then—well, then, very like Mr. Sharpe will come in. Poor Mr. -Fiander, ’t is a sad thing to ha’ never chick nor child to leave your -money to.’ - -‘Ah, sure, ’t is a pity they did n’t have no children. I reckon Mr. -Fiander looked to have ’em, seein’ he’d picked out such a fine shapely -maid. He were a fine man too, though he were gettin’ into years, to be -sure, when he wed her. Not but what a body ’ud ha’ expected the old -gentleman to last a good bit longer. Sixty-two they d’ say he were.’ - -‘Well, and that’s no age to speak on! Lord, I were that upset when I -heerd he were took I’m not the better of it yet.’ - -‘Ay, ’t is a terrible visitation! All as has hearts must feel it.’ - -‘I do assure ye, Mrs. Belbin, I’ve scarce closed my eyes since, and when -I do drop off towards mornin’ I do dream—’t is fearful what I do dream! -This very night, I tell ye, I thought the End had come, and we was all -a-bein’ judged yon in church. The Lord A’mighty Hisself was a-sittin’ up -in gallery a-judging of we—’ - -‘Bless me,’ interrupted Mrs. Belbin, ‘and what were A’mighty God like to -look on, Mrs. Paddock?’ - -‘Oh, He were beautiful—wi’ broad large features and a very piercin’ -eye—but He had a beautiful smile. I thought, if ye can understand, that -some was a-goin’ up to the right and some to the left. Yes, we was all -bein’ judged, taking our turns. Squire fust, and then his lady, and then -all the young ladies and gentlemen a-goin’ up one after t’ other and -a-bein’ judged—’ - -‘Well, well!’ commented Mrs. Belbin, throwing up her eyes and hands. -‘All so natural like, wa’ n’t it?’ - -She had evidently been much impressed by the strict order of precedence -observed by the actors in this visionary drama. - -‘Well, then I seed farmers a-goin’ up—’ - -‘Did ye see poor Farmer Fiander?’ inquired the other eagerly. - -‘Nay, nay. He were n’t there, strange to say. ’T ’ud ha’ been natural -to see him—him bein’ dead, ye know—but he were n’t there. But I see -master a-bein’ judged.’ - -‘Did ye, now? and where did he go? He’s a good man—he ’d be like to go -up’ards. Were Hamworthy there—the butcher, I mean? I wonder what the -A’mighty ’ud say to the short weights that he do give us poor folk!’ - -‘Nay, I did n’t see him, fur it were a-comin’ nigh my turn, and I were -that a-feared I could n’t think o’ nothin’ else. And when I did get up -to walk up under gallery I thought my legs did give way and down I -plumped—and that did awaken me up.’ - -‘Well, it was a wonderful dream, Mrs. Paddock. I’m not surprised as you -be feelin’ a bit poorly to-day. ’T is astonishing what folks d’ dream -when they’re upset. I do assure ye when my stummick’s a bit out of order -I’m hag-rid all night. Last Sunday ’t was, I did dream I seed a great -big toad sittin’ on piller, and I hollered out and hit at him, and Belbin -he cotched me by the hand, “Good gracious!” says he, “what be’st thumpin’ -me like that for?” “Why,” says I, “bain’t there a toad on piller?” “Nay -now,” says he, “there’s nothin’ at all; but you’ve a-hit me sich a crack -upon the chops that I’ll lay I’ll have the toothache for a week.”’ - -‘I’d never go for to say as dreams did n’t mean summat, though,’ said -Mrs. Paddock. - -‘Aye, I’ve great faith in dreams and tokens and sich. Ye mind old Maria -Gillingham? Folks always used to think her a bit of a witch, but she -never did nobody much harm seemingly. It were but the day before she -died as I did meet her. “You look poorly, Maria,” says I. “I be like to -be poorly, Mrs. Paddock,” says she. “I’m near my end,” she says. “I ’ve -had a token.” “You don’t tell me?” says I. “Yes,” she said. “I were -a-sittin’ in chimbly corner just now, and three great blue-bottles did -come flyin’ in wi’ crape upon their wings, and they did fly three times -round my head, and they did say, _Soon gone_! _Soon gone_! _Soon -gone_!”’ - -‘Ah,’ commented Mrs. Belbin, ‘and she were soon gone, were n’t she?’ - -‘She were,’ agreed Mrs. Paddock lugubriously. ‘They did find her lyin’ -wi’ her head under the table next day, stone dead. . . . But here’s Rose -Bundy a-comin’ down the road. Well, Rose, was the widow in church?’ - -‘Ay, I seed her,’ cried Rose, a fat red-cheeked girl, with round black -eyes at this moment gleaming with excitement. ‘She did have on such -lovely weeds—ye never saw such weeds. There was crape on ’em very nigh -all over. She did have a great long fall as did come to her knees very -near, and another much the same a-hanging down at the back o’ her bonnet, -and her skirt was covered with crape—and I think there was truly more -black than white to her han’kercher. Ah, it was a-goin’ all the time -under her veil—fust her eyes and then her nose. Poor thing! she do seem -to feel her loss dreadful.’ - -‘And well she may,’ said Mrs. Paddock emphatically. ‘A good husband same -as Fiander bain’t to be picked up every day.’ - -‘Why, he was but a old man,’ retorted the girl. ‘Mrs. Fiander’ll soon -have plenty o’ young chaps a-comin’ to coort her; they d’ say as Mr. -Fiander have a-left her every single penny he had, to do what she likes -wi’! She’ll soon take up wi’ some smart young fellow—it is n’t in natur’ -to expect a handsome young body same as her to go on frettin’ for ever -after a old man, let him be so good as he may.’ - -‘Nay now, nay now,’ cried Mrs. Belbin authoritatively, ‘’t will be this -way, as you’ll soon see. Mr. Fiander will ha’ left the widow his money -and farm and all, as long as she do be a widow, but if she goes for to -change her state, why then o’ coorse it’ll go to somebody else. There -never was a man livin’—and more particularly a old one—as could make up -his mind to leave his money behind him for a woman to spend on another -man. That’ll be it, ye’ll find. Mrs. Fiander’ll keep her money as long -as she d’ keep her mournin’.’ - -‘Here be master, now,’ announced her opposite neighbour, craning her head -a little further out of the doorway. ‘The poor man, he do look upset and -sorrowful.’ - -The eyes of all the little party fixed themselves on the approaching -figure. Mr. Sharpe was clad in Sunday gear of prosperous broadcloth, and -wore, somewhat on the back of his head, a tall hat so antiquated as to -shape and so shaggy as to texture that the material of which it was -composed may possibly have been beaver. His large face was at that -moment absolutely devoid of all expression; Mrs. Paddock’s remark, -therefore, seemed to be dictated by a somewhat lively imagination. He -nodded absently as the women greeted him, which they did very -respectfully, as both their husbands worked under him, but wheeled round -after he had passed the group to address Mrs. Paddock. - -‘I’ll take those chicken off you as you was a-speakin’ on if you’ll fetch -’em up to my place to-week. The fox have a-took a lot of mine, and I be -loath to disappoint my customers.’ - -‘I’ll fetch ’em up, sir, so soon as I can. These be terrible times, Mr. -Sharpe, bain’t they? Sich losses as we’ve a-had last week! The fox he -’ve a-been terrible mischeevous; and poor Mr. Fiander—he were took very -unexpected, were n’t he?’ - -‘Ah!’ agreed Mr. Sharpe. - -‘You’ll be the one to miss him, sir. As we was sayin’, Mrs. Belbin and -me, Mr. Sharpe ’ull be the one to miss him. Ye did use to go there every -Sunday reg’lar, Mr. Sharpe, did n’t ye?’ - -‘Ah!’ agreed the farmer again. His large face seemed just as -expressionless as before, but a close observer might have detected a -sudden suffusion of colour to the eyelids. - -‘They d’ say as Mrs. Fiander be takin’ on terrible,’ put in Mrs. Belbin, -folding her arms across her ample bosom, and settling herself for a good -chat with an air of melancholy enjoyment. ‘She is a nice young -woman—yes, she’s that; and the marriage did turn out wonderful well, -though folks did think it a bit foolish o’ Mr. Fiander to choose sich a -young maid at his time o’ life. But he was lonesome, poor man, losing -his first wife so long ago, and the children dying so young, and his -second missus bein’ took too. But, well, as I d’ say, the last marriage -turned out wonderful well; there was never a word said again’ Mrs. -Fiander.’ - -‘There was never a word _to_ be said,’ returned Mr. Sharpe somewhat -sternly. - -‘Yes, just what I d’ say,’ chimed in Mrs. Paddock. ‘His ch’ice was a -good ’un. She be a nice body, Mrs. Fiander be.’ - -‘Ah!’ agreed the farmer, ‘I d’ ’low she be a nice plain young woman. Her -husband have a-proved that he did think his ch’ice a good ’un, for he’ve -a-left her everything as he had in the world.’ - -‘But not if she marries again, sir, sure?’ cried both the women together. - -‘Lard,’ added Mrs. Belbin, ‘he’d never ha’ been sich a sammy as to let -her keep everything if she goes for to take another man.’ - -‘She be left house and farm, stock and money, onconditional,’ returned -Mr. Sharpe emphatically. And he passed on, leaving the gossips aghast. - - - -CHAPTER II - - - The time I’ve lost in wooing, - In watching and pursuing - The light that lies - In woman’s eyes, - Has been my heart’s undoing. - - THOMAS MOORE. - -THE subject of the conversation recently recorded was slowly removing her -‘blacks,’ and laying them carefully away on the lavender-scented shelves -in the desolate upper chamber of the home which had suddenly grown so -lonely. Divested of the flowing mantle, the tall, well-moulded figure -was set off by its close-fitting black robe; and the face, which had been -hidden from view by the thick folds of crape, proved able to stand the -test of the glaring summer sunshine. The adjective ‘plain,’ applied to -the widow by her late husband’s friend, must be taken only in its local -sense as signifying ‘simple and straightforward;’ even to the indifferent -eyes of this elderly yeoman Rosalie’s beauty had ripened and increased -during the four years that had elapsed since her marriage with his -friend. The black lashes which shaded her lovely eyes were still wet; -the red lips quivered, and the bosom heaved convulsively. Most of the -friends and neighbours of the late Mr. Fiander would have been -astonished—not to say scandalised—at the sight of such grief. It was -quite decent and becoming to cry in church where everybody was looking at -you, but to cry when you were alone for an old man of sixty-two—when you -had been left in undisputed possession of all his property, and might -with perfect impunity marry again at the earliest possible opportunity—it -was not only unreasonable and foolish, but rank ingratitude for the most -merciful dispensation of Providence. - -But Mrs. Fiander continued to sob to herself, and to look blankly round -the empty room, and out at the wide fields where the familiar figure had -been wont to roam; and when, taking the new widow’s cap from its box, she -arranged it on the top of her abundant hair, she could not repress a -fresh gush of tears. - -‘Poor Fiander!’ she said to herself, ‘he would n’t let me wear it if he -knew. It makes me a perfect fright, and is so cumbersome and so much in -the way. But I’ll wear it all the same. Nobody shall say I’m wanting in -respect to his memory. Dear, dear, not a week gone yet! It seems more -like a year.’ - -She descended the stairs slowly, and entered the parlour. There was the -high-backed chair where Fiander used to sit waiting for the Sunday midday -meal; there also was the stool on which he supported his gouty leg. -Opposite was another chair, invariably occupied by Farmer Sharpe on -Sunday afternoons, when, after a walk round his neighbour’s land, he came -in for a chat and a smoke. Mrs. Fiander herself had always sat at the -table, joining in the conversation from time to time, after she had mixed -for her husband and his friend the stiff glass of grog of which it was -their custom to partake. Fiander said nobody mixed it so well as she, -and even Mr. Sharpe occasionally nodded approval, and generously agreed -that she was a first-rate hand. - -She wondered idly if Mr. Sharpe would come to-day; she almost hoped he -would. She did not like to walk round the fields alone—people would -think it strange, too—and it was so lonely and so dreary sitting by -herself in the house. - -But Mr. Sharpe’s chair remained empty all that afternoon; Mrs. Fiander, -however, had other visitors. It was getting near tea-time, and she was -looking forward somewhat anxiously to the arrival of that meal which -would make a break in the dismal hours, when a genteel knock at the door -startled her. She knew it was not Isaac, for it was his custom to walk -in uninvited, and thought it might be some other neighbour coming with a -word of comfort. She was surprised, however, when the maid ushered in a -tall, stout young man, whom she recognised as the son of one of the -leading tradespeople in the town. Andrew Burge’s father was, indeed, not -only cab and coach proprietor on a large scale, but also undertaker, and -Rosalie now remembered that her actual visitor had taken a prominent part -at her husband’s funeral. - -‘I jest called to see how you might be getting on, Mrs. Fiander,’ he -remarked, ‘and to offer my respectful condoliences. ’T was a melancholy -occasion where we met last, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -‘It was indeed,’ said Rosalie; adding, somewhat stiffly, ‘Take a seat, -Mr. Burge.’ - -Mr. Burge took a seat—not one of the ordinary chairs which Mrs. Fiander -indicated with a general wave of the hand, but poor Elias’s own -particular one, which was, as has been stated, established in the -chimney-corner. It happened to be directly opposite to the one in which -Rosalie had been sitting—Isaac Sharpe’s usual chair—and was no doubt -chosen by the visitor on account of its agreeable proximity to his -hostess. Anybody more unlike its former occupant it would be hard to -imagine. Andrew was, as has been said, tall and stout, with black eyes, -closely resembling boot-buttons in size and expression, a florid -complexion, and very sleek black hair. He conveyed a general impression -of bursting out of his clothes; his coat appearing to be too tight, his -trousers too short, his collar too high, and his hat, when he wore it, -too small. This hat he carefully placed upon the ground between his -legs, and drew from its crown a large white pocket-handkerchief, which he -flourished almost in a professional manner. - -‘I feels,’ he went on, attuning his voice to the melancholy tone in -harmony with this proceeding—‘I feels that any condoliences, let them be -so sincere as they may, falls immaterially short of the occasion. The -late Mr. Elias Fiander was universally respected by the townsfolk of -Branston as well as by his own immediate neighbours.’ - -‘You are very kind,’ said Rosalie, feeling that she must make a remark, -and inwardly chiding herself for the frenzied impatience with which she -had longed to turn him out of her husband’s chair. After all, the poor -young man was unconscious of offence, and meant well. - -‘It was, I may say, Mrs. Fiander, a object of congratulation to me that I -was able to pay the deceased a last melancholy tribute. P’r’aps you did -n’t chance to observe that it was me druv the ’earse?’ - -‘I knew I had seen you there,’ said the widow, in a low voice, ‘but I -could n’t for the moment recollect where.’ - -‘It would ha’ fallen in better wi’ my own wishes,’ went on Andrew, ‘if I -could ha’ driven both o’ you. But my father told me you did n’t fancy -the notion o’ the Jubilee ’earse.’ - -‘You mean that combined hearse and mourning coach?’ cried Rosalie. ‘No, -indeed! Why, the coffin is put crosswise behind the driver’s legs, just -like a bale of goods. I think it’s dreadful!’ - -‘Nay now,’ returned Andrew, ‘we are most careful to show every respect to -the pore corpse. The compartment is made special—glazed, and all quite -beautiful. Some people thinks it a privilege for the mourners to be -sittin’ behind, so close to their dear departed. And then think of the -expense it saves—only one pair of horses needed, you know! Not but what -expense is no object to _you_; and of course, your feelin’s bein’ o’ that -delicate natur’, you felt, I suppose, it would be almost too ‘arrowing.’ - -‘I know I could n’t bear the idea,’ she cried. ‘The _Jubilee_ hearse, do -you call it? How came you to give it such a name?’ - -‘Ah! Why, you see, it was entirely my father’s idea, and he had it built -in the Jubilee year. He thought, you know, he’d like to do something a -little special that year by way of showin’ his loyalty. Ah, he spared no -expense in carryin’ of it out, I do assure ’ee. Well, as I was sayin’, -Mrs. Fiander, it would have been a great pleasure to me to have given you -both a token of respect and sympathy at the same time, but, since it was -n’t to be, I followed what I thought would be most in accordance with -your wishes, and I showed my respect for your feelin’s by driving the -remains.’ - -Here he flourished the handkerchief again and raised the boot-button eyes -to Mrs. Fiander’s face. - -‘I am, of course, grateful for any tribute of respect to my dear -husband,’ she said. - -‘Yes,’ resumed Mr. Burge, ‘I thought you’d look on it in that light; but -I should have thought it a privilege to drive you, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -Rosalie made some inarticulate rejoinder. - -‘I thought I’d just call round and explain my motives,’ he went on, ‘and -also take the opportunity of offering in person my best condoliences.’ - -‘Thank you,’ said Rosalie. - -‘I may speak, I think,’ remarked Andrew pompously, ‘in the name of the -whole borough of Branston. There was, I might say, but one mournful -murmur when the noos of his death came to town. But one mournful murmur, -I do assure ’ee, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -Rosalie looked up gratefully; the young man certainly meant well and this -information was gratifying. She felt a little thrill of melancholy -pleasure at the thought of the universal esteem and respect in which her -poor Elias had been held. But meeting the hard expressionless gaze of -Mr. Burge’s tight little eyes, the appreciative compliment died upon her -lips. - -‘So now,’ resumed the visitor, diving for his hat and carefully tucking -away the handkerchief in its lining—‘now, Mrs. Fiander, having spoken for -myself and for my fellow-townsmen, and having assured myself that you are -no worse in health than might have been expected under these extraneous -circumstances, I will withdraw.’ - -He rose, ducked his head, extended his hand, and solemnly pumped -Rosalie’s up and down for about two minutes; finally backing to the door. - -As he let himself out he almost fell over another caller who was at that -moment raising his hand to the knocker. This was a dapper gentleman of -about his own age, with an alert and sprightly air and a good-humoured, -sharp-featured face. - -Rosalie, just standing within the half-open parlour-door, caught sight of -the new-comer and wondered who he might be. In a moment he had set her -doubts at rest. - -‘Good-day, ma’am,’ he remarked, advancing cheerily with outstretched -hand. ‘I must introduce myself, I see; I’m not so well known to you as -you are to me. My name is Cross—Samuel Cross—and I am one of Mr. -Robinson’s clerks. Robinson and Bradbury, solicitors, you know—that’s -who I am. I just called round to—to make a few remarks with regard to -certain business matters in the hands of our firm.’ - -‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Rosalie, hastily taking possession of her -husband’s chair. It should not, if she could help it, again be -desecrated that day. She pointed out a small one, but Mr. Samuel Cross, -without noticing the intimation, stepped quickly forward and seated -himself opposite to the widow in the chair she had just vacated—Isaac -Sharpe’s chair. Rosalie contemplated him with knitted brows; since Mr. -Sharpe, that trusted friend, had not thought fit to occupy his customary -place himself that afternoon, she felt ill pleased at the intrusion of -this presumptuous stranger. - -What a callow little shrimp of a man it was, to be sure, and how unlike, -with his spare form and small narrow face—a face which she mentally -compared to that of a weasel—to the large, bland personality of Isaac! - -‘A matter of business,’ she said drily. ‘I am surprised that Mr. -Robinson should send you on Sunday.’ - -‘Oh, this is quite an informal visit, Mrs. Fiander; not at all official. -I came of my own accord—I may say, in my private capacity. This here is -n’t a six-and-eightpenny affair. He! he!’ - -‘Oh!’ said Rosalie, even more drily than before. - -‘No; seeing, Mrs. Fiander, that you are left so peculiarly lonely and -desolate, I just thought to myself that it would be only kind to call in -in passing and mention that your business matters, Mrs. Fiander, are in a -most satisfactory position. I have frequently heard our firm remark that -they seldom had to deal with affairs more satisfactory and -straightforward.’ - -‘My husband had a very clear head for business,’ said Mrs. Fiander. ‘I -always found that.’ - -‘’T is n’t that alone,’ rejoined the young man, ‘it is, if I may be -permitted to express an opinion, the very satisfactory manner in which he -has disposed of his property, on which I feel bound to congratulate you. -I called round, private as I say, jist to let you know as all was most -satisfactory.’ - -‘Thank you. I had no doubt about it,’ said Rosalie, surveying her -visitor with increasing disfavour as he leered at her from the depth of -Isaac’s capacious chair. - -‘Ladies,’ he pursued, with an ingratiating wriggle—‘ladies is apt to be -easily alarmed when legal matters is under discussion. The very terms -which come so natural to us are apt to frighten them. Lor’ bless you, I -des-say when Mr. Robinson do talk about testamentary dispositions and -such like it makes you feel quite nervous. But ’t is only the sound of -the words as is strange; the thing itself [meaning the testamentary -dispositions of the late lamented Mr. Fiander] is, I do assure you, most -satisfactory. What with the freehold property, meanin’ the farm and the -money invested in such good and safe securities—you may be sure that they -are good and safe, Mrs. Fiander; for I may ventur’ to tell you in -confidence that the late lamented used to consult our firm with regard to -his investments—I have pleasure in assuring you that very few ladies find -theirselves in so satisfactory a position as you do find yourself to-day. -I jist dropped in, unofficial like, to let you know this, for, as I said -to myself, it may be a satisfaction to pore Mrs. Fiander to know _her_ -circumstances, and to understand that, desolate as she may be left, there -is some compensations; and that, moreover, she has been left absolutely -free and independent, the late lamented not having hampered her by no -conditions whatever.’ - -Here Mr. Cross, who had been leaning forward in his chair so that his -face, with its narrow jaws and its little twinkling eyes, had been a good -deal below the level of the slightly disdainful countenance of his -hostess, now slowly straightened himself, clapped an exultant hand on -either knee, and brought the jaws aforesaid together with a snap. - -Mrs. Fiander could not help contrasting him once more with the friend who -should by right be sitting opposite to her; how far more welcome would -have been the sight of the good-tempered rubicund visage, the placid -portly form! Even the contented, amicable taciturnity which Mr. Sharpe -usually maintained during the greater part of his visits would have been -far more to her mind than this loquacity, which somehow seemed -unpleasantly near familiarity. Still, it was unreasonable to take a -dislike to the poor young man merely because he looked like a weasel and -was disposed to be a little over-friendly; no doubt his intention was -kind. - -She thanked him, therefore, with somewhat forced politeness, but could -not repress a little forward movement in her chair which a sensitive -person would have recognized as a token of dismissal. Mr. Cross was not, -however, of this calibre, and prolonged his visit until his hostess’s -patience fairly wore out. She rose at last, glancing at the clock, and -observing that she thought it was time to get ready for evening church. - -‘I will have the pleasure of escorting you,’ announced Samuel promptly -and cheerfully. - -Thereupon Mrs. Fiander sat down again. - -‘On second thoughts I’m too tired,’ she said; ‘but I will not allow you -to delay any longer, Mr. Cross—you will certainly be late as it is.’ - -He had no course but to withdraw then, which he did, unwillingly enough, -after tenderly pressing the widow’s hand and assuring her, quite -superfluously, that she might depend on him to look after her interests -in every way in his power. - -Rosalie was disconsolately polishing the hand which had received this -undesired token of interest, when the door creaked slowly open, and a -tall, gaunt, elderly female, clad in rusty black, and wearing somewhat on -the back of her head a flat black bonnet, with the strings untied, -entered the room. This was Mrs. Greene, a personage generally to be met -with in this neighbourhood in households whose number had recently been -either increased or diminished. She was equally at home, as she once -remarked, with babies and with corpses; and she filled up the intervals -by ‘charing.’ Her appearance was so genteel, and her manner of -fulfilling her various duties so elegant, that the clergyman’s daughter -had once remarked that she was wonderfully refined for a char-woman; the -appellation had stuck to her, and she was commonly known as the ‘refined -char-woman’ among such of the ‘gentry’ as occasionally employed her in -that capacity. - -She had come to Littlecomb Farm to ‘lay out’ poor Elias Fiander, and she -was remaining on as chief factotum and comforter. For it was n’t to be -supposed that the poor young widow ’ud be eq’al to lookin’ after the -maids—much less to turn her thoughts to doin’ for herself. She now -advanced slowly to the table, and after heaving a deep sigh proceeded to -lay the cloth. Rosalie knew that she was burning to enter into -conversation, but was too much dispirited to encourage her. But -by-and-by, after a preliminary cough, Mrs. Greene remarked in a -lugubrious tone: - -‘That’s a lovely cap, mum. Everybody was a-sayin’ that you did look -charmin’ in your weeds. Ay, that was what they said. “She do look -charming”—that was the very thing they said; “’t is a comfort, too,” says -they, “to see how nice she do mourn for Mr. Fiander.” They was all -a-passing the remark one to the other about it, mum—admirable they said -it was.’ - -‘Nonsense,’ cried Rosalie wrathfully, but with a little quaver in her -voice; ‘it would be very strange, I think, if I did not grieve for such a -good husband. I wish people would n’t talk about me,’ she added -petulantly. - -‘Talk!’ ejaculated Mrs. Greene dismally. ‘Ah, they will talk, mum, you -may depend on it. They’ll al’ays talk, and perticlarly about a young -widow. Lord, how they did go on about me when poor Greene died! They -did n’t leave so much as my furnitur’ alone. Whether I could afford to -keep it, or whether I’d be for ridden house and goin’ into lodgin’s, and -whether I’d put the children in an orphanage and get married again—it was -enough to drive a body silly the way they did go on.’ - -‘Disgusting,’ cried Rosalie, now faintly interested. ‘The idea of -talking of a second marriage when your poor husband was only just dead.’ - -‘Why, that be the first thing they’d talk on,’ with a kind of dismal -triumph—‘more perticlar if a woman be young and good-lookin’. In your -own case, mum, I do assure ye they be all a-pickin’ out _your_ second. -Ah, that’s what they be a-doin’, but as they all picks different men they -don’t so very well agree.’ - -‘Mrs. Greene!’ ejaculated her mistress indignantly, wheeling round in her -chair, ‘what do you mean? How dare you come and repeat such things to -me—it’s positively indecent!’ - -‘That be the very remark as I did pass myself to the men yesterday,’ -retorted Mrs. Greene, pausing to contemplate Mrs. Fiander with her hands -upon her hips. ‘The very thing. “’t is most onbecomin’,” says I, “to be -settin’ yourselves up to pry into the affairs o’ your betters. Missus,” -says I, “be a-thinkin’ of nothing but her mournin’ so far, and when she -do make her ch’ice,” says I, “she’ll please herself and pick out him as -is most suitable.” Them was my words, mum.’ - -‘Well,’ cried Rosalie, rising to her feet impetuously, ‘I wonder you dare -to own them to me, Mrs. Greene. I think that, considering you are a -widow yourself, you ought to know better than to accuse another woman of -such faithlessness. If you think I could ever, ever forget my good kind -husband, you are much mistaken.’ - -Mrs. Greene coughed drily behind her hand. - -‘Why should I marry again any more than you?’ cried Rosalie, with angry -tears starting to her eyes. - -‘Well, mum, the cases be very different. Nobody never axed I—’t was n’t -very likely as they should, considering I had six children and only my -own labour to keep ’em. As for you, mum, nobody could n’t think it at -all strange if you was to get married again—considerin’ everything, you -know. Your station in life,’ continued Mrs. Greene delicately, ‘and your -not bein’ blessed with no children, and your fortun’ and your _oncommon_ -looks—it ’ud be very strange if there was n’t a-many a-coming coortin’ -ye—and you may depend upon it they will,’ she cried with conviction. -‘And seein’ how young you be, mum, and how lonesome like, I should say it -be a’most your dooty to take a second.’ - -‘Now listen to me, Mrs. Greene,’ said Rosalie very emphatically, ‘I wish -to put an end to this foolish gossip at once. You can tell everybody -that you hear talking about the matter that I never intend to marry -again. Never!—do you hear me?’ - -‘Yes, mum,’ returned Mrs. Greene, with every feature and line of her -countenance expressing disbelief, ‘I hear. P’r’aps I better begin by -lettin’ them two chaps know what called here to-day. I do ’low they’ll -be disapp’inted!’ - -‘I wish you would n’t talk such nonsense, Mrs. Greene,’ cried Rosalie -almost pettishly, though the colour rushed over her face, and a startled -expression showed itself for a moment in her heavy eyes. ‘Go away! I -don’t want to be worried any more; remember what I have said, that’s -all.’ - - - -CHAPTER III - - - Nothing coming, nothing going— - Landrail craking, one cock crowing; - Few things moving up and down, - All things drowsy. - - NORTH-COUNTRY SONG. - -ROSALIE passed a very unquiet night, and woke from a troubled sleep -shortly after dawn. The dead-weight of grief, ever present to her since -her bereavement, was now, as she dimly felt, supplemented by something -else—something irritating, something unpleasant. As her scattered -faculties returned to her she gradually recognised that this state of -feeling was produced by several small causes. The two visits which she -had received yesterday, and which she had supposed to proceed from mere -officious goodwill, had, as she now acknowledged, been prompted in all -probability by aspirations as unjustifiable as they were unseemly. Her -subsequent interview with Mrs. Greene had disagreeably enlightened her on -this point, and had also made her aware of the kind of gossip to which -she must expect to be subjected. Then—all through that long, lonely, -heavy day Isaac Sharpe had not once put in an appearance. He, her -husband’s faithful friend, the only real friend whom she herself -acknowledged, had not thought fit to look in for so much as five minutes -to cheer her in her desolation. As she thought of these things hot tears -welled afresh to her eyes. Oh, how desolate she was! No one really -cared for her, and, what was almost worse, no one seemed to believe in -the sincerity of her affliction. - -As she lay tossing uneasily on her pillow, and as the light grew and -brightened, and the birds’ jubilant songs mingled with the distant lowing -of cows, a new sense of disquietude came to her, proceeding from a -different and very tangible cause. It was broad day—Monday morning—a -morning of exceptional importance at the farm—and no human being seemed -yet to be afoot. Reaching up her hand to the old-fashioned watch-pocket -which hung in the centre of the bed, she took down Elias’s heavy silver -repeater and pressed the spring. _Ting_, _ting_, _ting_, _ting_, _ting_! -Five o’clock. Sitting up, she sent the two cases flying open and gazed -almost incredulously at the dial beneath. Ten minutes past five—no less! -She sprang out of bed and flung open her door. - -‘Jane! Susan! What are you about? ’t is past five o’clock, and churning -morning. How did you come to oversleep yourselves like that?’ - -There was a muffled murmur, a thud upon the floor, a _pat_, _pat_ of bare -feet across the room above, and a door overhead opened. - -‘Was ye callin’, mum?’ - -‘Was I calling? I should think I was calling! Have you forgotten what -morning it is?’ - -‘Nay, missus, that I haven’t. Lord, no. ’T was this day se’ennight as -poor master was buried. Dear, yes, so ’t was.’ - -A lump rose in Rosalie’s throat, but she steadied her voice and said -coldly: - -‘I am not talking of that. It is churning morning, as you know very -well. You should have been up and about an hour ago. Make as much haste -as you can, now, and come down.’ - -She closed the door with just sufficient noise to indicate the condition -of her feelings, and hastened across the room to the open window. -Drawing the curtains apart, she looked out. A glorious summer’s day. -Not a cloud upon the pearly-blue expanse of sky, the leaves stirring -gently in a fresh breeze—a breeze laden with all the exquisite spicy -scents of morning: the fragrance of dewy grasses, of sun-kissed trees, of -newly-awakened flowers. The monthly rose-tree climbing round her -mullioned window thrust its delicate clusters of bloom almost into -Rosalie’s face, but she pushed it impatiently aside. Her eyes cast a -keen glance on the homely scene beyond. Above the time-worn roofs of the -farm-buildings, where the green of the moss and the mellow red and yellow -of the tiles were alike transfigured by this mystic glow, she could see -last year’s ricks shouldering each other, their regular outlines defined, -as it were, with a pencil of fire; the great meadow beyond, which sloped -downwards till it reached the church-yard wall a quarter of a mile away, -broke into light ripples, tawny and russet, as the breeze swept over it. - -Surely these were sights to gladden a young heart—even a heart that had -been sorrowing—yet the expression of Rosalie’s eyes grew more and more -discontented and displeased, and a frown gathered on her brow. - -The fowl were flocking impatiently about the gate of the great barn-yard; -yonder, on the further side, from beneath the tiled roof of the line of -pigsties she could hear loud vociferations; turning her eyes towards the -stable-buildings which ran at right angles to them, she could see that -the doors were fast closed, and could hear the rattling of chains and -stamping of heavy hoofs within. The Church Meadow ought to have been cut -to-day—the grass was over-ripe as it was; men and horses should have been -at work since three o’clock. No figures appeared even in the -neighbourhood of the barn; and looking beyond to the barton proper, she -could see that it was empty. No wonder that the lowing of the cows had -sounded distant in her ears: they were still in their pasture by the -river. Poor creatures! crowding round the gate, no doubt, as the fowl -were doing close at hand, all clamouring alike for the attention which -was evidently withheld from them. What was everyone about? Why had not -the men come to their work as usual? - -She performed her toilet hastily and somewhat perfunctorily, and when at -last a sleepy-looking red-haired man came slouching up the lane which led -to the farm, he was surprised to see a figure in rustling print and -broad-brimmed chip hat standing in the midst of a bevy of cocks and hens, -scattering handfuls of grain with wide impetuous sweeps of a round, -vigorous arm. - -‘Hallo! What’s the hurry, Sukey?’ he inquired pleasantly. - -But the face which was flashed upon him was not the rosy and somewhat -vacant one of Susan, but belonged to no less a person than Missus -herself. - -‘What’s the hurry, Job?’ she repeated severely. ‘I should like to know -why there is n’t a little more hurry? What has become of all the men? -Has anybody gone to fetch the cows? What is everyone about, I say?’ - -Job tilted his hat a little sideways on his red locks, the better to -scratch his head, and gazed at his mistress with a puzzled and somewhat -scandalised expression. - -‘Ye must expect things to be a bit onreg’lar for a bit, mum,’ he -remarked. ‘Seein’ the loss we’ve had, and us all bein’ so upset like -about poor master, we ha’n’t a-got the ’eart to go about our work as if -nothin’ had happened. It bain’t to be looked for. Nay now,’ he -continued mildly, ‘an’ we did n’t look to find yerself a-goin’ about this -way—we did n’t, sure. It scarce seems nait’ral. If I may make so bold -as to say so, it do seem’—here Job fixed an expostulatory glance on the -angry young face that was confronting him—‘it d’ seem scarce right, mum.’ - -‘Job Hunt,’ returned his mistress haughtily, ‘you are not called upon to -make remarks upon my actions; but I will tell you so much: it is my duty -to see that the work in this place is properly done, and I intend that it -shall be properly done. Go and call the other men at once. Tell them if -they are ever again so disgracefully late they shall all be fined. Call -them quickly,’ she added with an imperative tap of the foot, ‘and then go -and fetch the cows.’ - -As she turned to re-enter the house she caught sight of Susan, who was -evidently exchanging astonished and depreciatory grimaces with Job, while -Mrs. Greene, in the background, was raising hands and eyes to heaven. - -‘Come, get to work,’ she cried sharply. ‘Skim the cream, Susan; and you, -Jane, get the churn ready. Well, Mrs. Greene, what are you staring at? -Have you never seen me work before, that the fact of my turning up my -sleeves need astonish you so much? I suppose you can find something to -do about the house. Give me that other skimmer, Jane.’ - -‘Ho dear, yes, mum, I can find a plenty to do about this here house. I -wur but a-lookin’ at you, mum, because it do really seem a’most too much -for flesh an’ blood to be a-takin’ on itself as you be a-takin’ on -yourself now, mum. Dear, yes! but it’s to be hoped as ye won’t overtax -your constitootion, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -‘Go and clean the kitchen grate,’ said Rosalie, beginning to skim with -great rapidity and decision; ‘and see that you blacklead it properly.’ - -‘Ho yes, mum, _I’ll_ blacklead it,’ returned the elder matron, without, -however, attempting to move from the spot where she stood, and continuing -to fix her eyes mournfully on her mistress—‘_I’ll_ blacklead it right -enough,’ she repeated, with a kind of groan, after a pause, during which -she had meditatively polished first one skinny bare arm and then the -other with a not over-clean apron. - -‘Well, why in Heaven’s name don’t you go, then?’ cried Rosalie -impatiently, for she felt Mrs. Greene’s sorrowfully disapproving gaze -right at the back of her head. - -‘I be going, mum, I be going. If I mid take the liberty of remindin’ -you, mum—’t is your _hat_ as you’ve a-got on your head.’ - -‘Well?’ inquired Rosalie, reddening ominously. - -‘Well, Mrs. Fiander,’ returned the char-woman with an insinuating smile, -‘would n’t you like me to run upstairs wi’ it now and fetch you down your -cap?’ - -‘No,’ replied her mistress very shortly; ‘if I had wished for it I should -have sent for it. You need not be so officious. The strings would get -in my way while I worked,’ she added a little inconsequently. She felt -she was lowering herself by making this explanation, yet she could not -bear that even Mrs. Greene and the two maids should think her wanting in -respect to Elias’s memory. - -Mrs. Greene withdrew, murmuring under her breath that it was to be ’oped -as nobody would n’t chance t’ look in that morning, which was not, -indeed, very likely, the hands of the old-fashioned clock in the kitchen -beyond just pointing to the quarter-past six. - -For some minutes nothing was heard but the clinking of the skimmers -against the sides of the vats as the rich cream, clotted and crinkled and -thick, was removed therefrom. The scene was a pretty one; indeed, such a -dairy on such a summer’s morning must always hold a charm and a -picturesqueness of its own; and now that the angular presence of Mrs. -Greene was removed there was absolutely no discordant element in this -cool harmony. The dairy itself was a wide, pleasant room, its buff walls -and red-flagged floor throwing out the exquisite tints of the vast tracts -of cream, each marked off by its own barrier of glancing tin, and varying -in tone from the deep yellow of that portion destined for the morning’s -churning to the warm white of the foaming pailfuls which Job poured from -time to time somewhat sulkily into the vat nearest the door. Then there -was the green of the gently swaying boughs without, seen through windows -and open door, the brilliant patch of sunlight creeping over the uneven -threshold, the glint of blue sky between sunlit green and sunlit stone. -The brave array of glittering cans on the topmost shelf added their own -share of brightness; the great earthenware crocks and pans, some the very -colour of the cream itself, some ruddy in tone, some of a deep rich -brown, lent also valuable aid; then there were tall white jars containing -lard, carefully-packed baskets and smooth wooden vessels piled high with -eggs, little squares of filmy gauze hung out on lines in readiness for -the golden rolls of butter which they were soon to enfold. The figures -of the girls themselves—for the mistress of Littlecomb Farm was no more -than a girl in years—gave the necessary and very delightful touch of -human interest. Susan and Jane, in cotton dresses and large aprons so -immaculate that the mere sight of them was sufficient to recall that it -was the first day of the week, were not without a certain rustic charm of -their own; as for Rosalie, standing in the foreground, with her sleeves -rolled up on her white arms, her print dress fitting so closely to her -beautiful form, the hair hastily rolled up escaping into such exquisite -curls and tendrils round brow and ear and shapely neck—Rosalie was as -ever what her admiring old Elias had once called her—the leading article. - -When the churn was fairly at work, the skim-milk duly meted out to the -pigs, and the long procession of dairy cows were sauntering back to their -pasture under the guardianship of Job and the three ‘chaps’ who had till -then been busily milking, Rosalie removed her hat and sat down to -breakfast. - -The flush of annoyance still lingered on her face, and, while she ate, -her glance wandered through the window to the premises without. She -could hear Robert Cross and James Bundy leisurely leading out the horses, -inducing them with many objurgations to stand while they were being -harnessed to the rattling, creaking mower. How slow they were! They -should have been in the field hours ago, and yet they slouched about as -though the beautiful golden morning were not already half over. Now, at -last they were starting—no, here was James coming back for something they -had forgotten. Rising hastily from her chair, she leaned out of the open -window, tapping impatiently on the pane. ‘What are you about, Bundy? -Why on earth don’t you try and make a little more haste?’ - -‘Mum?’ gasped Bundy, turning round a vacant, weather-beaten countenance -adorned with the smallest fraction of a nose which it was possible for -the face of man to possess. - -‘I say, why don’t you make more haste when you have lost so much time -already?’ - -‘I be making so much haste as ever I can,’ responded James, much -aggrieved. ‘I be just a-comin’ to fetch the ile-can. ’T would n’t be no -use to get to work without the ile-can.’ - -‘Why did n’t you think about the oil-can while Cross was harnessing the -horses? ’t is nearly eight o’clock—you have lost half your morning’s -work.’ - -Bundy looked up at the sky; then, still in an aggrieved manner, at his -mistress. - -‘We was all so upset,’ he was beginning, when she interrupted him -fiercely: - -‘Don’t let me hear another word about your being upset! If I can attend -to my business, you can attend to yours, I should think. ’T is but an -excuse for disgraceful laziness.’ - -‘We _was_ upset,’ asserted Bundy with much dignity, ‘and, as for bein’ -behind, if it comes to that we can keep on workin’ a bit later this -a’ternoon.’ - -‘You must certainly work later this afternoon; but how long will this -fine weather last, think you? Besides, you know as well as I do that it -is much better for the horses to work in the early morning. There! get -started now, and try to make up for lost time.’ - -She returned to her breakfast, and James rejoined his companion at a -slightly accelerated pace. But, by-and-by, her attention was caught by -the sound of voices, apparently in placid conversation. Back to the -window again flew she: the village carpenter, who was supposed to be -repairing the yard-gate, had just arrived, and was leaning negligently -against one of the posts, while Abel Hunt, Job’s brother, a large bucket -of pig-food in either hand, was leisurely talking to him. - -‘I will give them a few minutes,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘After all, I -must n’t be too hard on them.’ - -Once more she went back to the table, finished her egg, and drank her -second cup of tea, the trickle of talk meanwhile continuing without -ceasing. - -Pushing back her chair, she returned to the window impatiently. The -carpenter had remained in the same attitude, without even unfastening his -bag of tools; Abel had set down his pails, and propped himself up against -the other gate-post; the pigs were wildly protesting in the background. - -Rosalie recrossed the room hastily and went to the door. - -‘Do you intend to gossip here all day?’ she inquired with flashing eyes. - -‘We was jest a-talkin’ about the melancolly event,’ explained the -carpenter. - -‘You will oblige me,’ said Rosalie, ‘by keeping to your work. Abel, take -those pails across to the sties at once. Remember, I will have no more -dawdling.’ - -Abel took up his pails, and the carpenter unfastened his tools, the -expression of both faces alike shocked, wounded, and astonished. - -‘If this goes on,’ murmured Rosalie to herself, ‘I shall not only break -my heart, but go out of my mind. Oh, Elias, you were clever as well as -kind—everything seemed to go by clock-work when you were here—oh, why did -you leave me?’ - - - -CHAPTER IV - - - An’ o’ worken’ days, oh! he do wear - Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t— - Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his hair, - An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t; - An’ a coat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee - In the wind ov his walk, round his knee. - - WILLIAM BARNES. - -ALL the forenoon was passed in butter-making, and in the afternoon -Rosalie betook herself to the mead to superintend the operations of James -and Robert. It was not until after tea that she had leisure to change -her dress and make her way, by the well-known little footpath that -skirted the cornfields and wound across the downs, to Isaac Sharpe’s -farm. - -She found that worthy standing contemplatively in the middle of his yard. -There had been sheep-shearing that day, and the master had worked as hard -as any of the men; now, however, the naked, ungainly-looking ewes had -returned to their pasture, the newly-taken fleeces lay neatly piled up in -a corner of the barn, and Isaac was at liberty to straighten his weary -back, relax his muscles, and smoke the pipe of peace. - -Tall, massive, and imposing was this figure of his, ever at its best in -the smock-frock and serviceable corduroys and leggings of weekday wear; -his wideawake, turned up at the back and projecting in front in the -orthodox shovel form, was decidedly more becoming than the Sunday beaver. -He started as the yard-gate creaked upon its hinges, and Rosalie’s -black-robed figure passed through. - -‘Why, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, hastening towards her, ‘be this you? I’m -glad to see ye. Is there anything I can do for ’ee?’ - -Rosalie could hardly have defined the motive which prompted her visit; -her desolate heart felt the need of sympathy; in this strange new life of -hers she yearned to find herself once more, if but for a moment, in touch -with the past. ‘No, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said with a little gasp, ‘I don’t -think there’s anything you can do for me. I only came because I—I—oh, -Mr. Sharpe, everything is going wrong!’ - -Isaac Sharpe took out his pipe and opened his eyes very wide. - -‘Come,’ he said, ‘come—tell me what be the matter.’ - -‘Everything’s the matter,’ returned the widow in a shaking voice. ‘Oh, -Isaac, I can’t get on without Elias!’ - -‘Can’t ’ee now, my dear?’ returned Isaac, blinking very hard. ‘Well, I’m -sure ’t is nat’ral.’ - -Rosalie gave a little sob, and the farmer, stretching out a large brown -hand, patted her arm soothingly. - -‘Don’t ’ee take on, though,’ he said. ‘Nay now, don’t ’ee take on, my -dear. Cryin’ never did nobody no good.’ - -‘I’m so lonely,’ went on the girl brokenly. ‘I miss him at every turn.’ - -‘Ye’d be like to do that,’ responded Sharpe judicially. ‘Dear, yes—ye’d -be like to do that.’ - -‘Everything is at sixes and sevens,’ she pursued plaintively. ‘The men -think they can do just as they like; it was eight o’clock before they -began their mowing this morning.’ - -‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated Isaac. ‘Eight o’clock! What be the world -comin’ to?’ - -‘The very maids won’t get up,’ continued Rosalie. ‘This was churning -morning, and it was after five before anybody moved. None of the men -came near the place until six; the cows were left in the pasture, none of -the beasts were fed!’ - -‘Shockin’! shockin’!’ commented the farmer. ‘Dear heart alive! I never -heard o’ sich doin’s!’ - -‘When I speak to them,’ cried Rosalie, her voice rising with the -recollection of her wrongs, ‘they turn round and tell me they are all too -much upset to think of work.’ - -‘Do they now?’ in tones of deep disgust. ‘Well, an’ that’s a pretty -story!’ - -‘Yes. And you know, Mr. Sharpe, ’t is the last thing Elias would have -wished—that the work should be neglected and everything allowed to go -wrong like this; yet they seem to think me heartless for expecting things -to go on as before. And the worst of it all is’—here poor Rosalie began -to weep hysterically—‘they don’t any of them believe that I am sorry for -Elias, and they think I’m going to marry again; and, and—two hateful, -odious, impudent young men have already come to court me.’ - -Her sobs well-nigh choked her as she made this last announcement; and -Isaac, full of concern, fell to patting her arm again. - -‘Don’t ’ee now, my dear, don’t ’ee. Well, ’t is very annoyin’ for ’ee, -I’m sure. There, don’t ’ee cry so. Well, well! to think on’t! Started -coortin’ a’ready, have they? Well, they mid ha’ waited a bit! But come -in a minute, do ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, and sit ’ee down. Dear heart alive! -dear heart alive! poor Elias ’ud be terrible upset if he were to see ye -a-givin’ way like this.’ - -He half persuaded, half propelled the still weeping widow across the yard -and into his kitchen, where, sitting down near the table and covering her -face with her hands under the heavy crape veil, she continued to sob -until her host was nearly distracted. - -‘Here, my dear, take a sup o’ this, ’t will do ye good.’ - -Rosalie threw back her veil and took the glass which he offered her. -Raising it to her lips, she found that the dark decoction which it -contained was excessively strong, unusually acid, and unspeakably nasty. -Fresh tears, not prompted by sorrow this time, started to her eyes as she -set down the glass. - -‘Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said; ‘I am better now. I don’t think I’ll -finish it. It seems very strong.’ - -‘Ah, it’s that,’ agreed the farmer with some pride. ‘Sloe wine Bithey d’ -call it; she do make a quart every year. Wonderful good for the spasms, -or sich-like. She do get taken that way sometimes in her in’ards, pore -old soul! an’ she says a drop o’ this do al’ays set her to rights. Sloe -wine! ah, that’s what it be called; ye’d scarce think ’twere made o’ -nought but the snags what grows in the hedges—jist snags an’ a trifle o’ -sugar. But I do assure ye ’t is that strong ’t will sometimes lift the -cork out o’ the bottle. Now, Mrs. Fiander, ye’d best finish it; ’t is a -pity to let the good stuff go to waste.’ - -But, as Rosalie gratefully but firmly declined, the worthy man appeased -his thrifty conscience by draining the glass himself. - -‘Well now, Mrs. Fiander,’ he resumed, as he set it down, ‘I be trewly -sorry that ye be so vexed an’ ann’yed wi’ the men comin’ so late; but, if -I may advise ’ee, be a bit stiff wi’ ’em; don’t ’ee let ’em fancy they -can impose upon ’ee because ye be a woman.’ - -‘I assure you, Mr. Sharpe, I showed them very plainly that I was vexed -this morning. I spoke as severely as I could.’ - -‘Lard, my dear, them chaps don’t care for words; more pertic’lar a -woman’s words. Bless you! they’ve all got women-folks o’ their own, an’ -they be well used to scoldin’. ’T is different wi’ us men; when we be -angry we can _dang_ here and there, and use a bit o’ language. Then, d’ -ye see,’ said Isaac, leaning forward confidentially, ‘the chaps -understand as we be in earnest; but ’t ’ud be no manner o’ good your -tryin’ to do that, my dear; ’t would n’t come nat’ral to ’ee, and they -would n’t think a bit the better of ’ee for it. Nay, nay,’ he repeated -mournfully, ‘they wouldn’t think the better of ’ee.’ - -A faint smile hovered round Rosalie’s lips, but Isaac remained quite -serious. - -‘A woman must show by her deeds that she be in earnest,’ he went on after -a pause. ‘’T is the only way, my dear. Deeds and not words for a -woman!’ - -Here he paused again, shaking his head reflectively. It was possible -that his thoughts had travelled back to that memorable box in which his -erring father had enshrined the riven locks that testified to his own -transgressions and the vigorous retaliation of his wife. Isaac’s late -mother had certainly been a woman of action. - -‘That’s it, my dear,’ repeated Sharpe, emerging from his reverie, ‘ye’ll -be forced to turn to deeds. Next time them chaps comes late, jist you up -an’ fine them. Says you, “Short work desarves short pay. Bear in mind,” -says you, “that accordin’ to the work shall be the wage.”’ - -‘Yes, I might try that,’ agreed Rosalie. ‘But the worst of it is they -lose so much time and do their work so badly when they do come.’ - -‘Then, jist make a’ example o’ one o’ them—that’s your best plan. Give -the worst o’ them the sack, and ye’ll find the others ’ull settle down -like—like lambs,’ said the sheep-farmer, bringing out the simile -triumphantly. - -‘Thank you very much for your advice, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll take it. And -now—’ she paused a moment, blushing—‘what would you recommend me to do -with regard to my other difficulty? How am I to make people understand -that I don’t mean to marry again?’ - -‘Well, a body ’ud really think they need n’t be so pushin’,’ remarked -Isaac. ‘It be downright ondacent for ’em to be a-hangin’ about ’ee so -soon—’ - -‘They have no business to think of it at all, Mr. Sharpe,’ interrupted -the widow fiercely. ‘I shall never, _never_ put anyone in my dear -Elias’s place!’ - -‘That’s very well said, my dear,’ returned Isaac, looking at her with -real kindness and emotion. ‘’T is the proper spirit. I myself, as you -may have heard me say, was never one to set up for wedlock. Well, ye’ve -had a husband, and a good ’un, an’ you be in the right o’t to be -satisfied wi’ that, just as I be satisfied wi’ havin’ no wife at all. -Dear heart alive! when I were a young chap the maids did use to be -castin’ their eyes at me, but I never took no notice, and when I grew -more staid there was one very perseverin’ woman, I do mind—very -perseverin’ she were. Ah, she come to house here, time and again, wi’ -one excuse or another, and at last, so soon as I did see her comin’ I did -use to shut door in her face.’ - -‘Why, that’s what I shall do,’ cried Rosalie, laughing, and clapping her -hands—‘that’s the very thing I shall do. Thank you for the hint, Mr. -Sharpe. That again, you see, will be deeds, not words.’ - -Isaac looked kindly at the bright face and sparkling eyes, and nodded -cheerfully. - -‘That be the way to take ’em.’ - -‘I only wish I had thought of it on Sunday,’ she went on. ‘Those two men -sat and talked so long, that I was wishing them anywhere. I expected you -on Sunday, Mr. Sharpe,’ she added, in an altered voice, while the smile -vanished from her face. - -‘Did ’ee?’ said Isaac, abashed, and guilty. - -‘Yes, I did, indeed—I thought you would have come if only in memory of -old times.’ - -‘Why, to tell the trewth, I could n’t a-bear to go nigh the place,’ -blurted out the farmer. ‘Nay, nay—I’ve been a-goin’ to Littlecomb Farm -Sunday after Sunday for nigh upon five and twenty year. I don’t know how -you could expect me, Mrs. Fiander, to go there now as he be gone.’ - -He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his smock-frock, and at this tribute -to Elias’s memory his widow forgave the gruffness of Isaac’s tone, and -almost, but not quite, the slight to herself. - -She gazed at him for a moment in silence with a quivering lip, and he -wiped his eyes again and heaved a sigh. - -‘You do not think of me at all,’ said Rosalie, at last. ‘You don’t -consider my loneliness, or what I feel when I sit there, looking at the -two empty chairs, and thinking of how I used to sit between you, and how -happy we used to be. Is n’t it worse for me to see his empty place than -you? You might have come—even if it did hurt you—you might have come to -bring me a word of comfort. I think you were very unkind, Mr. Sharpe!’ - -‘Don’t ’ee now, my dear,’ stammered Isaac, almost purple in the face, and -with his usually keen eyes suffused with tears. ‘I do really feel -touched to the ’eart when you look at me so pitiful and say such things. -God knows I’d be main glad to comfort you, but what can the likes of I -do?’ - -‘You could let me feel that I had still a friend,’ sobbed Rosalie. ‘You -might come and sit in your old chair, and we could—we could talk about -Elias.’ - -‘That’s trew, so we could,’ agreed Isaac in a choked voice. ‘Well, next -Sunday—if I live so long—I’ll not let nothing hinder me. I’ll come, my -dear. I d’ ’low I should ha’ thought of you yesterday, but I could n’t -seem to think o’ nothing but how ’Lias war n’t there.’ - -‘Well, I shall be very glad to see you,’ said Rosalie, rising, and -tremulously beginning to pull down her veil. ‘And I am very grateful for -your kindness. Perhaps,’ she added hesitatingly, ‘you might be able to -look in one day during the week?’ - -‘Nay,’ returned the farmer, ‘nay, Mrs. Fiander, not before Sunday. I be -very busy to-week—we be shearin’, d’ ye see, and there’s the big mead to -be cut. Nay—not before Sunday.’ - -‘Oh, very well,’ she responded a little stiffly; and she went out of the -house and across the yard without speaking again except to say Good-bye -at the gate. - -The downs were now all bathed with the light of the sinking sun, and the -topmost branches of the hedges which bordered the cornfields seemed -turned to gold; while the banks beneath had begun already to assume the -deeper tint that spoke of gathering dew—dew that the morning light would -turn to a very sheet of silver; but Rosalie could only see the beauties -of the world without through a mist of crape and tears. - -‘I have not a friend in the world,’ she said to herself, ‘not one! Isaac -would n’t even take the trouble to walk a quarter of a mile to see how I -was getting on after following his advice. He is only coming on Sunday -as a sort of duty, not because he wants to. Well, never mind, I will -show him and everyone that I can look after myself. I want nobody’s -pretended pity since nobody really cares.’ - -And she held up her head beneath its heavy veil, and went on her way with -a stately carriage and a firm step. - - - -CHAPTER V - - - He drow’d - Hizzelf about, an’ teäv’d an’ blow’d, - Lik’ any uptied calf. - * * * - An’ mutter’d out sich dreats, an’ wrung - His vist up sich a size! - - WILLIAM BARNES. - -ON the next morning when the men came slowly sauntering to their work -they were surprised to see Mrs. Fiander, clad this time not in homely -print but in ceremonious black, standing by her own door, with a severe -expression of countenance. She held a note-book in her hand, and as each -arrived she jotted down some memorandum therein. When the last straggler -had appeared upon the scene, she summoned the entire band before her. - -‘Men,’ she said, speaking calmly and very distinctly, ‘since you seem to -pay no attention to what I say, I must show you that I am not to be -trifled with. I shall fine every one of you this morning for being late. -I shall continue to fine you each morning that you are late, and I shall -deduct from your pay a certain amount for every hour that you wilfully -waste. In fact, for the future your wage shall be in exact proportion to -the work you do.’ - -The men stared, gaped, and looked sullenly first at one another and then -at their mistress. - -‘Do you understand?’ she inquired sharply. - -Job Hunt, his red-bearded face even more glowing than usual, answered in -surly tones for himself and comrades. - -‘Nay, missus, us can’t say as we do!’ - -‘Well, then, I’ll make it clear to you,’ rang out the brisk young voice. -‘You are paid for the work you do during certain hours, and if you don’t -come here punctually, or if you waste any of those hours, I shall deduct -from your weekly wage the value of the lost time—I shan’t pay you, in -fact, for work you don’t do!’ - -‘Nay, now,’ responded Job, rolling his head from side to side, and -assuming a bullying air. ‘I don’t hold wi’ these here reg’lations. Us -don’t want no new rules, do us, mates?’ - -‘Nay, that we don’t,’ came the answer in a chorus of growls. - -‘Whether you want them or not, I mean to keep to them,’ returned Rosalie. -‘That will do; you can all go to work now.’ - -She turned, and went into the house; her heart was beating very fast, and -she was rather white about the lips, but she had borne herself bravely, -and no one would have guessed the difficulty she had found in nerving -herself to take this stand. - -She could hear the men’s voices murmuring together discontentedly, but -by-and-by the sound of heavy slouching steps moving away in different -directions warned her that the group had dispersed. - -It being the morning for cheese-making, she presently went upstairs to -change her imposing black robe for her working dress, and, chancing as -she came downstairs to look out of the window, she observed that Job Hunt -was standing, arms a-kimbo, by the pigsties, in close conversation with -his brother. Now, Job should at that moment have been far on his way to -the pasture; Abel ought to have been feeding the pigs: this was palpable -defiance. - -‘Deeds, not words,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘They think I am merely -threatening—I must show them I am in earnest.’ - -She went across the yard, note-book in hand. - -‘It is now half-past five,’ she remarked. ‘You, Job, are two hours and a -half late; you, Abel, an hour. I have made a note of the time. -Moreover, if I find that you continue to disobey me I shall not keep you -in my service.’ - -Job made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a groan, and slowly -walked away. Abel, however, continued to stare darkly at his mistress, -without changing his position. - -As Rosalie, now thoroughly incensed, was about to pour out upon him the -vials of her wrath, she suddenly perceived—the fact being unmistakably -impressed upon her—that the pigsties near which she stood were in a most -disgraceful condition. - -‘Abel,’ she said, ‘when were these sties cleaned out? Not, I am sure, on -Saturday.’ - -‘I were—mortal busy o’ Saturday,’ returned Abel in sepulchral tones. - -‘Why were you more busy last Saturday than on any other Saturday?’ - -Abel shuffled from one foot to the other, and repeated sulkily that he -had been mortal busy. - -‘You must clean them as soon as ever you have fed the pigs,’ said Rosalie -sharply. ‘’t is enough to bring fever to the place to have them in this -state.’ - -‘Pigs is n’t p’ison,’ responded Abel roughly. - -‘Do not attempt to answer me back like that,’ she cried. ‘It must be -very bad for the poor animals themselves. Get to work without a moment’s -delay.’ - -‘Saturday is the day,’ growled the man. ‘I’m—blowed if I clean ’em out -afore Saturday!’ - -‘Mind what you are about,’ said his mistress sternly, uplifting a warning -fore-finger. ‘I will not put up with impertinence or disobedience.’ - -‘Saturday is the day,’ shouted Abel; and the shuffling movement became so -violent and rapid that he actually seemed to dance. - -‘This will never do,’ said Rosalie. ‘I see I must make a change at once. -Abel Hunt, I give you notice to leave on Saturday week.’ - -‘One change be enough for me, Widow Fiander,’ retorted Abel, uplifting -his voice as though his mistress stood a hundred yards away from him -instead of barely two. - -Rosalie’s lips quivered. - -‘’T is your own fault,’ she cried passionately. ‘If you behave in this -way I must make an example of you. Unless you do as I tell you, you must -go!’ - -‘I’m danged if I do clean the pigs out afore Saturday,’ shrieked Abel; -and he threw his hat upon the ground, waved his arms, and stamped about -like a maniac. ‘I don’t want no danged women-folk to come a-orderin’ o’ -me;’ and here Abel relieved his feelings by what Isaac Sharpe would -delicately call ‘a bit o’ language.’ - -‘Clean your pigs yourself, Widow Fiander. One change be enough for me! -Notice me so much as ever ye like, I’ll not clean them pigs out afore -Saturday!’ - -Then came a little more ‘language,’ and so on _da capo_. - -Never had such an experience fallen to Rosalie’s lot before; neither her -kind old grandfather nor her doting husband had ever given her a rough -word; while they lived her subordinates had invariably obeyed her orders -with alacrity, and treated her personally with respect. The sound of -Abel’s strident tones, the sight of his inflamed face, above all the -words he used and the insolence of his manner, positively frightened her. -She turned pale, trembled—then, making a valiant effort to stand her -ground, threw out her hand as though to command silence; but, as Abel -continued to dance and rave, sheer physical terror overcame her, and she -suddenly turned and fled, her heart thumping violently against her ribs, -the tears—never very far off during these first days of her -bereavement—springing to her eyes. - -She rushed upstairs to her room and flung herself across the bed, burying -her face in the pillow in an agony of humiliation. - -‘What a fool I am! What a miserable fool! To be afraid of that wretched -booby! How can I ever hope to rule these people if I show the white -feather at the outset? Now, of course, they will think that they’ve only -got to bully me and I shall at once give in. Oh, fool, fool! To give -way to silly womanish fears at such a moment! Oh, oh! how shall I ever -look them in the face?’ - -She continued to roll her head on the pillow for some moments; her cheeks -had now become burning, and her heart still beat fast, no longer with -terror, but with anger. By-and-by she sat up, pushed back her hair, and -shook out the folds of her dress. - -‘After all, ’t is never too late to mend,’ she said to herself. - -She went downstairs, and into the dairy, directing her maids somewhat -sharply, and setting about her own work with flushed cheeks and a serious -face. In course of time her agitation subsided, and after her solitary -breakfast she was quite herself again. - -At noon, as she passed through the kitchen to the parlour, she chanced to -glance through the open door, and observed that the men had gathered -together in the yard, and were eagerly talking instead of making their -way homewards, or retiring to the barn to eat their dinners. She feigned -to pay no attention to them, however, and walked on to her own quarters. - -Presently she became aware that the whole body was advancing towards the -house, and a moment later Susan thrust in her round face at the door. - -‘Please, mum, the men be wishin’ to speak a few words with ’ee.’ - -‘Very well,’ said Rosalie, ‘I will go out to them.’ - -On reaching the threshold of the outer door she paused, looking round on -the group, and waiting for them to take the initiative. Job was, as -before, the first to speak. - -‘I be come to tell ’ee, Mrs. Fiander, as I wish to notice ye for Saturday -week. These here changes bain’t to my likin’, and the mistress bain’t to -my likin’; so ye’ll please to suit yourself by that time, mum.’ - -He spoke gruffly, and eyed her impertinently, but this time she did not -flinch. - -‘Very well, Job,’ she said; ‘I have no doubt I shall be able to do so -without any difficulty.’ - -Abel was the next to advance, but Rosalie waved him aside. - -‘As it has already been settled that you are to leave,’ she remarked, -‘you can have nothing to say to me. Step back. Now who comes next?’ - -James Bundy, it seemed, came next; he approached a little hesitatingly, -looking hard at his mistress. - -‘Please, mum, I wish to leave on Saturday week.’ - -‘Quite right,’ returned Rosalie with great unconcern. ‘Next!’ - -James Bundy stepped back and Robert Cross stepped forward, smiling -obsequiously. - -‘I’m sure, mum, it do go agen me terrible to make sich a break as this -here, but still, d’ ye see, we can’t nohow put up with—’ - -‘You need not take the trouble to explain—you wish to leave on Saturday -week with the others, I suppose?’ - -‘’Ees—leastways—’ - -‘That will do,’ said Rosalie. ‘Now, Sam Belbin, you wish to leave too?’ - -Sam Belbin made a step forward and glanced round appealingly. - -By this time his companions were looking very blank. The sudden assault -by which they had expected to frighten their mistress into capitulation -had apparently failed. Their respective attitudes had changed; she was -calm and unmoved, and they were beginning to be seriously uneasy. Good -places and regular pay were not to be picked up every day in that part of -the world. - -‘Well, Sam?’ said Rosalie kindly, as though to help him out. - -Sam was the chief of the three ‘dairy chaps,’ a good-looking young fellow -of about four-and-twenty, with a dark, good-humoured countenance and a -certain jaunty air. As he now advanced a smile flashed suddenly over his -face, his white teeth gleaming out pleasantly. - -‘Mum,’ he said. ‘Mum—Mrs. Fiander—’ - -She smiled too. - -‘Well, Sam, what have _you_ got to say? The usual thing, I suppose?’ - -‘No, mum—not at all, mum. I—wish to say as I haven’t got no fault to -find at all, mum. I’ll come in better time to-morrow morn, an’ ye’ll not -have to speak to me agen, mum.’ - -‘_Very_ good!’ said Rosalie in a different tone. At this unexpected -speech a lump came in her throat, but she choked it down. - -‘Have the others got anything to say?’ she inquired. ‘Because, if so, I -hope they will make haste and say it. My dinner will be getting cold.’ - -The men who had not hitherto spoken looked at each other uncertainly, -their glances finally resting on the beaming countenance of Sam Belbin. -After all, had he not chosen the better part? - -‘I do agree with he,’ said one under his breath, and then another. -By-and-by all remarked aloud, somewhat falteringly, that they just -thought they would mention their wish to give more satisfaction in the -future. - -Job and his followers scowled at these renegades, but their mistress -rewarded them with a gracious smile. - -‘Very well said,’ she remarked. ‘That’s the proper spirit. Do your duty -by me, and you will find me ready to do mine by you.’ - -The day was hers, as she felt when she returned in triumph to her dinner. - -Isaac Sharpe happened to be strolling through the village that evening, -when he was accosted by Mrs. Belbin, who was standing, as was her custom -at this hour, arms a-kimbo, on her doorstep. - -‘There be a great upset up at Fiander’s, bain’t there, sir?’ - -Isaac brought his slow, ruminative gaze to bear on her. - -‘Why, what upset do ye mean, Mrs. Belbin? Things be like to be upset now -that the master’s gone to the New House. But I hope as your son an’ the -rest of ’em be giving the widow so little trouble as ever they can.’ - -‘I dunno about that, sir. My Sam he do tell I as there was a regular -blow-up this mornin’. I d’ ’low as my son _he_ did behave so well as -ever he could. Says he to Mrs. Fiander, “Mum,” he says, “I have n’t no -fault to find wi’ you at all; and I’ll do my _h_endeavours to gi’e ye -satisfaction.” That were what _he_ did say—my son Sam did; but there was -others as, accordin’ to all accounts, went on most scandalious.’ - -Here Mrs. Belbin rolled up her eyes and wagged her head significantly. - -‘Ah,’ put in Mrs. Paddock, hastening to cross the road and join in the -conversation, ‘it did give me sich a turn when I heard on it, that I did -sit down on the table. ’T were a good job as I did, else I should ha’ -fell down. Sich doin’s! The whole lot of ’em—aye, every single one as -works for her—marchin’ up to give her notice! ’T was enough to frighten -a pore lone woman out of her wits.’ - -‘I have n’t heard a word of this,’ cried Isaac emphatically. ‘The men -gave her notice, d’ ye say?’ - -‘All except my Sam,’ put in Mrs. Belbin proudly. ‘’Ees, they all did go -up in a lump, so to speak, and noticed her, one arter the other, till it -come to my Sam’s turn, an’ then he up an’ says, “Mrs. Fiander, mum,” says -he, “I have n’t got no fault to find wi’ ye;” and a few more, when they -heard that, heartened theirselves up and follered his example.’ - -‘’T was very well done o’ your Sam,’ said Mrs. Paddock in a complimentary -tone; ‘but as for them others—why, they do say as Abel Hunt were -a-dancin’ an’ a-swearin’ like a madman. “I want no orderin’ from danged -women-folk,” says he, just so bold as if the missus was his wife. And -Job, he did shout at her so rough, and speak so impident! ’T was really -shockin’!’ - -‘I must go up and see her,’ said Sharpe, much perturbed. ‘I’m sure I -don’t know whatever’s come to folks these times. As to them Hunts—I’ll -gi’e them a bit o’ my mind. They should be ashamed o’ theirselves to -treat a pore young creature so disrespectful. They do think, I s’ppose, -as Mrs. Fiander has n’t got nobody to purtect her, and they can serve her -so bad as they like. But them as was friends to her husband is friends -to her. Pore young thing! Well, I be glad your son did do his duty by -her, anyways, Mrs. Belbin. My Father A’mighty, these be times!’ - -He walked away at an accelerated pace, the women looking after him. - -‘He did speak so feelin’, did n’t he?’ commented Mrs. Paddock. ‘“Pore -young creature!” says he, d’ ye mind? An’ “Pore young thing!” Master be -a very feelin’ man!’ - -‘Ah,’ agreed Mrs. Belbin; ‘an’ he did say as he were glad my Sam did do -his duty. Ah, he be a good man, master be! But I would n’t like so very -much to be Abel Hunt jist now—nay, nor Job neither.’ - - - -CHAPTER VI - - - Souvent femme varie, - Bien fol est qui s’y fie. - -THE mistress of Littlecomb Farm had no cause to complain of the -unpunctuality of any of her workpeople on the following morning. Each -man appeared at the very moment he was supposed to appear, the maids were -up betimes, and the business of the day progressed with far greater speed -than usual. - -At dinner-time she again observed a group of men in the yard, smaller in -number, however, than on the preceding day, and talking with dismal -countenances and hesitating tones. Susan came presently to announce, as -before, that some of the men wished to speak to her. - -Rosalie went out, and discovered a detachment of four awaiting her, two -with plaintive, wobegone faces, the others in a state of surly -depression. - -‘Missus,’ stammered James Bundy, ‘we be a-come—me and these here chaps—be -a-come to ’pologise, and to say as we hopes ye won’t bear no malice, and -as ye’ll overlook what has passed. We’ll undertake to give satisfaction -from this time for’ard.’ - -‘’T is a pity you did not say that yesterday, James,’ said Rosalie -severely. - -Bundy looked at Cross, and the latter’s jaw fell. - -‘If ye’d please to overlook it, mum,’ resumed James, falteringly. ‘We -was, so to speak, took by surprise wi’ the new rules, and we was -persuaded’—here he darted a reproachful glance at Joe—‘I’ve got a long -family, mum,’ he added tearfully, ‘and my wife—she be near her time wi’ -the eleventh—’ - -‘Well, James, you have been foolish, but I do not altogether think it was -your fault. I will make no definite promise, but I will see how you go -on between this and Saturday week.’ - -‘I be to go on Saturday week?’ ejaculated James, whose wits were none of -the keenest, and who was more impressed by the severity of the tone than -by Rosalie’s actual words. - -‘No, no, you foolish fellow! Come, I will give you another chance; but -mind you behave very well.’ - -Robert Cross next came forward. - -‘Mine be a very long family, too,’ he began, having evidently remarked -the happy results which had ensued from Bundy’s plea. Rosalie stopped -him: - -‘Well, I will give you another chance, Cross,’ she said. ‘Next time, -think twice before you follow a bad leader. As for you, Abel Hunt,’ she -said, turning sternly to that gentleman, ‘I am at a loss to know what you -can have to say—in fact, I have no wish to hear it, whatever it may be. -You must go. No apology can atone for your insolence yesterday.’ - -‘And how be you goin’ to manage about them pigs?’ inquired Abel -plaintively. - -‘That is no concern of yours.’ - -‘Mr. Sharpe was a-speakin’ to me yesterday,’ put in Job, very humbly, for -his courage was fast oozing away, ‘an’ he did say ’twould be terrible -ill-convenient for ’ee to have so many chaps a-leavin’ together, an’ so -me an’ my brother agreed as we’d ax to stop on.’ - -‘I can do very well without you,’ retorted Mrs. Fiander tartly. ‘No, -Job, you have behaved too badly. You have been the ringleader of this -disgraceful business—you must certainly go.’ - -‘On Saturday week?’ faltered Job. - -‘Yes, Saturday week—you _and_ Abel. How Abel can suppose I could -possibly keep him after such conduct, I can’t imagine. I certainly will -not.’ - -‘Mr. Sharpe did say’—Job was beginning, now almost in tears, when she -interrupted him relentlessly. - -‘Never mind what Mr. Sharpe said. I have quite made up my mind as to -what I shall do.’ - -She was thoroughly in earnest, and the men knew it. They fell back -ruefully, and their young mistress returned to the house, carrying her -head very high and setting her face sternly. - -When her work was over that afternoon she set out, with a business-like -air, on what seemed to be a tour of inspection; first walking briskly -along the rows of pigsties, the condition of which had on the day before -given rise to so much controversy. All was now as it should be; Abel, -Sam, and one or two of the other subordinates having devoted their -attention to them at early dawn. Here were pigs of every age and degree, -from the venerable matron to the spry young porker just beginning to -devote himself to the serious business of life—namely, growing fat. -Seventy-two in all, and most of them doomed to destruction within a few -months: that was the part of the economy of farming which Rosalie most -disliked; it was the blot on the otherwise poetical and peaceful -avocation. But she had hitherto been taught to consider the presence of -these pigs an absolute necessity. Was this really the case? Might not -she, with her woman’s wit, devise some better expedient by means of which -the obnoxious animals could be dispensed with, and at the same time waste -of skim-milk and whey avoided? - -Leaving the yard, she betook herself to the orchard, where a few more -porcine families were taking exercise. Their presence somewhat detracted -from the picturesque appearance of the place, which, though the ‘blooth’ -or blossom had long since fallen, had still a considerable share of -beauty of its own. The sunlight beating down now through the delicate -green leafage brought out wonderful silvery lights from the lichened -trunks, and outlined the curiously gnarled branches. It struck out a -golden path across the lush grass for Rosalie to walk on, and she passed -slowly down the glade with bent head and serious face. - -Turning when she reached the end to retrace her steps, she saw a -well-known sturdy form approaching her, and advanced to meet Isaac -Sharpe, still with a certain queenly air, and without quickening her -pace. Isaac’s countenance, on the contrary, wore a perturbed and puzzled -expression; his brow was anxiously furrowed, and he gazed hard at Mrs. -Fiander as he hastened towards her. - -‘I’m a-feared ye’ve had a deal o’ trouble, here,’ he began. - -‘Yes; I followed your advice, you see.’ - -‘And it did n’t altogether answer?’ said the farmer, with a nervous -laugh. - -‘Oh, yes, it answered very well. I think the men know I’m in earnest -now.’ - -‘Them two Hunts come round to my place at dinner-time; they were in a -taking, poor chaps! But ’twill do them good. All the same, I think I’d -let ’em off, if I was you, Mrs. Fiander. Job be a roughish sort o’ chap, -but he be a good cowman; an’ Abel, he be wonderful with the management o’ -pigs.’ - -‘I’m not going to let them off,’ said Rosalie, her face hardening again -as she thought of Abel’s maniacal dance, and of the loud voice which had -frightened her, and of Job’s insolent manner when he had said, ‘The -missus bain’t to my likin’.’ - -‘Well, but ’twill be a bit ’ard to find as good,’ Isaac objected. -‘P’r’aps ye’ll not better yourself. I doubt ’t will be harder for you to -get on wi’ strange men.’ - -‘I am not going to put strange men in their place. I am not going to -hire any more men; I’m going to have women. I can manage women very -well.’ - -‘But, my dear,’ cried Isaac, opening his eyes very wide, and speaking in -horror-stricken tones, ‘women can’t do men’s work.’ - -‘No, but they can do women’s work. I have thought it all out, Mr. -Sharpe, and my mind is made up. Job and Abel must go. I shall put Sam -Belbin in Job’s place.’ - -‘Well, he have behaved well to ’ee,’ conceded Isaac, unwillingly; ‘but he -be young. I doubt if he’s fit for ’t.’ - -‘I’ve watched him,’ returned Rosalie, positively, ‘and I think he’s quite -fit for it. He has worked under Job for some time, and is a capital -milker. I think he will manage very well. As to Abel, I shall put no -one in his place, for I mean to sell the pigs.’ - -‘Sell the pigs!’ ejaculated Isaac—‘at this time o’ year?’ His face -became absolutely tragic, but Rosalie merely nodded. - -‘Why, what’s to become o’ your skim-milk,’ he gasped, ‘an’ the whey, and -that?’ - -‘There will be no skim-milk,’ said Rosalie. ‘I shall make Blue Vinney -cheese, as I used to make when I was with my grandfather. Some people -are very fond of it. That is made entirely of skim-milk, you know. As -for the whey, there will not be much nourishment in it, but I shall keep -a few sows still, just to consume that and the butter-milk. They will -not require much attention as they walk about here, you see, and there is -always a lot of waste green stuff.’ - -‘I don’t think ye’ll find many folks here what cares for the Blue Vinney -cheese,’ said Isaac, still much dejected. ‘Nay, ’t is all the Ha’-skim -as they likes hereabouts. The Blue Vinney has gone out o’ fashion, so to -speak.’ - -‘If they don’t buy them here I can send them to Dorchester,’ said the -widow resolutely. ‘They used to buy them up there faster than I could -make them. So you see there will be no waste, Mr. Sharpe; there will be -less work to do outside, and therefore I shall not miss Job or Abel; but, -as we shall be very busy in the dairy, I must have two or three extra -women to help me.’ - -Isaac stared at her ruefully; she looked brighter than she had done since -her husband’s death, but she also looked determined. He shook his head -slowly; his mind was of the strictly conservative order, and the -contemplated abolition of pigs from the premises of this large dairy-farm -seemed to him an almost sacrilegious innovation. Moreover, to sell pigs -in July; to make cheeses that nobody in that part of the world cared to -eat; to replace two seasoned men who knew their business—whatever might -be their faults—with that dangerous commodity, womankind—the whole -experiment seemed to him utterly wild, and pregnant with disaster. - -‘I mean to do it,’ said Rosalie, defying the condemnation in his face. -‘By this time next year you will congratulate me on my success.’ - -‘I hope so, I am sure,’ said Isaac in a slightly offended tone. ‘I came -here to advise ’ee, but it seems ye don’t want no advice.’ - -‘Oh yes, I do,’ she cried, softening in a moment. ‘I value it of all -things, Mr. Sharpe. My one comfort in my difficulties is the thought -that I can talk them over with you. I have laid my plan before you quite -simply, in the hope that you would approve.’ - -‘Well, my dear,’ said Isaac, somewhat mollified, ‘I don’t approve, d’ ye -see? Since you ask my advice, I’ll tell ye plain that I don’t think the -plan will work. Ye won’t be able to sell your pigs to begin with; then -ye’ll want a man wi’ more experience than Sam to look after the cows; it -bain’t such easy work—nay, that it bain’t. Then, as to gettin’ more -women ’bout the place, I don’t hold with the notion. I don’t think it -’ud benefit ye, my dear. I don’t trewly.’ - -Rosalie appeared to meditate. - -‘Think it over, Mrs. Fiander,’ he urged; ‘don’t do nothing in a hurry; -that be my advice.’ - -‘Thank you very much. Yes, I’ll think it over. You’ll come on Sunday, -won’t you, Mr. Sharpe?’ - -‘’Ees,’ agreed Isaac doubtfully. ‘’Ees, I’ll come on Sunday. I be main -glad you be thinking of taking my advice, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -‘I am grateful to you for giving it,’ said Rosalie with a sweet smile; -and the farmer walked away, thinking that on the whole women were far -less unreasonable than he had hitherto supposed. - -The next day was Thursday—early closing day at Branston—therefore no one -was surprised when Mrs. Fiander, having as she averred some business to -do in the town, ordered the gig in the forenoon. It was the first time -she had used that vehicle since her husband’s death, and she looked -sorrowful enough as she climbed into it, clad in her deepest weeds. - -The steady old horse looked round when she gathered up the reins, as -though wondering at the innovation—for Elias had always been accustomed -to drive—and was with some difficulty induced to start. - -‘Nigger be so wise as a Christian, that he be,’ commented Bundy, as the -gig and its occupant disappeared. ‘He was a-standin’ and a-waitin’ for -master, so sensible as I mid do myself. But he’ll have to get used to -the change the same as the rest of us.’ - -‘Ay, an’ p’r’aps he’ll not like it so very well,’ returned Abel -sardonically. ‘Give a woman a whip in her hand, and she fancies she’s -bound to lay it on.’ - -But Nigger was suffered to jog along the road at his own pace, for the -old sadness which had fallen upon Rosalie had for a moment checked her -eager spirit, and a new preoccupation was, moreover, now added to it. -Would Elias approve of what she was about to do, or would he agree with -Isaac? No, surely he would say that she knew best; he was always pleased -with anything she did. He used to say that she was the best manager he -had ever known; and, on the other hand, used frequently to speak of -Isaac’s ‘notions’ with good-humoured derision. It will be seen that Mrs. -Fiander’s meditations over her friend’s advice had resulted, as indeed -might have been expected, in the determination to adhere to her original -plan, and she was now on her way to interview two personages whose -co-operation would be necessary in carrying it out. - -Her appearance in the shop of Mr. Hardy, the principal grocer of the -town, caused a certain amount of commotion; everybody turned to look at -the beautiful young widow, who had indeed for many days past formed the -principal topic of conversation among the townsfolk; and much interest -was aroused by her murmured request to see Mr. Hardy in private. - -‘Certainly, Mrs. Fiander. Step this way, ma’am. John, open the door -there!’ - -John Hardy, a tall, good-looking young man in a white linen jacket, -hastened to obey his parent’s behest, and was even good enough to -accompany the visitor along the passage which led from the shop to the -family sitting-room. It was empty at this hour, Mrs. Hardy being -presumably occupied in household duties; and Mr. John ushered Rosalie in -with much ceremony, and invited her to be seated in the best armchair. - -Some disappointment was perceptible in his ingenuous countenance when he -found that the interview which had been so mysteriously asked for was -merely connected with cheese; but his father listened to Rosalie’s -proposition with grave attention. - -‘I don’t exactly see how the plan would work,’ he remarked, shaking his -head. ‘We sell your Ha’skim cheeses very fairly well, Mrs. Fiander.’ -Mr. Hardy was a discreet person, and was determined not to commit -himself. ‘But as for the Blue Vinney, I’d be very glad to oblige you, -but I’m really afraid—you see there’s scarcely any demand for Blue Vinney -nowadays. A few of the old folks ask for it now and then, but we don’t -get, not to say, a reg’lar custom for ’t, and it would n’t be worth our -while to keep it.’ - -‘I am considered a particularly good hand at making Blue Vinney,’ said -Rosalie. ‘I used to be quite celebrated for it when I lived near -Dorchester—in fact, I could easily sell my cheeses now at Dorchester, -only I thought I would give you the first offer as you have dealt with me -so long.’ - -Growing warm in her excitement, she threw back her veil: John Hardy, -gazing at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, thought Mrs. Fiander had -never looked so handsome as in her widow’s weeds. - -‘Dorchester!’ commented the senior. ‘That would be a long way for you to -send, ma’am.’ - -‘I am sure,’ put in the son quickly, ‘we’d be sorry to think as Mrs. -Fiander should need to take her cheeses to Dorchester, father.’ - -The elder Mr. Hardy glanced from one to the other of the two young faces, -and, as Rosalie bestowed a grateful smile upon his son, an idea seemed to -strike him. - -‘Well,’ he said good-naturedly, ‘you are trying an experiment, I -understand, Mrs. Fiander. There’s always a certain amount o’ risk in an -experiment; but still, “Nothing venture, nothing have,” they say. If -you’re willing to venture I shall be glad to help you all I can. Send -your cheeses to me, and I’ll do my best to sell ’em. I won’t promise to -pay money down for ’em,’ he added, cautiously, ‘same as I do for the -Ha’skims, but I’ll try an’ sell ’em for you, and we can settle about them -after.’ - -‘I am very much obliged,’ said Rosalie, a little blankly, however, for -she had not been accustomed to do business in this manner. - -‘We will use our utmost endeavours to push the goods—of that you may be -sure,’ cried young John eagerly; and she smiled upon him again, so -graciously that he somewhat lost his head, and made several incoherent -statements as to the excellence of Blue Vinney cheese for which his -worthy father subsequently brought him to book. - -‘That’s not the way to get round a woman, my lad,’ he remarked. ‘Mrs. F. -will just think you be right down silly; the notion o’ tellin’ her as -Blue Vinney cheese was richer to the palate than Rammil—why, Rammil’s -made altogether o’ good new milk, and this here’s nothin’ but skim. She -makes cheese o’ skim instead o’ givin’ it to the pigs, and you go and -tell her all that rubbish. She’s no fool—the widow is n’t—that is n’t -the way to make up to her.’ - -Meanwhile Rosalie had driven across the market-place and up a side street -to the house of a certain auctioneer, and to her great joy found him at -home. - -He was a stout middle-aged man, with some pretensions to good looks, and -more to being a dandy. He was attired in a sporting costume of quite -correct cut, and received his visitor with an air of jovial hospitality. - -‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure, Mrs. Fiander. I feel _h_onoured. I am -at your service for anything you may wish—you may command me, ma’am.’ - -Rosalie had begun by expressing a desire to transact a little business -with him, and now proceeded to explain its nature. - -‘I wish to sell my pigs by auction,’ she said. ‘I have about sixty-five -to dispose of, and I should like the sale to take place as early as -possible next week.’ - -‘Next week!’ ejaculated the auctioneer, his face falling. - -‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, with great decision. - -‘But—have you considered the question? It would be difficult to sell off -such a number of pigs at any season of the year, but now—in the height of -the summer! If I may advise you, Mrs. Fiander, don’t be in such a hurry. -Wait and sell the pigs at a more convenient time. Nobody’s killing pigs -now, and most people as go in for fatting pigs have got as many as they -want by this time.’ - -‘It must be next week,’ said the widow obstinately. Job and Abel were -leaving on the Saturday, and the stock must be got rid of before the new -era began. - -‘You’ll lose to a certainty, ma’am,’ said Mr. Wilson, running his hand -through his well-oiled hair. ‘What with all the regulations on account -of the swine fever, the selling of such a number of pigs would be a -difficult matter—at any season, as I say, and you don’t give me no time -scarcely to get out my bills—’ - -‘The sale must take place before Saturday week,’ insisted Rosalie. ‘You -must do the best you can for me, Mr. Wilson.’ - -‘You may rely on that, Mrs. Fiander; but it really grieves me to think -that you should lose so much.’ - -He paused, thoughtfully biting the end of one finger, and suffering his -eyes meanwhile to travel slowly over the handsome face and graceful -figure of his client. During this scrutiny he was not unobservant of the -rich materials of which her dress was composed, and her general -appearance of mournful prosperity. - -‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, he said. ‘It’s against my own -interest, but I always like to oblige a lady—particularly such a lady as -you, Mrs. Fiander. I’ll drive round the country and see if I can -persuade people to buy up those pigs by private contract. I know a -pig-jobber over Shaftesbury side as might be glad to take a good many off -you, if he got them at a low price. If I understand you, Mrs. Fiander, -the price is not an object to you?’ - -‘No—o,’ faltered Rosalie. ‘Of course, I should like as much money as -possible for them, but the price is not so important as to get rid of the -animals as soon as possible.’ - -‘Just so,’ agreed the auctioneer cheerfully. ‘Well, Mrs. Fiander, I -shall lose by it, as I say, but I will try and arrange matters for you in -this way. Under the circumstances, ma’am, I grudge no time or trouble -spent in your service. I am always thought to be a lady’s man—my late -poor wife used to say that my consideration for ladies injured the -business; but, as I used to tell her, a man has a heart or else he has -n’t. _If_ he has a heart—if he has more feelings than his neighbours, he -is n’t to blame for it. “Let the business go, my dear,” I ’d say, “but -don’t ask me to be hard on a woman.”’ - -It had been whispered among the gossips of Branston that during the -lifetime of the late Mrs. Wilson her lord had been wont to correct her -occasionally with a boot-jack, but these rumours had not reached -Rosalie’s ears; and even if they had she would probably have disbelieved -them. Nevertheless, she did not quite like the manner in which the -gallant auctioneer leered at her, nor his unnecessarily warm pressure of -her hand on saying good-bye. - -She drove homewards with a mixture of feelings. The inauguration of her -new plan seemed to involve a considerable amount of risk, not to say -loss; she felt conscious of the fact that she owed her very partial -success more to the persuasion of her beauty than to faith in her -prospects as a woman of business; yet there was, after all, satisfaction -in thinking that she had carried her point. - - - -CHAPTER VII - - - He that will not love must be - My scholar, and learn this of me: - There be in love as many fears - As the summer’s corn has ears. - - * * * - - Would’st thou know, besides all these, - How hard a woman ’t is to please, - How cross, how sullen, and how soon - She shifts and changes like the moon. - - HERRICK. - -IT was with some trepidation that Rosalie awaited Isaac’s visit on the -Sunday following that long and eventful week. The good fellow was, -indeed, so overcome when he found himself seated once more in the -familiar chair, with the vacant place opposite to him, that she had not -courage to make a confession which would, she knew, distress and annoy -him—a confession which would have to be made, nevertheless. - -Her own eyes filled as she saw Isaac unaffectedly wiping away his tears -with his great red-and-yellow handkerchief, and for some moments no word -was spoken between them. She filled his pipe and lit it for him, but he -suffered it to rest idly between his fingers, and made no attempt to sip -at the tumbler of spirits and water which she placed at his elbow. - -‘Let’s talk of him,’ she murmured softly, at last, bending forward. -‘Tell me about when you knew him first.’ - -‘Lard!’ said Sharpe with a sniff, ‘I know’d him all his life, I may say; -I were with him when he were confirmed—and I were at both his weddin’s. -Yours was the only one I was n’t at.’ - -Rosalie straightened herself, feeling as if a douche of cold water had -been unexpectedly applied to her. - -‘Ah,’ went on Isaac, shaking his head mournfully, ‘I knowed his fust and -his second missus well—they was nice women, both on ’em. The fust was a -bit near, but, as poor ’Lias used to say, ’twas a good fault. Ah, he’d -say that—a good fault.’ - -He put his pipe between his lips, and immediately took it out again. - -‘The second Mrs. Fiander,’ he went on, ‘was a good creatur’ too—very -savin’; delicate, though; but he’d al’ays make allowances, her husband -would, though it did seem to me sometimes as it was a bit disheartenin’ -to a man when his wife got the ’titus just at the busiest time of year. -Ah, he used to tell me often as it were n’t no use to be a dairy-farmer -without you had a active wife.’ - -Rosalie fidgeted in her chair: these little anecdotes of Isaac seemed to -her rather pointless under the present circumstances. - -‘All I can say is,’ she remarked after a pause, ‘that _I_ always found -poor dear Elias the most considerate of men.’ - -‘I d’ ’low ye did,’ said Isaac, turning his moist eyes upon her. ‘He -thought a deal o’ you—he did that. Says he to me the first night I come -here, when you come home arter getting wed, “I d’ ’low,” says he, “she’s -the best o’ the three.”’ - -There was comfort in this thought, and Rosalie looked gratefully at her -visitor, whose eyes had again become suffused with tears as he recalled -this touching tribute. - -‘He used to say,’ she observed presently in a low voice, ‘that I was a -very good manager, but I don’t think it was on that account alone he was -so fond of me.’ - -‘’Ees, he did use to say you was a wonderful manager,’ said Isaac, -disregarding the latter part of the sentence. ‘Many a time he’ve a-told -me that you had n’t got no equal as a manager.’ - -Sentiment was evidently not to be the order of the day, but here, at -least, was an opportunity of introducing the little matter of business -which weighed so heavily on Rosalie’s conscience. - -‘I think,’ she said, diffidently, ‘he would say I was wise in carrying -out this new plan.’ - -‘What new plan?’ inquired Isaac, pausing with his handkerchief halfway to -his eyes, and turning towards her sternly, though the tears hung upon his -grizzled lashes. - -‘Why, the one I spoke to you of—about doing away with the pigs, you -know,’ she returned faintly. - -‘That there notion that I gi’e ye my advice agen?’ said Sharpe grimly. - -‘Yes,’ hesitatingly. ‘I thought it over, as you told me to, and I did -n’t think I could manage differently. I find I can sell the pigs all -right, and Mr. Hardy has promised to try and dispose of my Blue Vinney -cheeses.’ - -Isaac blew his nose, returned his handkerchief to his pocket, and stood -up. - -‘I’m glad to hear as ye can manage so well,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You -don’t want no advice, that’s plain; and I sha’n’t never offer you none -agen. I’ll wish ye good day, Mrs. Fiander.’ - -‘Oh, don’t go away like that,’ cried she piteously. ‘Please don’t be -offended with me. Such an old friend—’ - -At this moment a figure passed across the window, and a loud knock was -heard at the house-door. Rosalie rushed to the door of the parlour. - -‘Don’t let any one in, Susan,’ she cried. ‘Say I’m—I’m engaged. Stay at -least a minute, Mr. Sharpe—I want to tell you—I want to explain.’ - -Throwing out one hand in pleading, she held open the parlour door an inch -or two with the other, and presently the manly tones of Mr. Cross were -heard through the chink. - -‘I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Fiander is engaged. Will you kindly inform -her that I will call next Sunday?’ - -‘Tell him, Susan,’ said her mistress, opening the door a little way, and -speaking under her breath—‘tell him that I am always engaged on Sunday.’ - -Susan was heard to impart this information, and then the visitor’s tones -were heard again: - -‘That’s a pity! Tell her, if you please, that I shall ’ope to have the -pleasure of finding her at home some afternoon during the week.’ - -‘I am always out in the afternoon,’ said Rosalie, speaking this time so -decidedly that it was not necessary for Susan to repeat her words. - -‘Oh!’ said the young man, addressing this time not the maid but the -bright eye of which he caught a glimpse through the door, ‘then I shall -take my chance of finding you in the morning.’ - -‘I am too busy to see anyone in the morning,’ retorted Rosalie; and she -shut the door with a finality which left Mr. Cross no option but to -depart. - -‘You see I do take your advice sometimes,’ said Rosalie, turning to -Isaac, and speaking in a plaintive tone, though a little smile played -about her mouth. - -Isaac’s back was towards her, and he made no reply; as she approached the -burly form, however, she saw his shoulders heave, and presently, to her -great relief, discovered that he was shaking with silent laughter. - -‘Well, my dear, ye don’t do things by halves—I’ll say that for ’ee,’ he -chuckled. You’ve a-got rid o’ that there chap, anyhow. He’ll not ax to -come coortin’ again. Well, well, if ye manage as well in other ways I’ll -not say that ye bain’t fit to look arter yourself.’ - -‘But it was your advice, you know, Mr. Sharpe,’ she said demurely. ‘You -gave me the hint about shutting the door.’ - -‘I d’ ’low I did,’ said Isaac; and, being a good-natured and placable -person, his transitory sense of resentment was soon replaced by thorough -appreciation of the humorous side of the situation. - -The discomfiture of Samuel Cross gave a salutary lesson not only to -himself, but to sundry other adventurous young men who had been a little -hasty in their overtures to Mrs. Fiander. It was soon noised abroad that -the young widow wished for the present to keep herself to herself, as the -saying went, and that it would in consequence be advisable to abstain -from making advances to her—at least, until she had laid aside her crape. - -For some months, therefore, Rosalie enjoyed comparative immunity from the -importunities which had so much annoyed her, while the new arrangements -appeared to work amazingly well both within and without Littlecomb Farm. - -Job and Abel departed in due course; the pigs were sold—at considerable -loss to their owner; Sam was installed as chief cowman, and sustained his -honours cheerfully, without, however, appearing to be unduly elated; and -three strapping damsels were engaged as dairy-maids. With their -co-operation Mrs. Fiander turned out weekly a score and more of large -round cheeses, which were stowed away in an upper room until, in course -of time, they should become sufficiently ripe—some people might use the -term mouldy—to have earned their title of ‘Blue Vinney’ cheese. - -This process took a considerable time, and meanwhile the profits of the -dairy were a good deal lessened since Rosalie had left off making the -Ha’skim cheeses, for which she had been so particularly famed, and for -which she had invariably received regular payment. Still, as she told -herself, when the Blue Vinneys were disposed of, she would receive her -money in a lump sum, and all would be the same in the end. - -Her chief trouble at this time arose from the frequent calls of Mr. -Wilson, the auctioneer, who, though he could not be said to be regularly -paying attention to Rosalie, found, nevertheless, sundry excuses for -‘dropping in’ and conversing with her at all manner of unseasonable -times. He made, as has been implied, no direct advances; and Rosalie, -moreover, could not treat him so unceremoniously as she had treated Mr. -Cross, for she felt in a manner indebted to him about the sale of those -unlucky pigs. He had carried the matter through for her with great -difficulty to himself, as he frequently assured her, and he had steadily -refused all remuneration. It was hard, therefore, for the young widow to -repel or avoid him, and she was in consequence reluctantly obliged to -endure many hours of his society. - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - - Your own fair youth, you care so little for it, - Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advances - Of time and change upon your happiest fancies. - I keep your golden hour, and will restore it. - - ALICE MEYNELL. - -ONE September day Rosalie betook herself to the little churchyard where -Elias lay at rest. Three months had elapsed since he had been taken from -her, and she had not let a week pass without visiting and decorating his -grave. She thought of him often, and her affectionate regret was in no -way diminished; yet, though she was now on her way to perform this -somewhat melancholy duty, she advanced with a bright face and a rapid -bounding step. - -She was young, full of vigour and elasticity, and on such a day as -this—an exquisite golden day, full of sunshine, and yet with a tartness -hinting of approaching autumn in the air—every fibre of her being -thrilled with the very joy of life. - -When she knelt by her husband’s grave, however, her face became pensive -and her movements slow. Taking a pair of garden shears from the basket -which she carried, she clipped the short grass closer still, laid the -flowers gently down on the smooth surface, placed the dead ones in her -basket, and, after lingering a moment, bent forward and kissed the new -white headstone. - -As she rose and turned to go away, her face still shadowed by tender -regret, she suddenly perceived that she was not alone. At a little -distance from her, ensconced within the angle of the churchyard wall, a -man was sitting, with an easel in front of him. Above the large board on -the easel she caught sight of a brown velveteen coat and a flannel shirt -loosely fastened with a brilliant tie; also of a dark face framed in -rather long black hair and shaded by a soft felt hat of peculiar shape. -From beneath its tilted brim, however, a pair of keen dark eyes were -gazing with intense curiosity at the young woman, and, though he held a -palette in one hand and a brush in the other, he was evidently more -interested in her than in his painting. - -Rosalie, vexed that her recent display of feeling had been observed by -this stranger, walked quickly down the little path, colouring high with -displeasure the while, and assuming that stately carriage which came -naturally to her in such emergencies. - -The gentleman turned slowly on his camp-stool, his eyes twinkling and his -dark moustache twitching, and watched her till she was out of sight. - -Rosalie was clad in her morning print, and wore her wide-brimmed chip -hat, so that her attire gave no indication of her station in life. As -her tall figure disappeared the man rose, stepped past his easel—which -supported a canvas whereon already appeared in bold firm lines a sketch -of the antiquated church porch—and made his way up the path and across -the grass to Elias Fiander’s grave. - -‘Let us see,’ he murmured; ‘that kiss spoke volumes. It must be a -sweetheart at the very least; yet when she came swinging down the -meadow-path she certainly looked heart-whole. Here we are—a brand-new -stone. Funny name—Elias Fiander! No—aged sixty-two. Must have been her -father, or perhaps her grandfather—the girl looked young enough—so all my -pretty romance has come to nothing. I wish she had stayed a few minutes -longer—I would give something to make a sketch of her.’ - -He went back to his work whistling, and thinking over Rosalie’s beautiful -face and figure regretfully, and with an admiration that was entirely -æsthetic, for he had a cheery, rotund little wife at home in London, and -half a dozen children to provide for, so that he was not given to -sentiment. - -It was, perhaps, because his admiration was so innocent and his ambition -so laudable, that a few days later his wish to transfer Rosalie’s charms -to canvas was granted in a most unexpected way. - -It had been unusually hot, and the artist, having finished his sketch of -the porch, was proceeding by a short cut through Littlecomb Farm to the -downs beyond, in search of cooler air, when, on crossing a cornfield at -the further end of which the reapers were busily at work, he suddenly -came upon a woman’s figure lying in the shade of a ‘shock’ of sheaves. - -The first glance announced her identity; the second assured him that she -was fast asleep. She had removed her hat, and her clasped hands -supported her head, the upward curve of the beautiful arms being -absolutely fascinating to the artist’s eye. The oval face with its warm -colouring, the slightly loosened masses of dark hair, were thrown into -strong relief by the golden background; the absolute abandonment of the -whole form was so perfect in its grace that he paused, trembling with -artistic delight, and hardly daring to breathe lest he should disturb -her. - -But Rosalie, overcome with the heat and tired out after a hard morning’s -work, slept peacefully on while he swung his satchel round, opened it -quickly, and began with swift deft fingers to make a rapid sketch of her. -A few light pencil strokes suggested the exquisite lines of the prostrate -form, and he had already begun to dash on the colour, when, with a loud -shriek and flapping of wings, a blackbird flew out of the neighbouring -hedge, and Rosalie stirred and opened her eyes. - -Rosalie’s eyes always took people by surprise, and the artist, who had -not before noticed their colour, suffered his to rest upon them -appreciatively while they were still hazy with sleep; but when, with -returning consciousness, he observed a sudden wonder and indignation leap -into them, he threw out his hand hastily. - -‘One moment, if you please—stay just as you are for one moment.’ - -Still under the influence of her recent heavy slumber, and taken aback by -the peremptory tone, Rosalie obeyed. - -‘What are you doing?’ she inquired suspiciously, but without changing her -posture. - -‘Don’t you see?’ he returned. ‘I am making a picture of you.’ - -A warm tide of colour spread over the upturned face. - -‘You should n’t do that without asking my leave.’ - -‘A man must take his chances where he finds them,’ said the artist. ‘I -don’t often get such a chance as this. I am a poor man, and can’t afford -to let an opportunity slip.’ - -He had a shrewd sallow face and kind merry eyes, and as he spoke he -paused in his work and smiled down at her. - -‘I don’t want to be disobliging,’ said Rosalie, ‘but I—I don’t like it. -I fell asleep by accident—I should n’t have thrown myself down like this -if I had thought anyone was likely to see me.’ - -‘All the better,’ commented he. ‘You could n’t have put yourself into -such a position if you had tried to. It has evidently come naturally, -and it is simply perfect.’ - -He paused to squeeze out a little colour from one of the tiny tubes in -his open box, and again smiled encouragingly down at his model. - -‘Now will you oblige me by closing your eyes again? No, don’t screw them -up like that; let the lids drop gently—so, very good. ’T is a pity to -hide the eyes—one does not often see blue eyes with such Murillo -colouring; but the length of the lashes makes amends, and I want you -asleep.’ - -Again a wave of colour swept over Rosalie’s face: the stranger marked it -approvingly, and worked on. - -‘Is it nearly done?’ she inquired presently. ‘You said you would only be -a moment.’ - -‘I find it will take several moments, but I am sure you would not grudge -me the time if you knew what a wonderful piece of good fortune this is -for me.’ - -‘How can it be good fortune for you?’ - -‘Don’t frown, please; let the lids lie loosely. I will tell you why I -consider this meeting a piece of good fortune. Do you know what it is to -make bread-and-butter?’ - -‘I make butter three times a week,’ returned Rosalie, somewhat amused; -‘and I make bread too, sometimes.’ - -‘Well, I have got to make bread-and-butter every day of my life, not only -for myself, but for my wife and six small children, and I have nothing to -make it with but this. You may open your eyes for a moment if you don’t -move otherwise.’ - -Rosalie opened her eyes, and saw that he was bending towards her, and -holding out a paint-brush. - -‘Now, go to sleep again,’ he went on. ‘Yes, that’s what I make my -bread-and-butter with; and it is n’t always an easy task, because there -are a great many other chaps who want to make bread-and-butter in the -same kind of way, and we can never be quite sure which among the lot of -us will find the best market for his wares. But I shall have no -difficulty in disposing of you, I am certain—therefore, I consider myself -in luck.’ - -‘Do you mean that you will sell that little picture of me?’ - -‘Not this one, but a big one which I shall make from it. It will go to -an exhibition, and people will come and look at it. As the subject is -quite new and very pretty, I shall ask a big price for it, and there will -be lots of bread-and-butter for a long time to come.’ - -‘But would anybody care to buy a picture of a woman whom they don’t know, -lying asleep in a cornfield?’ cried Rosalie incredulously, and -involuntarily raising her drooped lids. - -‘Most certainly they will,’ responded the artist confidently. ‘This will -be a lovely thing when it is done. I shall come here to-morrow and make -a careful study of this stook against which you are lying, and of the -field; and I shall look about for a few good types of harvesters to put -in the middle distance.’ He was speaking more to himself than to her, -but Rosalie listened with deep interest, and watched him sharply through -her half-closed lids. Suddenly she saw him laugh. - -‘Perhaps if I come across a very attractive specimen of a rustic, I may -place him just behind the stook here, peering through the sheaves at you, -or bending forward as if he were going to—’ - -‘Oh, don’t,’ cried Rosalie, starting violently and opening her eyes wide. -‘No, I won’t have it, I won’t be in the picture at all if you put -anything of that kind in!’ - -‘Not—if I chose a particularly nice young man?’ inquired the painter, -still laughing softly to himself. ‘Not if I chose—_the_ young man?’ - -‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean,’ protested she, her cheeks crimson -again and her lips quivering. ‘There is no young man.’ - -‘Do you mean to tell me, my dear child, that with that face you have -lived till now without anyone courting you—as I suppose they would call -it?’ - -‘Oh, of course they court me,’ Rosalie hastened to admit; ‘but I hate -them all. And they are all very ugly,’ she added eagerly, ‘and would -look dreadful in a picture.’ - -‘There, you are frowning again. Come, let us talk of something less -exciting. Keep still, please. So you make butter three times a week, do -you? You are a farmer’s daughter, I suppose?’ - -‘I was a farmer’s granddaughter,’ she returned. ‘My father was a -schoolmaster.’ - -‘Ah, that accounts for your educated way of speaking.’ - -‘No, father died when I was quite a baby, but my grandfather sent me to -school.’ - -‘Then you live with your mother, I suppose?’ - -‘No, I live alone here. This farm belongs to me.’ - -She could not help peeping out beneath her lashes to judge of the effect -of her words, and was gratified when the busy brush paused and the dark -eyes glanced down at her in astonishment. - -‘You live alone here? But this is a big farm—you can’t manage it all -yourself?’ - -‘Yes, I do. It is hard work, but I contrive to do it. I am rather -lonely, though.’ - -‘That will be remedied in time,’ said the artist encouragingly. ‘The -right man will come along, and perhaps,’ he added with that queer smile -of his, ‘you won’t find him so ugly as the rest.’ - -‘You don’t know who I am or you would n’t speak like that,’ said Rosalie -with dignity; adding, with a softer inflexion of her voice: ‘The right -man has come—and gone. I am a widow.’ - -And unclasping the hands beneath her head, she thrust forward the left -one with the shining wedding-ring. - -Confusion and concern now replaced the careless gaiety of the stranger’s -face. - -‘I beg your pardon,’ he said earnestly; ‘I did not know. You look so -young—I could not guess—but I am very sorry for my foolish talk.’ - -‘I was married four years,’ said Rosalie softly. Something gentle and -kindly about the man invited confidence. ‘My poor Elias has only been -dead three months.’ She paused abruptly, astonished at the sudden -expression of blank bewilderment on the other’s face. - -‘Your husband’s name was Elias’ he queried. ‘I beg your pardon for what -must seem idle curiosity. Was it—was it his grave that I saw you -visiting the other day?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, sighing and blushing; ‘yes: I—I thought I was -alone.’ - -‘_Aged sixty-two_!’ quoted the artist to himself, and he raised his hand -to his mouth for a moment to conceal its tell-tale quivering. He thought -of the girl’s elastic gait on the morning when he had first seen her, and -scrutinised once more the blooming face and admirably proportioned form -before him; then, shaking his head slowly, went on with his work. - -‘Perhaps I shall call this picture “The Sleeping Beauty,”’ he observed -after a pause, with apparent irrelevance. ‘You know the story, don’t -you?’ - -‘Yes, but I don’t think it would be a good name. She was a Princess who -went to sleep in a palace in the wood, and I am just I—in my working -dress, asleep in a cornfield.’ - -‘These are mere details,’ said he. ‘The main points of the story are the -same. She woke up all right, you know. You will wake up some day, too, -my beauty.’ - -He put such meaning into the words, and smiled down at her so oddly, that -she felt confused and uncomfortable. It was not that her pride was -wounded at the liberty he had taken in applying such a term to her: his -admiration was so evidently impersonal that it could not offend her, and, -moreover, his allusion to his wife and children had had a tranquillising -effect. But the man’s look and tone when he made this strange remark -filled her with vague disquietude; both betrayed a secret amusement -mingled with something like compassion. ‘She would wake up some day,’ he -said; but she did not want to wake up! She was quite happy—at least, as -happy as could be in her bereaved state—she asked nothing more from life. -It would be certainly more unpleasant than the reverse to discover that -life had surprises in store for her. But why need she trouble herself -about a prophecy so idly uttered, and by an absolute stranger? -Nevertheless, she did trouble herself, not only throughout the remainder -of the time that the artist was completing his sketch, but frequently -afterwards. - -‘You will wake up some day, my beauty!’ Oh no, no; let her sleep on if -this placid contented existence were indeed sleep; let her dream away the -days in peace, until that time of awakening which would re-unite her to -Elias. - - - -CHAPTER IX - - - Then, proud Celinda, hope no more - To be implor’d or woo’d; - Since by thy scorn thou dost restore - The wealth my love bestow’d; - And thy disdain too late shall find - That none are fair but who are kind. - - THOMAS STANLEY. - -WHEN the artist had gone away, after lingering some days longer to -complete his studies for the projected picture, the tenor of Rosalie’s -existence flowed on as calmly as even she could desire. She made and -sold her butter; had her cheeses conveyed to Mr. Hardy’s establishment in -Branston; superintended the harvesting of her potatoes and mangels; laid -in her winter store of oil-cake; and fattened sundry turkeys and geese -for the Christmas market. - -Early on a winter’s afternoon Rosalie Fiander might have been seen -walking slowly across the downs in the neighbourhood of Isaac Sharpe’s -farm. She carried a large basket, and every now and then paused to add -to the store of scarlet berries or shining evergreen which she was -culling from thicket and hedgerow for Christmas decoration. - -All at once she was surprised by hearing a step on the path behind her -and a man’s voice calling her name, and, turning, descried the tall and -somewhat ungainly person of Andrew Burge. - -Though it wanted yet a few days of Christmas, that gentleman, who was of -a social turn of mind, had evidently begun to celebrate the festival, and -Rosalie, gazing at him, was somewhat dismayed on perceiving the flushed -hilarity of his countenance and the devious gait by which he approached. - -She paused reluctantly, however, and shook hands with him when he came -up. - -‘I’ve been calling at your place, Mrs. Fiander,’ he observed, ‘to wish -you the compliments of the season.’ - -‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said Rosalie. ‘The same to you, Mr. -Burge.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the young man, rolling an amorous eye at her, ‘I was most -wishful, Mrs. Fiander, to give you my Christmas greetings in person.’ - -‘You are very good,’ said she. ‘I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy -New Year. And now I think I must be moving home, for I am very busy -to-day.’ - -‘Allow me to escort you,’ urged Andrew. ‘’T was a disapp’intment to me -not to find you at home. I am rej’iced to have overtaken you, and -anxious to prorogue the interview. There’s a season for condoliances and -a season for congratulations. This here is the time for congratulations, -and I am anxious, Mrs. Fiander, ma’am, to prorogue it.’ - -‘My work is waiting for me at home,’ said the young widow in alarm. ‘I -am afraid I shall have no time to attend to you; but, perhaps, some other -day—’ - -She broke off and began to walk away rapidly; but the uneven, lumbering -steps kept pace with hers. - -‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ remarked Mr. Burge, somewhat thickly. -‘’T is a joyful season—a season as fills a man’s ’eart with ’ope and -’appiness.’ - -This observation appearing to call for no rejoinder, Rosalie let it pass -unnoticed except by a slight quickening of her pace; to no purpose, -however, for her unwelcome companion kept by her side. - -‘Christmas for ever!’ he ejaculated huskily, with an appropriate flourish -of his hat. Instead of restoring it to its place after this sudden -display of enthusiasm, he continued to wave it uncertainly, not over his -own head, but over Rosalie’s, leering the while in a manner which -materially increased her discomposure. All at once she saw that a sprig -of mistletoe was tucked into the band of Mr. Burge’s head-gear, and -almost at the moment she made this discovery he lurched forward, so as to -bar her progress, and bent his face towards hers. - -‘How dare you!’ cried Rosalie, thrusting him from her with a vigorous -push; then, as he momentarily lost his equilibrium and staggered -backwards against the hedge, she fairly took to her heels and fled from -him at full speed, not towards her own home, but to Isaac Sharpe’s -premises. - -‘O Mr. Sharpe!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Oh, oh, save me! He’s after -me!’ - -‘Who’s arter you, my dear? Why, you be a-shakin’ same as an aspen-tree. -What in the name o’ Goodness has put you in such a state?’ - -‘Oh, it’s—it’s that dreadful Andrew Burge. He overtook me on the downs -and tried to kiss me. I think he’s tipsy, and I know he’s running after -me.’ - -‘Nay now, my dear, don’t ’ee take on so. He’ll not hurt ye here—I’ll see -to that. Dang his impidence! Tried to kiss ye, did he? That chap needs -to be taught his place.’ - -‘I’m sure he’s coming down the path now,’ cried Rosalie, wringing her -hands. ‘Oh, dear, if he does n’t come here I dare say he’ll go back to -the farm, and I shall find him there when I go home.’ - -‘Now, don’t ’ee go on shakin’ and cryin’ so. Don’t ye be so excited, -Rosalie,’ said Isaac, who was himself very red in the face and violently -perturbed. ‘Come, I’ll walk home along of ye, and if I do find him there -I’ll settle him—leastways, if you’ll give me leave. Ye don’t want to -have nothin’ more to say to ’en, do ye? Very well, then, ’t will be easy -enough to get rid of ’en.’ - -So Isaac Sharpe, without pausing to pull a coat over his smock-frock, -duly escorted Mrs. Fiander across the downs and home by the short cut; -and, as Rosalie had surmised, Susan greeted them on the threshold with -the pleasing information that Mr. Burge was waiting for her in the -parlour. - -‘Very good,’ said Isaac. ‘Leave ’en to me, my dear. Jist you go to the -dairy, or up to your room, or anywheres ye like out o’ the road. I’ll -not be very slack in getting through wi’ this here job.’ - -He watched her until she had disappeared from view, and then suddenly -throwing open the parlour door shouted in stentorian tones to its -solitary occupant: - -‘Now then, you must get out o’ this!’ - -Burge, who had been sitting in a somnolent condition before the fire, -woke up, and stared in surprise mingled with alarm at the white-robed -giant who advanced threateningly towards him through the dusk. - -‘Why, what does this mean?’ he stammered. - -‘What does this mean?’ repeated the farmer in thundering tones. ‘It -means that you’re a rascal, young fellow.’ - -And Isaac qualified the statement with one or two specimens of ‘language’ -of the very choicest kind. - -‘What do you mean, eh,’ he pursued, standing opposite the chair where -Andrew sat blinking, ‘by running arter young females on them there -lonesome downs, when you was not fit for nothin’ but a public bar, -frightenin’ her, and insultin’ her till she was very near took with a fit -on my doorstep? What do ye mean, ye villain, eh? If ye was n’t so drunk -that ye could n’t stand up to me for a minute I’d have ye out in that -there yard and I’d give ye summat!’ - -Mr. Burge shrank as far back in his chair as was compatible with a kind -of tipsy dignity, and inquired mildly: - -‘Why, what business is it of yours, Mr. Sharpe?’ - -‘It’s my business that I won’t have ’Lias Fiander’s widow insulted nor -yet put upon, nor yet bothered by folks as she don’t want to ha’ nothin’ -to say to.’ - -‘Mr. Sharpe,’ protested Andrew—‘Mr. Sharpe, I cannot permit such -interference. My intentions was honourable. I meant matrimony, and I -will not allow any stranger to come between this lady and me.’ - -‘Ye meant matrimony, did ye?’ said Isaac, exchanging his loud, wrathful -tone for one of withering scorn. ‘Mrs. Fiander does n’t mean matrimony, -though—not wi’ the likes o’ you. Come, you clear out o’ this; and don’t -you never go for to show your ugly mug here again, or my cluster o’ five -will soon be no stranger to it, I promise you!’ - -He held up a colossal hand as he spoke, first extending the fingers in -illustration of his threat, and then clenching it into a redoubtable -fist. - -Andrew sat upright in the elbow-chair, his expressionless eyes staring -stolidly at his assailant, but without attempting to move. Through the -open door the sound of whispers and titters could have been heard had -either of the men been in a condition to notice such trivial matters. - -‘Now, then!’ repeated Sharpe threateningly. - -Andrew Burge drew himself up. - -‘This contumacious behaviour, Mr. Sharpe, sir,’ he said, ‘has no effect -upon me whatever. My intentions is to make an equivocal offer of -marriage to Mrs. Fiander, and from her lips alone will I take my answer. -I shall sit in this chair,’ he continued firmly, ‘until the lady comes in -person to give me her responsory.’ - -‘You will, will ye?’ bellowed Isaac. ‘Ye be a-goin’ to sit there, be ye? -Ye bain’t, though! That there chair’s my chair I’d have ye know, and -I’ll soon larn ye who have got the right to sit in it.’ - -With that he lunged forward, thrusting the cluster of five so suddenly -into Andrew’s face that that gentleman threw himself heavily backwards, -and the chair, being unprovided with castors, overbalanced, and fell -violently to the ground. - -Undeterred by the catastrophe and the peculiar appearance presented by -Mr. Burge’s flushed and dazed countenance as he stared helplessly -upwards, contemplating probably a thousand stars, Isaac seized the chair -by the legs and began to drag it across the floor, bumping its occupant -unmercifully in his exertions. His own countenance was, indeed, almost -as purple in hue as Andrew’s by the time he reached the door, which was -obligingly thrown open as he neared it, revealing Sam Belbin’s delighted -face. The alarmed countenances of the maids peered over his shoulder, -while a few manly forms were huddled together in the passage. Mr. -Sharpe’s extremely audible tones had attracted many eager listeners; -nothing so exciting had taken place at Littlecomb since Elias Fiander’s -funeral. - -‘Here, you chaps,’ cried the farmer, still tugging violently at the -chair, and panting with his efforts; ‘here, come on, some on you. Lend a -hand to get rid o’ this here carcase.’ - -Nothing loath, the men sprang forward, and between them the chair with -its occupant was dragged out of the room and along the passage. - -‘What’s he been a-doin’ of?’ inquired Sam with great gusto, as he dropped -his particular chair-leg on the cobble-stones in the yard. - -‘Never you mind what he’ve been a-doin’ of,’ returned Isaac, -straightening himself and wiping his brow. ‘Get him out of that there -chair, and trot him off the premises—that’s what you ’ve a-got to do.’ - -Andrew Burge was with some difficulty set on his legs, and after gazing -vacantly round him appeared to recover a remnant of his scattered senses. - -‘I’ll summons you, Mr. Sharpe,’ he cried. ‘The liberties of the British -subject is not to be vi’lently interfered with! I leave this spot,’ he -added, looking round loftily but unsteadily, ‘with contumely!’ - -Anyone who had subsequently seen Sam and Robert conducting the suitor to -the high road would have endorsed the truth of this remark, though Mr. -Burge, according to his custom, had merely used the first long word that -occurred to him without any regard to its appropriateness. - -Returning to the house, Isaac went to the foot of the stairs and called -out Rosalie’s name in a mildly jubilant roar. - -‘Come down, Mrs. Fiander; come down, my dear! He be gone, and won’t -never trouble you no more, I’ll answer for ’t.’ - -Rosalie came tripping downstairs, smiling, in spite of a faintly alarmed -expression. - -‘What a noise you did make, to be sure!’ she remarked; ‘and what a mess -the parlour is in!’ - -‘We did knock down a few things, I d’ ’low, when we was cartin’ ’en out -of this,’ returned Isaac apologetically. ‘He was a-settin’ in my chair, -and he up and told me to my face as he’d go on a-settin’ there till he -seed ’ee—that were comin’ it a bit too strong!’ - -He was helping her as he spoke to pick up the scattered furniture, and to -restore the table-cloth and books, which Andrew had dragged down in -falling, to their places. - -These tasks ended, he faced her with a jovial smile. - -‘Well,’ he said, ‘he won’t trouble you again, anyhow. There’s one o’ -your coortin’ chaps a-gone for good.’ - -‘I wish you could get rid of them all in the same way,’ said Rosalie -gratefully; adding in a confidential tone, ‘there’s Mr. Wilson, now—he -keeps calling and calling, and he follows me about, and pays me -compliments—he is very tiresome.’ - -‘Be he?’ returned the farmer with a clouded brow. ‘Ah, and he bain’t a -chap for you to be takin’ notice on, nohow. I’d give ’en the sack if I -was you.’ - -‘Why, you see, I don’t like to be rude; and he was kind about the pigs. -But I wish some one would drop him a hint that he is wasting his time in -dangling about me.’ - -She broke off suddenly, for at that moment the interested and excited -countenance of Sam Belbin appeared in the doorway, and, though he was a -favourite with his mistress, she did not see fit to discuss such intimate -affairs in his hearing. - -The news of Isaac Sharpe’s encounter with young Andrew Burge soon flew -round the neighbourhood, evoking much comment, and causing constructions -to be placed upon the farmer’s motives which, if he had heard them, would -have sorely disquieted that good man. - -‘He be a-goin’ to coort Widow Fiander hisself, for certain,’ averred Mrs. -Paddock. ‘D’ ye mind how I did say that day as there was all the trouble -yonder at Littlecomb—“How nice,” says I, “master did speak of her!”—d’ ye -mind? He were quite undone about her. “Pore young creatur’,” says he, -so feelin’ as he could. “D’ ye mind? Mrs. Belbin,” I said, says I, -“master be a very feelin’ man.”’ - -‘Ah, I can mind as you said that,’ returned Mrs. Belbin; ‘but my Sam he -d’ ’low as Mrs. Fiander would n’t so much as look at master. “Not -another old man,” says he. And, mind ye,’ added Mrs. Belbin, -confidentially dropping her voice, ‘Sam’s missus do think a deal o’ he.’ - -Mrs. Paddock folded her arms, and looked superciliously at her neighbour. - -‘Nay now,’ said she, ‘your Sam ’ull find hisself mistook if he gets set -on sich a notion as that.’ - -‘What notion?’ returned the other innocently. ‘I never said nothin’ -about no notion at all. You’ve a-got such a suspectin’ mind, Mrs. -Paddock, there’s no tellin’ you a bit o’ news wi’out you up an’ take a -body’s character away.’ - -At this moment the impending hostilities between the two matrons were -averted by the advent of a third—Mrs. Stuckhey by name, wife of Robert -Stuckhey, who worked at Littlecomb. - -‘My ’usband did say,’ she remarked, negligently scratching her elbows, -‘as Mr. Sharpe seemed very intimate wi’ missus. “My dear,” he says to -her. Ah, Stuckhey d’ say as Mr. Sharpe do often call missus “my dear.” -And he did say as he seed ’en come walkin’ home wi’ her this arternoon, -quite lovin’ like, in a smock-frock, jist the same as if he was in his -own place. “Go upstairs, my dear,” says he—’ - -‘In his _smock-frock_?’ interrupted Mrs. Paddock eagerly. ‘Were it a new -smock-frock, did Mr. Stuckhey say?’ - -‘Very like it were,’ replied Mrs. Stuckhey, accommodatingly. ‘My master -he bain’t one as takes much notice, and if it had a-been a old one he’d -scarce ha’ thought o’ mentionin’ it to me.’ - -‘Then you may depend, Mrs. Belbin,’ cried Mrs. Paddock triumphantly, ‘as -master be a-coortin’ o’ Widow Fiander! A new smock-frock! ’t is the very -thing as a man like he ’ud wear when his thoughts was bent on sich -matters! I do mind as my father told me often how he did save an’ save -for eleven weeks to buy hisself a new smock to go a-coortin’ my mother -in. Ah, wages was terrible low then, and he were n’t a-gettin’ above -seven shillin’ a week; but he did manage to put by a shillin’ out o’ -that. The smock—it were a white ’un—did cost eleven shillin’, and he did -save eleven weeks. And, strange to say, when he and my mother did wed, -they did have eleven children.’ - -Utterly routed by this incontrovertible testimony, Mrs. Belbin withdrew -to her own quarters, leaving the other two ragged heads bobbing together -in high enjoyment of the delectable piece of gossip. - -Before the morrow the entire village knew that Farmer Sharpe had arrived -at Littlecomb with his arm round Widow Fiander’s waist, that he had -spoken to her in the tenderest terms, had avowed his intention of -hammering each and every one of her suitors, and had bought himself a -brand-new and beautifully embroidered smock-frock for the express purpose -of courting her in it. - - - -CHAPTER X - - - Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, - Misprising what they look on . . . - - SHAKESPEARE. - -THOUGH Isaac Sharpe did not consider himself bound to assist Rosalie in -repelling the advances of Mr. Wilson, the auctioneer, the wish she had -expressed that someone would be kind enough to ‘drop a hint to him’ had -fallen upon other attentive and willing ears. - -Sam Belbin had laid her words to heart, and only waited for an -opportunity of proving his good-will by ridding her of a frequent and -unwelcome visitor. - -His chance came at last, and he was quick to take advantage of it. - -It was cheese-day, and Rosalie and her maids had prepared such a quantity -that their work was not, as usual, finished before dinnertime, and they -were still elbow-deep in curds when Mr. Wilson chanced to look in. - -Sam was standing in the outer room, swilling out the great cheese-vat -which had held that morning a hundred and eighty gallons of skim-milk. A -wonderfully obliging fellow was Sam, always ready to lend a hand here, to -do an odd job there; and so good-tempered with it all. His mistress -could often see his smiling mouth open and ready to agree with whatever -remark he thought her likely to make long before she had spoken; and as -she liked contradiction as little as any of her sex her head-man advanced -the more rapidly in her favour. - -She was anything but gratified when Mr. Wilson appeared on the threshold -of the milk-house, and after a brief greeting bent her head over her -mould and went on with her work. - -‘Always busy, Mrs. Fiander,’ remarked the visitor pleasantly. ‘’Pon my -word, you ladies put us to shame sometimes. We men are idle creatures in -comparison with you.’ - -Rosalie made no answer, and Sam banged about the vat with his stiff brush -so energetically that he seemed bent on giving the lie to the -auctioneer’s words. - -‘I am really quite curious to see how you set about your cheese-making,’ -pursued the latter in mellifluous tones. ‘Should I be in your way, Mrs. -Fiander, if I was to step in and watch you?’ - -‘I am afraid you would n’t find it very amusing,’ responded Rosalie -unwillingly. ‘Of course, if you like. But it will really be most -uncomfortable for you. We are all in such a mess here. -Sam’—irritably—‘what a din you do make with that tub!’ - -Sam, who had tilted up the tub, the better apparently to scrub the -bottom, now let it go suddenly, sending a great portion of its contents -splashing across the floor in Mr. Wilson’s direction. - -‘It be all the same,’ he remarked philosophically; ‘I were just a-goin’ -to swill out this here place.’ - -And with that he upset a little more of the steaming water upon the -floor, seized a stiff broom, and began to brush the soapy liquid towards -the door. - -‘You might have waited a moment,’ commented his mistress; but she spoke -with a sweet smile, for she saw with the corner of her eye how hastily -Mr. Wilson had skipped out of the way, anxious to protect his shining -boots and immaculate leggings. ‘I really cannot invite you in now,’ she -added, turning to the visitor regretfully. ‘Pray excuse the man’s -awkwardness.’ But as she spoke she smiled again on Sam. - -She related the anecdote with much gusto to Isaac Sharpe on the following -Sunday, but he did not seem to appreciate it as much as she had expected. - -‘That there Wilson, he’s arter you too, I suppose. I would n’t have -anything to say to him if I was you. He bain’t steady enough to make a -good husband—racin’ an’ drinkin’, and sich-like. Ah, his poor wife, she -did n’t praise him, but she suffered, poor soul!’ - -‘Gracious, Mr. Sharpe, I am sure you need n’t warn me! You know what my -views are; besides, I hate the man. I would n’t see him at all if he had -n’t—had n’t been rather obliging in a business-way. But was n’t it -clever of Sam to get rid of him like that?’ - -‘’Ees,’ agreed the farmer dubiously; ‘but don’t ’ee go for to let ’en -take too much on hisself, my dear, else ye’ll be like to repent it. It -do never do to let these young fellows get sot up. Keep ’en in his -place, Mrs. Fiander; don’t let ’en get presumptious.’ - -‘I’m sure he would never be that,’ she rejoined warmly. ‘Poor Sam; he’s -the humblest creature in the world. He goes about his work like—like a -machine.’ - -‘May be so,’ said Isaac incredulously; ‘you know him best, I suppose, but -I jist thought I’d speak my mind out about him.’ - -Rosalie frowned a little and said no more, but her faith in Sam was not -diminished, and as time went on she grew to rely more and more on this -cheerful and obliging young fellow. - -The gossiping anent the alleged courting of Mrs. Fiander by Farmer Sharpe -was not confined to Littlecomb Village, but soon spread to the more -important town of Branston, with the immediate result of stirring up -sundry of the young men belonging to that place, who, after the -discomfiture of Samuel Cross, had deemed it prudent to relax for a time -in their attentions to the fascinating widow. So long as she had been -thought plunged in grief, these wooers of hers had been content to bide -their time; but when it became known that there was actually an avowed -suitor in the field, and one, moreover, to whom the lady had given -unequivocal tokens of confidence and good-will, they resolved with one -accord to bestir themselves, lest the prize of which each thought himself -most deserving, might be secured by another. - -Before many days of the new year had passed Rosalie found herself -absolutely besieged. Samuel Cross actually forced his way past the -unwilling Susan into the parlour while Rosalie was at tea; Mr. Wilson lay -in wait for her as she was emerging from church on Christmas Day, and -made his proposal in due form as he escorted her homewards. John Hardy -inveigled the widow into the back parlour behind the shop, ostensibly to -discuss the sale of the Blue Vinneys, in reality to lay his hand and -heart at her feet. - -Rosalie said ‘No’ to one and all, and was astonished at the outburst of -indignation which her answer provoked, and at the keen sense of ill-usage -under which every one of her suitors appeared to be labouring. - -It was Samuel Cross who first alluded in Rosalie’s hearing to the -prevalent belief that Farmer Sharpe was paying his court to her; and he -was somewhat taken aback by the unfeigned merriment which the suggestion -evoked. - -‘You may laugh, Mrs. Fiander,’ he said, recovering himself after an -instant, ‘but people are not blind and deaf; and, though they may be -fooled to a certain extent by a lady, gentlemen of my profession find it -easy to put two and two together, ma’am. When a lady tells you she is -always engaged on a Sunday, and shuts the door in the face of a person -who comes to make civil inquiries, one does n’t need to be extra clever -to guess that there must be some reason for it. And when the reason -turns out to be another gentleman, and when that gentleman takes upon -himself to assault another gentleman as was also desirous of paying his -respects in the same quarter, that, Mrs. Fiander, is what one may term -_primâ-facie_ evidence!’ - -Whether the display of Mr. Cross’s learning had a sobering effect on Mrs. -Fiander, or whether she was suddenly struck by some serious thought, it -is certain that she ceased laughing at this juncture, and remained -pensive even after the rejected suitor had departed. - -Mr. Wilson was harder to get rid of. He was so confident in the justice -of his claim, so pertinacious in reminding Rosalie of her obligations -towards him with regard to the sales of the pigs—which piece of business -he perseveringly alluded to as ‘a delicate matter’—so persuaded, -moreover, of his own superiority to any of her other lovers, that she -finally lost patience and petulantly declared that if there were not -another man in the world she would not consent to marry him. - -The auctioneer grew purple in the face, and suddenly changed his note:— - -‘If there was n’t another man in the world!’ he repeated sneeringly. -‘Then there is another man? Ha! it is n’t very hard to guess who! Well, -tastes differ. If you like such a rough, common old chap better than a -gentleman doing a large and honourable business, I make you a present of -him, Mrs. Fiander, smock-frock and all! Ha, ha, he’ll soon have the pigs -back again when he’s master here, and all my labour and loss of time will -have been thrown away. Not that I grudge the sacrifice,’ cried Mr. -Wilson in a melting tone. ‘No, far be it from me to grudge the -sacrifice. The ladies have always found an easy prey in me; and when I -think of the far greater sacrifice which a young and lovely woman is -prepared to make upon the altar of matrimony—a sacrifice which she will -repent too late—I am rejooced to silence.’ - -Here Mr. Wilson thumped his breast and cast a last languishing look at -the young widow, who appeared, however, to be absorbed in her own -reflections. - -He talked on in spite of his last assertion until they reached Rosalie’s -door, where, waking as if from a dream, she extended her hand to him. - -‘Good-bye,’ she said. ‘There is no use in talking about it any more, Mr. -Wilson; my mind is made up.’ - -The auctioneer extended his hand dramatically in the direction of the -empty pigsties. - -‘Well, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, ‘if the Inspector of Nuisances visits -your premises you will only have yourself to thank.’ - -‘Meanwhile,’ retorted Rosalie with some acerbity, ‘as it might be a -little difficult to send for him to-day, I should be glad if the nuisance -who is now occupying my premises would take himself off.’ - -She went into the house with a flushed face, but seemed more thoughtful -than annoyed during the remainder of the day. - -It was, however, with unmixed vexation that she perused, on the morning -following her rejection of young John Hardy, a document signed by the -firm, which ran thus:— - - ‘To MRS. FIANDER. - - MADAM,—_Re_ Blue Vinney Cheeses.—We regret to inform you that we can - no longer allow our premises to be used as a storehouse for these - unsaleable articles. In the three months during which, in order to - oblige you, we have placed our establishment at your disposal, we - have only found one purchaser for a small portion of the goods in - question (as you will see per statement copied from our books and - enclosed herewith). Under these circumstances we are returning to - you to-day as many of the cheeses as the carrier’s cart can convey, - and we shall be obliged by your removing the remainder at your - earliest convenience. - - We are, Madam, yours obediently, - ‘HARDY & SON.’ - -The enclosed ‘statement’ testified to the purchase by one Margaret Savage -of ¾ lb. Blue Vinney Cse at 5¾_d._ = 4_d._, which sum had been credited -to Mrs. Fiander’s account. - -Rosalie gave a little gasp, and tears of vexation sprang to her eyes. - -‘They just want to spite me,’ she said. ‘Of course the cheeses are -hardly fit for use yet—they can’t have even tried to dispose of them; -they simply pretended to sell them so as to entrap me, and now they are -throwing them back on my hands before I have time to think what to do -with them. That odious John Hardy! Mean-spirited wretch—it is all his -doing!’ - -Even as she thus cogitated there was a rattling of wheels without, and -the carrier’s cart drew up with a flourish at the door. - -‘Please, ma’am,’ cried Susan, thrusting in her head, ‘Mr. Smith be here -with ever so many cheeses as he says Hardys are sending back; and there’s -sixteen-and-eightpence to pay; and he says, ma’am, will you please send -the men to unload them at once?’ - -‘Call Sam,’ said her mistress in a strangled voice. ‘Tell him to come at -once with two or three of the others, and to take the cheeses carefully -upstairs.’ - -‘Why, the cheese-room be a’most full, ma’am. I doubt there’ll not be -much room for them there. We was waitin’, you know, till Christmas had -gone over a bit to send the last load to town.’ - -‘Pile them up in the dairy, then, for the present. Well, why don’t you -go?’ she cried, irritably, as the girl remained staring at her. ‘Make -the men get to work at once while I find my purse.’ - -As she came down from her room, purse in hand, she observed through the -staircase window the blank faces of Sam and his underlings, as the -carrier tossed the cheeses to them from the cart, grinning the while as -though at some excellent joke. She stamped her foot, and caught her -breath with a little angry sob. She had been so proud in despatching to -Branston load after load of these fine round cheeses, she had often -congratulated herself on the wisdom and cleverness of this expedient of -hers—and now to have them ignominiously thrown back at her without having -even disposed of one—to be turned into a laughing-stock for her own folks -as well as for the whole town of Branston; to be actually made to pay for -the ill-success of her experiment! Rosalie was as a rule open-handed and -generous enough, but the disbursal of this particular -sixteen-and-eightpence caused her a pang of almost physical anguish. - -Half an hour later, when the carrier had departed and the men returned to -their work, she entered the dairy, and stood gazing with clasped hands -and a melancholy countenance at the heaps of despised Blue Vinneys which -were piled up on every side. - -To her presently came Sam Belbin, his arms dangling limply by his sides, -his expression duly composed to sympathetic gloom. - -‘Oh, Sam!’ exclaimed Rosalie in a heartbroken tone, pointing tragically -to the nearest yellow mound. - -‘I would n’t take on, I’m sure, mum,’ responded Sam with a ghastly smile. -‘Nay now, I would n’t take on. ’T was very ill done o’ Mr. Hardy—so -everybody do say, but he’s that graspin’—he never do care for sellin’ a -bit o’ cheese to poor folks—’t is all bacon, bacon wi’ he! “Don’t ’ee go -for to fill your stummicks wi’ that there ’ard cheese,” I ’ve a-heard him -say myself. “Buy a bit o’ bacon as ’ull stand to ye hot or cold.”’ - -‘Bacon!’ ejaculated Rosalie with a note of even deeper woe. Then, -pointing to the cheeses again, she groaned: ‘Oh, Sam, was it worth while -getting rid of the pigs—for this?’ - -‘Dear heart alive, mum,’ responded Belbin, plucking up his courage, and -speaking more cheerfully. ‘Mr. Hardy bain’t the only grocer in Branston! -There be a-many more as ’ud be proud an’ glad to sell them cheeses for -ye.’ - -‘No, no. Why, the story must be all over the town by now—no one will -look at them in Branston. Everyone will know that Mr. Hardy packed them -back to me. No, if I sell them at all I must send them away somewhere—to -Dorchester, perhaps.’ - -‘Well, and that ’ud be a good notion, mum,’ commented Belbin. ‘You’d get -a better price for them there, I d’ ’low. Lard! At Dorchester the Blue -Vinney cheeses do go off like smoke.’ - -‘There is always a sale for them there, to be sure,’ said Rosalie, -somewhat less lugubriously. - -‘And our own horses and carts ’ud take them there in less than no time,’ -pursued Sam, more and more confidently. ‘Things have just fell out -lucky. It be a-goin’ to take up to-night, and I d’ ’low there’ll be some -sharpish frostiss—’t will just exercise the horses nicely, to get them -roughed and make ’em carry them cheeses to Dorchester—’t will be the very -thing as ’ull do them good. And it’ll cost ye nothing,’ he added -triumphantly. - -‘Well, Sam, you are a good comforter,’ cried his mistress, brightening up -under the influence of his cheerfulness. ‘’T is a blessing, I am sure, -to have someone about one who does n’t croak.’ - -She turned to him as she spoke with one of her radiant smiles—a smile, -however, which very quickly vanished, for Sam’s face wore a most peculiar -expression. - -‘Why, my dear!’ he cried, casting an ardent look upon her, ‘I be main -glad to hear ye say so! I’d ax nothin’ better nor to be about ye always; -an’ I’d comfort an’ do for ye so well as I could. ’T is a thing,’ he -added, with modest candour, ‘as I’ve a-had in my mind for some time, but -I did n’t like to speak afore. I was n’t sure as ye’d relish the notion. -But now as you’ve a-hinted so plain—’ - -Rosalie had averted her face for a moment, but as he advanced towards her -with extended arm, she flashed round upon him a glance which suddenly -silenced him. - -He remained staring at her with goggling eyes and a dropping jaw during -the awful pause which succeeded. - -He heaved a sigh of relief, however, when she at last broke silence, for -she spoke calmly, and her words seemed innocuous enough. - -‘Is that your coat hanging up behind the door?’ - -‘Yes, mum,’ responded Sam, no longer the lover but the very humble -servant. - -‘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. - - - -CHAPTER XI - - - 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 stand - For days that yet belong to Fate, - Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his estate - Before 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 or late 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 that _I_, 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 mind _your_ saying _my -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 why I 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 they are. 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 going wrong. 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’ I were 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 and advanced 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’t _satisfied_ wi’ 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 this case 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! - - - - -PART II -_THE PRINCE_ - - -CHAPTER I - - - ’Mong blooming woods, at twilight dim, - The throstle chants with glee, o! - But the plover sings his evening hymn - To 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. - -ONE lovely 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 the bushes 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 a very 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. The astonished 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 she tearfully. ‘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 takes me 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 had overspread 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 greater -in 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 I send 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 the corn, 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 to -_have met_ me 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 the hill, 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 am going 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 point of 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 in London. 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 strange city, 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. - - - -CHAPTER II - - - A thousand thorns, and briers, and stings - I have in my poor breast; - Yet ne’er can see that salve which brings - My 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 pipe from 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, was now 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 the bridegroom-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 you are 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 nothing of 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’s_ got 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, with a 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 always been 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 arter the 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—‘I _think_ ’twas ’Lias as axed 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 a print, 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 further stimulated 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 the flame 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.’ - - - -CHAPTER III - - - 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. - -ISAAC was 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 shiver of -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!’ - -Jane turned her pretty tear-bedabbled face over her shoulder, and -inconsequently and incoherently protested that she always did her best; -then, with a gasp and a moan, she darted past the group in the doorway -and ran round the house. - -Richard looked after her with a disgusted air, and then his glance -reverted to Mrs. Fiander, whose beautiful round arm was still embedded in -curds, and whose face, a little paler than its wont, continued to be full -of ire. What could this trifling mistake matter after all to such a rich -woman, a woman who would soon be richer still? Besides being -cold-blooded and self-interested, she was evidently miserly; she was, -moreover, distinctly bad-tempered. His imagination, already warped by -the revulsion of feeling consequent on his uncle’s disclosures, was ready -to take alarm at every trivial detail. Rosalie’s pallor, and the -slightly drawn look on her face—both due in reality to a sleepless night, -resulting from an unaccountable perturbation of mind—were immediately -attributed to an acute and unreasonable disappointment over an -insignificant money loss. The eyes which had gazed on Rosalie so -ardently yesterday were now busily tracing lines of fancied meanness in -her face; those frowning brows surely revealed the shrew, the compressed -lips spoke of parsimony. When that lovely colour faded, and those -clear-cut features had become coarsened by age and self-imposed toil, -what would remain? None of that beauty of soul which he had thought to -find there. - -‘Well, well,’ remarked Isaac placidly, ‘these accidents will happen, but -I would n’t advise ’ee to be cast down by ’em. These here curds d’ seem -to be a-settin’ all right. I know how ’t is wi’ young folks. A body has -to stand over them all the time. Why, when we be a-shearin’ I d’ scarce -dare go in for a bit o dinner for fear o’ findin’ them poor ewes snipped -to pieces when I come back.’ - -Rosalie jerked the mass of curds up with additional impetuosity, but made -no reply. - -‘My nevvy,’ pursued Isaac, ‘thought he’d like to drop in an’ pay his -respects to ’ee, my dear, an’ inquire how you was a-feelin’ arter the -accident yesterday.’ - -Here he nudged Richard as a tacit reproach for his muteness. - -‘I hope,’ said the young man formally, ‘that you are none the worse for -the shock, Mrs. Fiander?’ - -The blue eyes shot up an inquiring glance, and the industrious arm paused -for a moment. What was the meaning of this altered tone, and why was the -gaze now bent on her fraught with such cold disapproval? They had parted -like old friends, and she had looked forward more than she knew to their -next meeting. - -‘Thank you,’ she returned, in a tone almost as frigid as Richard’s own; -‘my nerves are not easily upset.’ - -She believed the statement to be true; yet the equilibrium of her system -was at that moment, if she had but realised it, very seriously disturbed. - -‘Have ’ee sent for Nigger, Mrs. F.?’ inquired Isaac. - -‘I sent James Bundy to look after him. He may not be fit to move for a -day or two.’ - -‘Ah, he were a good beast,’ remarked the farmer; ‘’t is a pity ye did let -’en slip. ’T was wi’ drivin’ fast down-hill, my nevvy here d’ tell me, -an’ that’s what he’ve never been used to. Ye should have druv ’en more -carefully, my dear.’ - -Rosalie thought of the cause of her unusual haste on the previous day; it -was her anxiety to escape from the too evident admiration of the grey -eyes which were now bent on her with so different an expression. The -memory confused her; the contrast stung her; she answered sharply, and -with assumed indifference: - -‘One cannot crawl down every slope to suit the convenience of a worn-out -animal!’ - -‘He bain’t worn-out, though,’ returned her future husband, who invariably -took things literally. ‘Nay, I should say he’d last a good few years -yet, though he be past ’ard work. ’Lias al’ays used ’en gentle; ’t is -wonderful how far that’ll go both with man an’ beast. “Fair an’ soft do -go far in a day,” the sayin’ goes. Fair an’ soft—ah, ’t is trew, ’t is -trew!’ - -Rosalie bent her head over the vat in silence, her face averted, so that -her visitors could see only the outline of her cheek, the exquisite -curves of ear and neck. - -‘Fair and soft,’ muttered Richard to himself. ‘Fair and soft enough to -look at, but her heart is as the nether millstone!’ - -His uncle gazed reproachfully at him; he was proud of his travelled and -book-learned nephew, and had eagerly looked forward to the impression he -was sure to produce on ‘Mrs. F.,’ who had also been highly educated, and -was considered an authority on matters appertaining to culture—and he was -not showing off at all! He was standing there, mum-chance, as stupid as -any other body might be. He gave him another admonitory nudge and -remarked: - -‘Richard, that’s my nevvy, did quite take me by surprise last night. I -was n’t expectin’ to see ’en at all. To tell the trewth I had no kind o’ -notion o’ where he mid be. He had n’t wrote—How long were it since -you’ve a-wrote me last, Richard?’ inquired Isaac, driving home the query -with his elbow, and again frowning and winking. - -‘I don’t know,’ answered his nephew, in muffled tones. ‘A long time, I’m -afraid; but, you see, you never wrote to me,’ he added with a laugh. - -‘That be different, my boy,’ returned the farmer seriously. ‘There was -reasons why I did n’t write, Richard. I never was a writin’ man. Lard, -no,’—and here he relaxed, and uttered a jolly laugh,—‘’t is as much as I -can do to put my name to a receipt, an’ then Bithey d’ do it for I, and I -do jist stick my mark under it. Nay, Richard, I never was one for -writing much—nay, I was n’t.’ - -He continued to roll his shoulders and to chuckle ‘nay’ meditatively at -intervals, but his eyes were meanwhile fixed appealingly upon the face of -Richard, who remained obstinately dumb. - -Presently their hostess came to his assistance. - -‘I suppose, now that you are here, you’ll remain some time, Mr. -Marshall?’ she asked, without looking round; her voice in consequence -sounding nearly as muffled as the young man’s own as she bent over her -cauldron. - -‘That depends, Mrs. Fiander. Of course I want to see as much as I can of -my uncle, but I’m restless by nature, and—and I never stay very long in -one place.’ - -‘There now,’ cried Isaac, in loud remonstrance. ‘What, ye be at it -again, be ye? Did n’t we arguefy enough about it last night? I’ll not -take No, an’ so I tell ’ee! Ye’ve a-comed home, and now ye may bide at -home. Lard, I did n’t think ye could be sich a voolish chap. What need -have ye to go travellin’ the world when ye have a good berth offered ye, -an’ them that’s al’ays been your friends ready an’ anxious to keep ye? -Here’s Mrs. F. will tell ’ee the same as I do, won’t ’ee, my dear?’ - -‘I don’t quite understand what it is all about,’ said Rosalie, pausing in -her labours, however, and straightening herself. - -Why, ’t is this way,’ explained the farmer. ‘When Richard come last -night he says to me, says he, “I’ve been a-longing for years an’ years to -get back to the wold place. An’ now,” says he, “I d’ feel as if I could -n’t settle to naught but the old work. Farm-work,” he says. “Well then, -this here house ’ull be empty afore very long; an’, moreover,” says I, “I -shall need to have somebody responsible to look after this place,” for it -stands to reason, Mrs. F., as I can’t be in two places at one time.’ - -Rosalie endorsed this statement with an inarticulate murmur, and he -continued: - -‘“Well, then,” says I, “since you want to come back to the wold place an’ -take up the farm-work, why not live here and work for I?”’ - -‘Why not, indeed?’ said Rosalie. - -‘Jist what I d’ say,’ said the farmer indignantly; ‘why not? First he -were quite took wi’ the notion, but arter a bit he did n’t seem to relish -it. Now I want to know,’ pursued Isaac, extending an aggrieved -forefinger, ‘why don’t ’ee relish it, Richard?’ - -‘Suppose you should be disappointed in me—suppose I should n’t give you -satisfaction?’ said Richard hesitatingly. - -‘Pooh! nonsense! I’ll let ’ee know fast enough if ye don’t give -satisfaction. Have n’t I brought ’ee up? Bain’t he much same as a son -to I?’ - -‘But if—if I should find I could n’t settle, then you’d be more vexed -than if I had n’t given in to the plan.’ - -‘But why should n’t ’ee settle, that’s what I want to know? Ax ’en that, -Mrs. F., ax ’en why he should n’t settle? Ha’n’t ’ee travelled enough?’ - -‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rosalie, ‘I should think you ought to be glad of a -little quiet, Mr. Marshall.’ - -‘Well said!’ cried Isaac. ‘Tell ’en he’ll be a fool if he lets my offer -slip.’ - -‘Indeed,’ repeated Rosalie, gazing in surprise from the heated and -excited countenance of the elder man to the inscrutable one of his -nephew—‘indeed I think Mr. Marshall would be very unwise if he did not -accept it. It seems to me entirely to his advantage.’ - -‘And of course,’ said Richard, with a momentary gleam in his steel-grey -eyes, ‘of course my personal advantage should outweigh every other -consideration! It is obvious. Nothing like a woman’s clear head for -solving a difficulty. I will take your advice.’ - -Rosalie’s pretty face wore a look of such absolute bewilderment, and she -was evidently so much at a loss to account for his sarcastic tone, that -Richard suddenly burst out laughing; the cloud lifted from his brow, -giving place to an expression of frank good-humour. ‘Uncle Isaac,’ he -cried, clapping him heartily on the shoulder, ‘forgive my chopping and -changing so often; this time my mind is made up. I accept your offer. -Shake hands on it!’ - - - -CHAPTER IV - - - The blackthorn-flower hath fallen away— - The blackthorn-flower that wise men say - Keeps wild and variable skies - As long as it may stay; - But here’s the gorse, and here’s the whin, - And here the pearlèd may appears, - And poison-weeds of satin skin - Through every bank prick long green ears - To hear the cuckoo-cries. - - ELINOR SWEETMAN. - - To gather flowers Sappho went, - And homeward she did bring, - Within her lawny continent, - The treasure of the spring. - - HERRICK. - -RICHARD MARSHALL drove the plough slowly up the brown slope, half turned -at the summit, halted, and, having established his horses at a -comfortable angle, sat down, with his back against a tall mossy bank -sheltered by a little copse, to eat his breakfast. - -He had already partaken of a ‘dew bit’ shortly after dawn; but two or -three hours’ exercise in the brisk morning air had whetted his appetite -afresh, and he now fell to work on his bread and bacon with the utmost -zest and relish. - -The great field, all glittering green save for the brown strip which -testified to recent labours, stretched away for many goodly acres. On a -lesser slope beneath he could see the roofs of Littlecomb Farm and its -appurtenances, but the sight of the amber and ruddy outlines awakened in -him now no feeling of repulsion. During the past weeks he had laughed -himself out of his whilom fancy for the fascinating and disappointing -widow; he had even taken himself to task somewhat severely for his -strictures on that unconscious young woman. Was it her fault, after all, -that her outer parts belied her real self? Why had he been so -unreasonably angry because she had failed to correspond to the high -estimate which he had formed on slight and inadequate premises? She was -a very beautiful creature, and, no doubt, good enough in her way; if she -was common-place, and had a sharp eye for the main chance, she would make -the better wife to a practical farmer. He would in all probability get -on well enough with her when she became his aunt, but meanwhile life was -too full of congenial work and ever-growing interest to admit of his -wasting time in improving his acquaintance with the future Mrs. Sharpe. - -He had thrown himself into his new pursuits with characteristic energy, -and found them daily more and more engrossing. He possessed a gift not -often to be met with in the cultivator of the soil—a love of Nature for -her own sake—a sympathy with her moods, not from the practical, but from -the poetical standpoint. Clouds and sunlight, frosts and dew, meant more -to him than to his brother-toiler; the very odour of the damp earth, the -fragrance of the bursting buds in copse and hedgerow, of the crushed -herbage beneath his feet, intoxicated him. The homely thud of the -horses’ hoofs as they trod the furrow, the ripping up of the green sod as -he drove the plough through it, the mere consciousness of his own vigour -and life and manhood dominating this solitude, filled him with a kind of -ecstasy. ‘This is what I want,’ he had said to himself over and over -again that morning; ‘this is what I have always wanted!’ - -He had finished his breakfast now, but he permitted himself the luxury of -repose for a few moments longer. He threw himself back on the bank, his -head resting on his clasped hands, and his eyes gazing up, up, through -the interlacing boughs of the trees, outlined now with shifting silver in -the morning light, through the ethereal leafage, still half unfolded, up -to the heights of delicate blue beyond. He had fancied that there was -not much breeze this morning; yet, as he lay thus quiet he could hear a -faint rustling in the undergrowth, and the occasional crackling of -twigs—a squirrel perhaps; but when was a wood known to be absolutely -still? Besides the incidental noises attending the passage of living -things—flying, running, creeping—the creaking and swaying of boughs, the -fluttering of leaves, had not such places a mysterious movement and -vitality of their own? Was there not always a stir, a whisper, in their -midst produced by no ostensible cause? - -Smiling upwards, his head still pillowed on his hands, Richard was -meditating on some half-forgotten page of Thoreau which seemed to bear -upon this fancy of his, when suddenly a woman’s figure appeared on the -crest of the bank close to him, and without warning sprang down beside -him. Rosalie Fiander, with the skirt of her print gown gathered up so as -to form a receptacle for the mass of primroses which she had been -gathering, and the fragrance of which was now wafted to Richard’s -nostrils—Rosalie Fiander, with minute dewdrops clinging to her dark hair, -with morning roses on her cheeks, and the morning light shining in her -eyes—a vision of grace and beauty, more captivating even than the glowing -pictured Rosalie of the cornfield or the stately heroine of Yellowham -Woods. - -Richard sat up, the colour rushing over his sunburnt face; he had -divested himself of hat and coat, his waistcoat hung loosely open, and -his shirt was unfastened at the throat. For a moment Rosalie did not -identify him; then, as he slowly rose to his feet, she too blushed. - -‘I beg your pardon; I did not know anyone was here. I had a half-hour to -spare before breakfast and ran out to pick some primroses. This is my -wood, you know,’ she added hastily; ‘I am not trespassing unless when I -take a short cut home across your uncle’s field.’ - -Ploughman Richard, with his bare brown arms and ruffled head, was not at -all alarming. She scarcely recognised in him the trim, severe young man -who had called on her ceremoniously a few weeks before, still less the -mysterious personage who had driven her home from Dorchester, who had -said such strange things, and looked at her so oddly—Isaac Sharpe’s -nephew was just like anybody else after all. Being blithe of heart this -bright spring morning, she smiled on him pleasantly, and, lowering the -folds of her gown, displayed the primroses. - -‘Are they not lovely? I like them better than any other flower—in fact, -I love them. Almost the first thing that I can remember is holding on to -my mother’s finger while she took me up to a bank of primroses; -afterwards, when I grew old enough to pick them for myself, oh, the -delight, each spring, of finding the first primrose!’ - -Now, curiously enough, the gay tone and easy manner had the effect of -filling Richard with wrath; the very grace of her attitude, the -child-like candour of her eyes were to him obnoxious, the more so because -he could not repress a momentary thrill of admiration. He knew how much -they were worth; he knew the sordid nature beneath this attractive -disguise. - -‘Primroses are fine things,’ he said, with assumed carelessness. ‘You -should have picked some before the nineteenth; then you would have had a -good sale for them.’ - -‘But I don’t want to sell them,’ cried she, her white teeth flashing out -as she laughed, and the dimples coming and going. ‘I picked them for -myself—I shall fill every vase in the house. Primroses should never be -sold; those you see in the streets look so miserable, all huddled -together with their dear little faces crushed and faded, and even their -scent gone! It seems a sin to sell primroses.’ - -‘Yes, particularly as I don’t suppose they fetch a big price in the -market.’ - -She had gathered up a bunch in one hand, and now raised it to her soft -cheek. - -‘They are like satin,’ she said. - -Somehow the gesture and the smile which accompanied it provoked Richard -beyond endurance. - -‘They are pretty little yellow things,’ he said, ‘but not worth the -attention of practical people. There are other yellow things more -deserving of admiration—rolls of beautiful fresh butter, for instance; -fine round cheeses!—The beauty of these is that they can be exchanged for -still finer yellow things—golden coin, Mrs. Fiander, that is the only -yellow thing really worth thinking about.’ - -‘Are you so fond of money?’ she asked innocently; and once more she laid -the dew-drenched flowers caressingly against her cheek. How could she -look so guileless; how had she the face to turn the tables on him thus; -above all, how dared she be so beautiful! He had almost succeeded in -forgetting his transitory hallucination; he wanted to ignore her -charm—and here she was tantalising him afresh. - -‘Are we not all fond of money?’ he said, with a forced laugh. ‘Are not -you fond of money?’ - -‘Am I?’ queried she; and the blue eyes glanced up with genuine -astonishment. - -‘Why, of course you are! We’re all fond of it, I say. We men toil for -it: we sell our brains for it—we sell our strength and power, and the -best years of our lives for it. And you women—’ - -He paused. Rosalie, surprised at his vehemence, but still half amused, -inquired lightly: - -‘Well, what do we do? Take care of it when we’ve got it, and do without -it when we have n’t?’ - -‘Not always,’ he added; and this time there was no mistaking the -deliberate insolence of his tone. ‘Sometimes a woman sells herself when -she has n’t got it, and sometimes, mistrusting her own powers of -management, she invites other people to take care of it for her.’ - -There was a dead silence for a moment. Richard, fixing his merciless -gaze upon her face, saw the colour ebb from it, leaving the very lips -white. His shot had struck home—he was glad of it. - -‘What do you mean?’ said Rosalie at last, lifting her eyes, which she had -involuntarily lowered, and looking at him steadily. - -‘I think you must know what I mean,’ he returned, with a smile almost -insulting in its contemptuousness. - -‘Why should you attack me?’ she inquired, without flinching, though her -large eyes looked pathetic in their surprise and pain. - -‘Am I attacking you? I am merely stating facts. When a penniless young -girl marries a prosperous old man one is bound to conclude that his money -is the chief attraction, and when that same girl, finding herself a few -years later rich and free, offers herself for the second time to a man -forty years older than herself—’ - -‘Offers herself?’ cried Rosalie, turning upon him fiercely while the -blood returned impetuously to her face; ‘how dare you say such an -insulting thing to me?’ - -‘Is it not true?’ he inquired. ‘I have the statement on most excellent -authority.’ - -Rosalie dropped her flower-laden skirt, a yellow shower falling at her -feet, and buried her face in her hands. - -‘Oh,’ she groaned, ‘Isaac told you that! He—he said—oh, how could he!’ - -The beautiful shoulders heaved, tears trickled through her fingers, but -Richard steeled his heart against her. Let her suffer—let her cry! -These selfish tears could not expiate the things that she had done. -Tears and subterfuges were woman’s natural weapons, but they should not -avail her. She should be made to realise her own vileness. - -‘Do you deny it?’ he said sternly. - -Rosalie dropped her hands, and raised her head: her lip was still -quivering, but her eyes shone through the tears. - -‘I deny nothing,’ she said; and without another word walked away from -him, down the slope, and across the field, passing through a gate at the -further end. - -Richard stood looking after her until she was out of sight; then his eyes -reverted to the heap of primroses lying at his feet—a tumbled heap, -sweet, and dewy, and fresh—just as they had fallen from her gown. - -Mechanically he stooped and began to gather them together, but presently -he threw back again the flowers he had picked up. - -‘What should I do with them?’ he murmured, half aloud. Straightening -himself he passed his hand across his brow, and looked round him with a -blank stare. ‘What have I done?’ he said. - - - -CHAPTER V - - - Colin, the grass was grey and wet the sod - O’er which I heard her velvet footfall come; - But heaven, where yet no pallid crescent rode, - Flowered in fire behind the bloomless plum; - There stirred no wing nor wind, the wood was dumb, - Only blown roses shook their leaves abroad - On stems more tender than an infant’s thumb— - Soft leaves, soft hued, and curled like Cupid’s lip— - And each dim tree shed sweetness over me, - From honey-dews that breathless boughs let slip - In the orchard by the sea. - - ELINOR SWEETMAN. - -‘YE bain’t sich very good company to-night, Richard,’ remarked Mr. -Sharpe, laying down his knife and fork, and gazing critically at his -nephew. ‘Nay, I can’t say as ye be. You have n’t opened your mouth -since we sat down, except just to put a bit into it now and again, and -not too often neither. Ye bain’t eatin’ nothing to speak on, an’ ye have -n’t a word to throw to a dog. What’s amiss?’ - -‘Why—nothing,’ returned Richard, rousing himself with a startled look -from the brown study into which he had fallen. ‘I suppose I am tired,’ -he added, as an afterthought. - -‘Ah, very like ye be,’ agreed the farmer commiseratingly. ‘It just -depends on what a man’s used to how soon he gets knocked up. You be used -to town, an’ travellin’, and that, and when you come back to the -ploughin’ it tries you a bit to start wi’. ’T is just the other way wi’ -I; I’m used to the country, d’ ye see, and when I do have to go to -town—to Dorchester, or Weymouth, or any big place like that—Lard, I do -get mortal tired! Walkin’ them streets, now, and lookin’ in at the -shop-winders—dear heart alive, it makes me so weary as I could very nigh -drop down in the middle of ’em! As for travellin’—goin’ in trains an’ -sich-like—it do make me so stiff I can scarce lay legs to the ground when -I do ’light from ’em. But I dare say you found it a hardish bit o’ work -turnin’ up the big field yonder?’ - -His nephew made no response, and Isaac bawled out the question afresh. - -The young man, who had been absently balancing a fork on his fore-finger, -started, and replied hastily that he had n’t found it at all hard—at -least—yes, perhaps rather hard, but very pleasant; and he liked the work. - -Isaac took a farewell pull at his pint mug, set it down, and pushed his -plate away. - -‘Draw up to the fire, lad,’ he said, ‘and smoke your pipe quick, and then -turn in—ye bain’t fit for nothin’ but bed.’ - -‘No, no,’ returned Richard hastily, as he rose, ‘I could not go to bed -yet—it is not much past eight. I don’t think I’ll sit down by the -fire—I’ll go out for a stroll to stretch my legs.’ - -‘Stretch your legs!’ commented his uncle indignantly. ‘Ha’n’t ye -stretched them enough to-day already? You’ve a-worked hard enough for -two men.’ - -‘No remedy so good as a hair of the dog that bit you, you know,’ said -Richard. ‘A brisk turn will take the stiffness off, and it is a lovely -evening.’ - -‘Lard, how restless these young chaps do be!’ ejaculated Isaac, as he -scraped his chair across the tiled floor to the hearth; ‘a body mid think -he’d be glad enough to set down for a bit. I’ll engage he’ll find it -hard enough to turn out to-morrow morn.’ - -When Richard had proceeded a little way he paused, and drew a long -breath; then, wheeling round swiftly, began to retrace his steps, brought -himself to a stand-still for the second time, his hands clenched, his -eyes fixed; finally, crying aloud: ‘I will do it—I must do it!’ He -turned once more, and pursued his former course. - -The sun had set some time before, but the heavens were still luminous; -the rosy glow which lingered at the horizon merging into soft primrose, -which in its turn melted into an exquisite ethereal green. Against this -lambent background the hills and woods stood out darkly purple, while the -little copses scattered here and there upon the downs, and the hedge at -the further end, appeared to be almost black. Little parties of his -uncle’s sheep scurried out of Richard’s way, a bell tinkling here and -there among them; birds flew almost into his face as he passed the groups -of trees before alluded to; when he forced his way through the hedge a -trailing tendril of honeysuckle, wet with the heavy dew, flapped against -his face; every now and then a rabbit crossed his path, its passage -scarcely noticeable in the dusk save for the flash of its little white -tail. There must have been thyme growing on or about those downs, for -its fragrance was strong in the air. Richard did not, however, pause to -inhale it—it is even doubtful if he noticed it; yet, when by-and-by -entering Rosalie’s fields he skirted a bank overgrown with primroses, -their perfume for a moment turned him almost faint. - -Here was the house at last—how quiet at this hour! Nothing seemed to be -stirring; no one was about. - -Susan appeared in answer to a somewhat tremulous knock, and informed him -that her mistress was in the garden. - -‘I’ll soon call her,’ she added. - -‘No, no,’ he returned quickly. ‘I will go to her—I only want to see her -for a moment.’ - -Who knew? She might refuse to obey the summons; it was best to come upon -her without warning. - -‘Round to the left,’ explained Susan; ‘the path leads you up to the -gate.’ - -Following her directions, and passing through the little wicket, Richard -presently found himself in the walled enclosure which had once been the -Manor House garden, for Littlecomb had been the dower house of a noble -family; along the straight prim paths stately ladies had loved to pace, -and the lavender hedge which was Rosalie’s pride had been the pride of -many a titled dame before her. It was more of a pleasant wilderness than -a garden now, having been neglected by Elias and his predecessors on the -farm; but Rosalie was endeavouring to reclaim it, and already had made -progress with the work. Richard, walking slowly onward, glanced -anxiously down the dim alleys, and peered into various overgrown bowers. -At length, amid a mass of distant greenery, he descried a moving figure, -and, quickening his pace, advanced towards it. The afterglow had now -almost faded, and the moon had not yet risen; here beneath these high -walls and amid this dense growth everything looked shadowy and unreal. - -He would scarcely have distinguished which was path and which was -flower-border had he not been guided towards the spot where she stood by -a double line of white pinks. Now a blossom-laden apple-bough barred his -progress; now he passed beneath an arch of monthly roses, brushing off -the moisture from leaf and bloom as he went. - -All at once Rosalie’s voice called through the dusk: - -‘Is that you, Susan? Come here for a moment; I want you to hold this -branch.’ - -Richard made no reply, but hastened on. The shadowy figure turned, and -he saw the pale silhouette of her face. She was standing beneath a great -bush laden with white blossoms, which from their size and perfume he -judged to be lilac; she had drawn down a branch and was endeavouring to -detach one of the clustering blooms. - -‘Who is it?’ she said quickly. - -‘It is I,’ he returned. - -She loosed the branch, which flew rustling up to join its fellows, and -made a step forward; he could see her face more clearly now; the gleam of -her white teeth between her parted lips; he even fancied that he could -detect an angry sparkle in her eyes. - -‘Why do you come here?’ she said. ‘Here at least I supposed myself -safe.’ - -‘I came,’ replied Richard, in an unsteady voice, ‘to beg your pardon most -humbly, most sincerely, for my conduct to you to-day.’ - -‘It was inexcusable,’ she said, after a pause. It seemed to him that she -was breathing quickly—perhaps with a just and natural anger. - -‘I do not attempt to excuse it,’ he murmured. - -‘I cannot even understand it,’ she pursued. ‘What had I done to you? -How do my private concerns affect you?’ - -There was a long silence, and then Richard said, almost in a whisper: - -‘I can make no excuse—I think I must have been mad! When I came to -myself I felt—as if I could kill myself for my brutality to you. All day -the shame of it has been eating into my soul—I feel branded, disgraced! -I cannot rest until you tell me you have forgiven me.’ - -There was silence again, broken only by the faint warbling of a thrush -singing to his mate in the warm dusk. - -‘You ask a great deal,’ said Rosalie at last. ‘I scarcely know how I can -forgive you.’ - -She saw the dark figure sway a little, but he spoke quietly: - -‘I can only say that I would give my life to recall those insulting words -of mine.’ - -‘Words!’ she repeated. ‘Words count for little! That you should think -of me thus—that you should judge me so harshly!’ - -He said nothing; the thrush sang on, the liquid notes rising and falling -with almost unendurable sweetness. - -Then, ‘I entreat you!’ he pleaded once more. ‘I entreat you to forgive -me!’ - -She stretched out her hand in silence, and he took it without a word; it -was cold, very cold, and it trembled. - -She drew it away almost as soon as his fingers had closed upon it, and he -turned and went away, his footsteps falling with unaccustomed heaviness -on the little path; and presently the gate swung to behind him. - -Isaac was sitting by the dying fire, a foot resting on either hob, and -surrounded by a haze of tobacco-smoke, when his nephew entered. He -looked towards Richard with an aggrieved expression as he crossed the -room. - -‘Well, them there legs o’ yourn should be pretty well stretched by now. -I was wonderin’ whether you were comin’ back at all to-night. Where have -ye been all this while?’ - -Richard hesitated, and then, throwing back his head, answered -deliberately: - -‘I’ve been to see Mrs. Fiander.’ - -‘What! to Littlecomb at this time o’ night! What ever took ’ee there so -late?’ - -‘Why, to tell you the truth, I went to make an apology to Mrs. Fiander. -She came across the top field to-day when I was ploughing, and I said -something which hurt her feelings—in fact, I offended her very much, and -I felt I could not rest to-night without begging her pardon.’ - -‘Oh,’ said the farmer, and then paused, eyes and mouth round with -astonished concern. ‘Well,’ he continued presently, ‘I’m glad as ye -’polygised. I’m very glad as ye ’polygised, Richard. ’Ees, that was -very well done of ’ee. But what did you go for to offend her for?’ - -He leaned forward, anxious wrinkles still furrowing his brow, and -puckering up his mouth as though he was going to whistle. By-and-by, -indeed, he did actually whistle under his breath and without any regard -for tune. Richard, meanwhile, stood looking down into the fire as though -he had not heard the question. - -‘Eh?’ hinted his uncle at last. - -‘Oh, I beg your pardon! I can’t think, I’m sure, how I came to forget -myself so. I was out of temper, I suppose.’ - -‘Ah,’ commented the farmer. ‘Well, I can say truly as she and me ha’ -never had a word, not since I knowed her. Nay, not so much as one word! -We did al’ays get on wonderful well in ’Lias’ time, and now I do really -think as we gets on better than ever.’ - -‘So you ought to,’ said Richard, a trifle irritably; then he added in a -softer tone: ‘I don’t believe anyone could quarrel with you, Uncle -Isaac.’ - -‘Well, d’ ye see,’ explained Isaac, waving his pipe impressively, ‘even -if I was a quarrelsome man—which I bain’t—I never should ax to quarrel -wi’ she. I’m oncommon fond o’ Mrs. F.!’ - -To this Richard made no rejoinder. Stretching out his foot he pushed the -logs together, and then stood looking down at them again. - -‘I’m sorry, Richard, as ye should ha’ hurt her feelings,’ went on the -farmer, after ruminating for some time in evident distress of mind. ‘Ah, -I be very sorry for that, but ye could n’t do no more nor ’polygise; nay, -ye could n’t do more nor that. I’m glad ye did ’polygise, Richard.’ - -‘So am I,’ said Richard huskily; adding, with the same irritation which -he had previously displayed: ‘Not that it makes much difference one way -or the other.’ - -‘’T is a bad thing,’ went on the farmer, ‘for to hurt a woman’s feelin’s -in the beginning of acquaintance; it makes a bad start, d’ ye see? It do -rouse up notions as they’d maybe never ha’ thought on if they was n’t -crossed in the beginning. Now my poor mother—your grandmother, -Richard—she did have sich tender feelin’s there was no livin’ in th’ -house wi’ her. And my father—ah, I’ve heard ’en tell the tale many a -time—he did always set it down to his not havin’ been careful to keep the -right side o’ her when they was a-coortin’. ’Twas this way, d’ ye see? -My father was a bit of a buck in his day, an’ a’most up to the time when -he had his banns put up wi’ my mother he liked to have his fling, d’ye -see? He’d walk o’ one Sunday wi’ one maid, and the next maybe he’d go -along wi’ another; and the third maybe he’d go a-fishin’, and there’d be -my poor mother wi’ her best bonnet on all the time a-lookin’ out for ’en -so anxious. And she got that upset in her feelin’s, and that nervous, ye -know, that she was n’t the better for it all her life after. Ah, I’ve -heard my father say often when she’d scratched his face for him, or -thrown his hat into the wash-tub, “’T is my own fault,” he ’d say, “I did -n’t use to consider her feelin’s as a young ’un, and her feelin’s is -a-comin’ agen me now.”’ - -Isaac shook his head slowly over this affecting reminiscence, and -restored his pipe to its favourite corner. Richard said nothing for a -moment, but presently turned towards his uncle with a smile. - -‘Don’t you be afraid, Uncle Isaac. Mrs. Fiander’s temper is perfect, I -am sure. I was entirely in fault to-day, and I will promise most -faithfully not to do anything which might disturb your peace of mind in -future.’ - -Though he spoke with assumed lightness, there was an earnest look in his -eyes. - - - -CHAPTER VI - - - Some friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: - Then heigh, ho, the holly! - This life is most jolly! - - SHAKESPEARE. - -WHEN Sunday came round Isaac Sharpe surprised his nephew by inviting him -to accompany him on his usual visit to Littlecomb. - -‘I don’t think you want me,’ said Richard, colouring and hesitating; ‘I -should only be in the way. Two are company, and three are none, you -know.’ - -‘Nay now, ’t is a silly notion that. “The more the merrier,” I say. -Besides, I have particular reasons for wanting you to come to-day. You -and Mrs. F. have n’t met since that night as ye ’polygised, have ye?’ - -‘No,’ said Richard. - -‘And I noticed you hung behind when I was talkin’ to her arter church -this mornin’. Was ’ee ashamed o’ meetin’ her?’ - -‘That’s about it,’ said Richard. - -‘Nay, but that will never do. If ye go on a-hangin’ back, and a-keepin’ -out o’ her way, things will get awk’arder and awk’arder a-tween ye. Now, -take my advice and come along wi’ I quite quiet and nat’ral; it’ll all -pass off so easy as ye could wish. Just drop in same as myself. I want -’ee to be friends.’ - -‘Well, I can’t refuse if you put it like that,’ said Marshall. And the -two sallied forth together. - -In spite of Mr. Sharpe’s prognostication, there was decidedly a little -awkwardness about the young people’s meeting. Rosalie greeted Richard -somewhat stiffly, and invited him with formal politeness to take a seat. - -‘’T is a fine day,’ began Isaac, as he installed himself in the -high-backed elbow-chair which had now become his by consecrated right. -Rosalie responded hastily that it was a very fine day. - -‘Ah,’ remarked the farmer, with a covert note of warning in his voice, -‘my nevvy was a-sayin’ as we come along that it was a wonderful fine day -for the time o’ year—did n’t ’ee, Richard?’ - -As it happened to be the time of year when fine days were not uncommon, -this alleged observation would not have testified to any extraordinary -perspicacity on Richard’s part; but as a matter of fact it was entirely -fictitious. Nevertheless the young man did not repudiate it. - -‘Yes,’ he said, with his eyes on the floor; ‘yes, to be sure.’ - -‘Did n’t ’ee find it oncommon warm in church, Mrs. F.?’ pursued Mr. -Sharpe, after a short silence. - -‘Yes, I did,’ agreed she. ‘I was longing for someone to open the door.’ - -‘Mrs. F. d’ say,’ cried Isaac, turning to his nephew with an explanatory -bawl, which was intended to stimulate him to further efforts at -conversation—‘Mrs. F. d’ say, Richard, as she found it oncommon warm in -church.’ - -Richard’s eyes travelled slowly from the carpet to his uncle’s face, -where they rested; for the life of him he could not muster courage to -move them to the blooming face on the other side. - -‘Oh,’ he commented faintly, ‘did she?’ - -‘’Ees,’ said Isaac emphatically; ‘do ’ee ax her—’ Here he jerked his -thumb significantly in Rosalie’s direction. ‘She d’ say as she was -a-wishin’ as somebody ’ud open the door—did n’t ’ee, my dear?’ - -‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rosalie. - -‘Ah, she’ll tell ’ee about that, Richard,’ went on Isaac; and his -enormous boot came slowly sliding across the floor till it reached -Richard’s foot, which it proceeded to kick in an admonitory fashion. -‘Jist ax her about that—If ye’d ha’ known she was wantin’ the door open -you’d ha’ opened it fast enough for Mrs. F., would n’t ’ee, Richard?’ - -‘Certainly,’ responded Marshall, with his eyes still glued on his uncle’s -face. - -‘Ah, you can jist talk about that,’ hinted the latter, as he proceeded to -search in his pocket for his pipe. - -A dead silence ensued. Isaac looked from one to the other, and the -perspiration stood upon his brow. His strenuous efforts had exhausted -him, but the desired consummation seemed just as far off as ever. - -‘Have you got your tobacco-box, Uncle Isaac?’ inquired the dutiful nephew -presently. - -‘Let me give you a light,’ said Rosalie. - -There they were again! What was the good of their talking to him? He -wanted them to talk to each other. - -‘Richard,’ said Isaac, after sucking for a moment at his pipe—when -Rosalie applied the match a flash of inspiration had come to -him—‘Richard, my boy, ye have n’t been round this here farm since ye come -home, have ’ee?’ - -‘No,’ said Richard; ‘but I know it well of old.’ - -‘Ah, but there’s been improvement since ye left—there’s been a many -improvements. Ye’d better take him round, Mrs. F., and show him all -what’s been done the last few years. He be oncommon fond o’ stretching -his legs—Richard be—and it’ll just suit him—won’t it, Richard?’ - -Richard stammered confusedly that he should like it of all things. - -‘And you be a wonderful one for fresh air yourself, Mrs. F.,’ went on the -diplomatist. ‘Jist take ’en out and show ’en everything, there’s a good -soul.’ - -Rosalie had risen willingly enough, for she had found the previous -constraint exceedingly uncomfortable; but she now paused hesitatingly. - -‘Are n’t you coming, Mr. Sharpe?’ - -‘Nay, my dear, I’ll stay where I be. ’T is very comfortable here i’ th’ -chimney corner, and I bain’t so young as I was, d’ ye see? Nay, you two -young folks can go out and freshen yourselves up a bit, and make -acquaintance; and the wold man will bide at home, and smoke his pipe, and -be ready for tea when you come back.’ - -He nodded at them both with an air of finality, and twisted round his -chair so as to present to their gaze a large and inflexible back. - -‘Well, then, we had better start if we are to be back by tea-time,’ said -Rosalie, a little sharply; and Richard took up his hat, and followed her -out in silence. - -The whole place was wrapped in Sabbath stillness; milking was over, and a -distant line of red and dappled cows was vanishing down the lane, -followed by one or two of the dairy ‘chaps,’ with white pinners -protecting their Sunday clothes. Save for the calves, which thrust their -blunt, moist noses through the bars of their enclosure, and the fowl -cackling lazily as they lay sunning themselves in the angle of the barn, -the barton was absolutely deserted. - -‘We drained the big mead four years ago,’ said Rosalie, ‘and threw the -twenty-acre into it; ’t is beautiful pasture now. Would you like to see -it?’ - -Richard hurriedly expressed a desire to that effect, and the two betook -themselves in silence along a narrow farm-track to the rear of the house, -which led to the field in question. They walked with the breadth of the -lane between them, and in unbroken silence; their eyes, by common accord, -gazing straight in front, and both secretly rebelling against the -expedient which Isaac had deemed so happily devised. At length they came -to a gate set in the hedge, and turned to look over it. A great green -expanse stretched away before their gaze, meeting the sky-line on one -side where it sloped upwards, and melting on the other into the lighter, -more delicate green of springing corn; beyond were the woods, which, as -well as the low line of hills behind them, were covered by a gentle haze. - -Richard leaned his elbows on the topmost rail of the gate, and his face -gradually cleared as his eyes roamed over the landscape. - -This county of Dorset has given birth to more than one great writer of -lowly origin, whose early nurture amid field, and heath, and woodland has -fostered an intimate and loving sympathy with Nature, to which each in -turn has given exquisite expression. Richard Marshall, born of the same -sturdy peasant stock, brought up amid the same pastoral surroundings, -possessed a somewhat kindred spirit, though he was denied this gift of -expression. Yet the inglorious rustic Milton was not always mute; he had -read so much, and meditated so much, and, above all, felt so deeply, that -at times something of what he thought and felt struggled to his lips and -found vent in words, inadequate, indeed, but suggestive. - -‘How beautiful it all is!’ he said, turning to Rosalie, with a very -poet’s rapture in his eyes. ‘It seems to fill one like music.’ - -‘Yet I suppose you have seen far finer sights during your travels,’ -returned she, speaking naturally for the first time, as she too leaned -over the gate. - -‘Finer things? Oh, yes, perhaps; but this homely beauty touches me as no -other sight could do. Something about a great sketch of green like this -always affects me curiously. I love these wide fields.’ - -‘Yes, I remember your saying so,’ said Rosalie. The ice was broken now -and she could talk to him freely, even taking courage to broach a subject -which had much occupied her thoughts lately. ‘You told me, you know, how -pleased you were at the sight of the cornfield in—in my picture.’ - -He did not turn towards her, and continued to scan the mead; but over his -brown face she saw the colour rush quickly. - -‘Oh, yes,’ he said; ‘of course I remember telling you about it.’ - -‘I wanted to ask you was—was the picture a very large one; and was it -well painted?’ - -‘Yes, very large indeed, and beautifully painted. There was an iron -railing in front of it because people pressed round it so. I was told it -was the picture of the year.’ - -‘Was it?’ cried Rosalie; and at the note of delight in her voice he -turned and looked at her with a smile. Her cheeks were pink with -excitement, her eyes shining. ‘Oh!’ she cried, with a sigh of longing, -‘I would give anything to see it.’ - -‘I have a little print of it here,’ returned he impulsively; ‘I cut it -out of a paper. It will give you some idea of it, though of course a -very poor one.’ - -In another moment he partly withdrew from its enclosure the print in -question, holding the envelope firmly in his own hand, however, so that -the charred margin was hidden. - -‘See,’ he said, pointing with his disengaged hand, ‘there is your -house—over there in the corner, and here are your men, and here, under -the piled-up sheaves, are you. But of course the figure in the picture -is far more like you.’ - -‘I see,’ said Rosalie. ‘Yes, it must be a nice picture; and you say it -is beautifully done?’ - -‘It is beautifully done. It is so real, so vivid, that I felt as if I -could walk into the picture. These sheaves stand out so that one might -think it easy to pass behind them.’ - -He glanced up as he said these words, and was surprised to see Rosalie -colour almost to the temples. His own heart gave a sudden throb. Was it -possible that she had divined the audacious thought which had so often -come to him as he recalled that picture, and which, since his uncle’s -revelations, he had resolutely striven to banish? - -As a matter of fact there did happen to be a certain similarity between -this thought of his and that which had caused Rosalie to change colour. -For there had flashed across her mind the remembrance of the unknown -artist’s words: ‘Perhaps if I come across a very attractive specimen of a -rustic I may place him just behind the stook.’ - -‘This is the name underneath, I suppose?’ she said hastily. ‘What is the -picture called? I cannot see from here.’ - -‘It is called “A Sleeping Beauty,”’ returned Richard. - -She was dumb for a moment, hot waves of colour rushing over brow and -neck. What was it the man had said last year? ‘You will wake up some -day, my beauty.’ Words of ill omen! They had often tantalised and -tormented her, but now, as they recurred to her, her heart seemed to -stand still. Ashamed of her burning face, on which the young man’s eyes -were now fixed, and of the agitation which she could not master, she -suddenly bent forward confusedly. - -‘What is the name of the painter? Let me look.’ - -Before Richard could divine her intention she had snatched the print from -his hand, its black and jagged edges immediately catching her eye. - -‘Why,’ she said in an altered tone—‘why, it is burnt.’ - -It was now Richard’s turn to look confused. ‘I began to burn it, but -repented of my intention.’ - -‘You wanted to burn it,’ said Rosalie, ‘because you were so angry with -me. Why were you so angry with me? Was it because of—of what your uncle -told you?’ - -‘Yes.’ - -‘I know he did not mean to do me harm,’ said Rosalie tremulously, ‘but I -don’t think he—he can have made you understand properly. Everything was -going wrong, and—and I was so much bothered; I found I could not manage -by myself, and he had been my poor Elias’s friend’—she was beginning to -sob now—‘and I knew I could trust him not to do anything Elias would n’t -have liked, and—oh, it is so difficult to explain!’ - -‘Pray do not try to explain,’ said Richard very gently. - -‘But you should n’t misjudge me as you do,’ cried she, and then burst -into tears. - -‘I do not misjudge you now,’ said Richard in a low voice. ‘Oh, don’t -cry! I assure you I understand. You have been quite right—quite right -all along.’ - -The big tearful blue eyes looked at him over the crumpled handkerchief. - -‘But you said—you said I sold myself,’ she gasped. ‘You should n’t have -said that! I loved my husband.’ - -‘I am sure you did,’ said Richard gravely and tenderly. - -‘Yes, indeed I did. I loved him from the first. He was like a father to -me.’ - -‘Yes, yes,’ said Richard, and he looked at her with an odd mixture of -wonder and compassion. - -‘He was just as kind and dotingly fond of me as my own dear granfer.’ - -‘To be sure,’ said Richard. ‘Yes; no wonder you loved him.’ - -Something in his tone caused Rosalie to pull down her handkerchief and to -cast a keen glance at him. - -‘Why do you look at me like that?’ she said passionately. - -‘Was I looking at you in any particular way?’ returned he, averting his -eyes quickly. - -‘Yes, you were. You were looking at me as if you were sorry for me! How -dare you be sorry for me?’ - -‘Were you not telling me,’ he said quietly, ‘how much you felt the loss -of your good old husband?’ - -‘You know it was not that,’ she retorted. ‘You looked at me as if I were -a child who had no sense—as if I did not know what I was saying.’ - -‘Did I?’ said Richard. ‘I beg your pardon.’ - -‘Is that what you really think of me?’ pursued she, her eyes full of -wrathful fire, though the tears were still standing on her cheeks. -‘Answer me—I insist on your answering me!’ - -Richard’s gaze had been fixed on the little print which she was holding, -and Rosalie, marking this, had felt an increase of indignation. Did he -dare to share the opinion which the artist had so impertinently -pronounced? Rousing himself, however, he turned towards her, and their -eyes met. - -‘I do think,’ he said, ‘that you know very little of life. Perhaps it is -all the better for you. The fruit of the tree of knowledge is nearly -always bitter—and sometimes it is poisonous.’ - -Rosalie was about to make a very angry rejoinder when the sound of steps -close to them made them both suddenly start; on looking round they beheld -a loving couple, such as are so frequently to be met with in rural -districts on Sunday afternoons, sauntering down the lane. - -Rosalie hastily restored her handkerchief to her pocket, and again leaned -over the gate, endeavouring to assume a careless attitude; but she was -secretly much annoyed, for the young man who was so gallantly escorting a -much befringed and beribboned lady was no other than Sam Belbin. At any -other time she would have been somewhat amused on discovering how soon -her lowly admirer had consoled himself. He was working at Branston now, -and his companion was evidently a townswoman; but that he should come on -her just then, in the midst of her tears and wrath, with Richard Marshall -in such close proximity, was most vexatious. - -Sam stared hard as he approached, taking in, as Rosalie felt though she -did not again look towards him, every compromising detail of the -situation. When they had passed on he made some facetious remark to the -girl on whose arm he was hanging, to which she responded by loud -laughter. - -The little incident impressed Rosalie disagreeably: she turned to Richard -petulantly, holding out the little print which had been the cause of so -much agitation. - -‘You had better finish burning this,’ she said. - -‘Perhaps I had,’ returned he, with unexpected docility. - -Isaac looked so placid and cheery when they entered, and greeted them -with so bright a smile, that Rosalie was conscious of a sudden rush of -remorse. - -Going up to him she placed her hand upon his shoulder, a caress which -astonished its recipient mightily, for he was not accustomed to -endearments from her. Rosalie kept her hand there, however, glancing -defiantly at Richard the while, as though to say, ‘You are wrong in -thinking me so ignorant; see how I love and appreciate this good man;’ -and Richard smiled back kindly, as if replying, ‘I see it, indeed, and I -am glad that you are content.’ - -‘Well,’ said Isaac, squinting down sideways at Rosalie’s hand. ‘Well, -Mrs. F., did you take ’en all over the place?’ - -‘I took Mr. Marshall to see the big mead,’ returned she, a little -doubtfully. - -‘Ah, I’m sure he thought that improved. Well, and then you took ’en up -to see the root crop?’ - -‘No—no, we did n’t go there; we did n’t like to go too far, as you were -here by yourself.’ - -‘Why, I were all right.’ Here Isaac slowly lifted the shoulder on which -Rosalie’s hand still lingered, and again glanced down at it. As, taking -the hint, she withdrew it, he gently rubbed the place where it had -rested. - -‘You took ’en down to the carnfield, though,’ he continued. ‘I’ll engage -he thought them oats was a-comin’ on wonderful.’ - -But they had not been to the cornfield, it appeared, nor yet to see the -potatoes, nor round by the vegetable garden, nor through the orchard; -they had just been to the big mead and back. - -‘Well,’ commented Mr. Sharpe, gazing at them in amazement, ‘ye must ha’ -walked oncommon slow!’ - -‘We stood for some time looking at the view,’ said Richard, seeing -Rosalie somewhat confounded. - -‘Lookin’ at the view, eh?’ echoed his uncle. ‘There bain’t any view to -speak on from the mead. If you’d ha’ gone a bit further up the lane and -turned the corner ye’d ha’ had a beautiful view o’ Branston. But if you -enj’yed yourselves it’s all right.’ - -He wheeled round in his chair as he made this last remark, and looked -from one to the other of the young folks. Both faces were alike -downcast, and somewhat paler than usual. After a moment’s scrutiny Isaac -became as crestfallen as they. - -‘So long as you enj’yed yourselves,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So long as -ye’ve a-made friends—I want ’ee to be friends, d’ ye see?’ - -Rosalie and Richard glanced at each other. He read in her face a kind of -antagonism mingled with fear, and dropped his eyes quickly lest they -might betray the anguish and longing with which his heart was full to -bursting. - -‘I want ’ee to be friends, d’ ye see?’ repeated the farmer anxiously and -pleadingly. ‘There’s me and you, Mrs. F., as friendly as can be; and -there’s you and me, Richard—you’re much the same’s a son to me, bain’t -ye?—well, then there’s you and Mrs. F., why should n’t ’ee be friendly -wi’ her?’ - -Richard, to whom the question was directed, remained dumb. _Friends_! -Could they ever be friends? - -Rosalie, however, made a step forward and extended her hand. - -‘Why should we not, indeed?’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, Isaac, we -have done nothing but quarrel since we first met each other, which was -very silly and unreasonable of us. Now, for your sake I am determined -not to quarrel any more; and for your sake, I think, he too should be -willing to keep the peace.’ - -‘Well said!’ cried Isaac heartily. ‘Well said, Mrs. F.! Now, Richard, -my boy, where’s your hand? Just catch hold o’ Mrs. F.’s. That’s -it—that’s it! Shake it well!’ Here he thumped the arm of his chair -jubilantly. ‘You’ll be the best o’ friends from this day for’ard! Here -we be, we three, friends all! Jist as me and poor ’Lias and Mrs. F. was -friends—dear heart alive! yes, we was friends too—the best o’ friends! -We was three then, and we be three now, bain’t us, Mrs. F.? We three! I -do mind a old song as your poor dear mother used to sing, Richard: - - ‘When shall we three meet agen? - In starm, in zunshine, ar in rain!’ - -Lard, yes, she used to sing it, poor soul! Well, now we be three agen, -bain’t us? Three good friends! So, if you’ll mix the usu’l glass, Mrs. -F., we’ll drink to the bond o’ good fellowship.’ - -‘Yes, of course,’ said Rosalie indistinctly. ‘I forgot all about your -glass, Isaac; I’m so sorry; I’ll see to it at once.’ - -She ran out of the room, glad to make her escape, and Richard sat down -near the hearth. - -Friends! They were to be friends as his uncle, and Elias, and Rosalie -had once been friends! He had felt her hand twitch in his as Isaac had -spoken; to her the proposition was doubtless as distasteful as to him it -was impossible. What was his uncle thinking of? There were some things -which flesh and blood—young flesh and blood—could not brook, and this -triangular bond was one of them. But he would be patient for a little -while; he would choke down his rebellious sense of injury. His secret, -thank Heaven! was secure; neither the guileless Isaac nor Rosalie herself -had the faintest idea of the miserable passion which he was striving so -hard to conquer. What was it she had said? They were to be -friends—friends for his uncle’s sake. His uncle, to whom he owed -everything—his kind, faithful, generous old benefactor. Well, he would -try. - -That night, in the seclusion of his attic room, he once more drew forth -Rosalie’s picture. - -‘Sleep on, Beauty,’ he said. ‘Sleep on in peace! I shall not try to -wake you. Sleep soundly; do not even dream.’ - -And, after a last silent look, he held it steadily in the flame of the -candle, watching its destruction unflinchingly until the last feathery -film dropped from his fingers. - - - -CHAPTER VII - - - And times he saith: ‘Why must man aye forego? - And why is life a nobler thing through pain?’ - And times: ‘Since Love’s sweet apple hangs so low, - Shall I not strongly grasp and count it gain?’ - - ELINOR SWEETMAN. - -For some time after Isaac’s apparently successful peace-making the -friendly relations between the parties concerned remained unbroken. -Richard was frequently sent on messages to Littlecomb, acquitting himself -on these occasions in a strictly business-like manner; and when he -accompanied his uncle thither he made such strenuous efforts to appear at -his ease and to entertain its hostess that Isaac was delighted beyond -measure. - -‘How th’ chap d’ talk!’ he would say sometimes under his breath, with an -admiring nod and wink. ‘Bless me, he d’ talk like prent! I d’ ’low -there is n’t very much as my nevvy don’t know.’ - -Richard, indeed, in his desire to avoid those terrible long silences -which had so much discomposed him during his first visits to Littlecomb, -embarked upon wild flights of fancy, related at length his past -experiences, and delivered his opinion upon men and things with a fluency -which frequently surprised himself. The fact was that he was afraid to -pause; were he to come to a halt when those blue eyes were fixed upon -him, could he ever take up the thread of his discourse again? Even as it -was, the mere consciousness of that intent gaze made him sometimes -falter; but, recovering himself, he would go on with a rush, knowing that -he was making many wild statements, but persevering nevertheless. He was -bound to do all the talking, if talking there must be, for Rosalie was -very silent, and his uncle was at no time garrulous. - -But the harmony of these relations was rudely broken by an unexpected -incident. - -One warm afternoon, early in June, Farmer Sharpe chanced to be standing -by his own gate, gazing abstractedly up and down the lane. Presently he -descried an undersized, narrow-chested figure making its way towards him, -and, as it drew near, recognised Mr. Samuel Cross. - -‘Fine evenin’,’ remarked Isaac, nodding sideways in his direction, and -expecting him to pass on. - -‘A very fine evening, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned Samuel, pausing, and leaning -against the gatepost, with the evident intention of entering into -conversation. ‘The very evenin’ for a quiet walk.’ - -‘Walkin’ bain’t much in my line,’ returned Isaac. ‘Nay, not without I’m -obliged to—seein’ after the men and goin’ round the fields, and across -the downs to look after the sheep; but walkin’—meanin’ goin’ for a walk -jist for pleasure—it bain’t in my line at all.’ - -‘It’s in other people’s line, though,’ said Samuel; and he shot a cunning -glance at the older man out of his little red-rimmed eyes. ‘I met your -nephew strolling up towards Littlecomb just now.’ - -‘Very like ye did,’ agreed Sharpe. ‘He do often go up there on -business.’ - -‘Lucky chap!’ exclaimed Cross. ‘The rest of us don’t often contrive to -make business agree so well with pleasure.’ - -He paused to snigger, and Isaac turned his mild grey eyes inquiringly -upon him. - -‘Nay, Samuel Cross,’ he remarked, ‘I don’t suppose as _you_ do.’ - -The slight stress laid upon the personal pronoun appeared to irritate the -young gentleman, and he replied with a certain acerbity: - -‘There is n’t, as a rule, much pleasure to be found in doing honest -business, Mr. Sharpe.’ - -‘Not among lawyers,’ said Isaac, nodding placidly. ‘So I’ve been told.’ - -‘There’s others besides lawyers, though,’ cried Samuel, ‘as are n’t so -very honest! He! he! You’re a very confiding man, Mr. Sharpe—a very -confiding uncle. ’T is n’t everyone in your situation that would care to -make such a handsome young man his business-manager where a handsome -young woman was concerned. He! he! Your nephew, no doubt, will do the -business thoroughly—perhaps a little too thoroughly.’ - -‘My nevvy,’ returned Isaac loftily, ‘may be trusted to do his dooty, -Sam’el. ’T is more nor can be said for many folks as be all for pokin’ -their noses where they bain’t wanted!’ - -Mr. Cross’s always sallow complexion assumed an even more jaundiced hue -as he retorted: - -‘Most people do no business on Sunday—in England they don’t at least; but -I suppose Mr. Richard Marshall has brought foreign notions back with him. -He was seen two or three weeks ago doing _business_ with Mrs. Fiander -quite as per usual. They were standin’ close together lookin’ over a -gate, just as if he and she were keepin’ company. And he was tellin’ her -such touchin’ business details that she was actually crying, Mr. Sharpe.’ - -‘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 caught napping. -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 your _business_! 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’ll_ find 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 at that -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. They _are_ lying -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 big mead,’ 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 vainly bellowing 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 hedge -that 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. - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - - 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. - -ONCE outside, 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, she hearkened 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 up with 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 harsh laugh. ‘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 at all, 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 her selfish 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 an earlier 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. - - - -CHAPTER IX - - - L’absence est à l’amour - Ce qu’est au feu le vent; - Il éteint le petit, - Mais it allume le grand. - -SEVERAL days 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’ them off 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 perticlar for 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, as though 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 got _Say_? Well, _Your uncle Isaac do say_—_as I hope you’ll -change your mind_—’ - -‘Had n’t I better put _he_ hopes?’ 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 were _I_ who 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_, _and __every 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 put _A_ twice, 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 to disturb -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 him to 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 the -responsibility 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, the lock 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, dropping her 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. - - - -CHAPTER X - - - 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. - -THE cutting 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 malevolent red-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 b_i_-c_y_cling along the road I made -sure he must be going straight to you, and then when I did see his -b_i-_c_y_cle 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 down through 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 you had 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; gazed idly, -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 so often? 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 acting -as 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. ‘We have 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. - -He was silent, and Rosalie, quick to perceive her advantage, went on -eagerly: - -‘I ask you to leave me, Richard; I want you to go now. It is quite true -that you have a kind of power over me, and that if you’—her voice -faltered for a moment, but she steadied it—‘if you go on urging me and -persuading me you will very likely make me give in in the end; but I ask -you, _because_ you love me, not to do this. We could not be really happy -if—if we came together through being dishonourable and ungrateful. It is -better to do right at all costs. As for me, I mean to keep my word to -your uncle. I will try my best to make him a good wife and to forget -you.’ - -‘And have you thought,’ returned he, with a bitterness which he could not -control—‘have you thought at all of what is to become of me? The whole -thing is absurd,’ he went on with increasing irritation. ‘Do you think -for a moment that my uncle could suffer a tithe of what I shall suffer? -You know very well he is not capable of it. Besides—’ He broke off. - -‘I know what you mean,’ said Rosalie, colouring faintly. ‘He would not -have thought of marrying me if I had not first suggested it. But I did -suggest it, and he is very fond of me now.’ - -‘Fond!’ echoed the young man scornfully. - -‘Yes, as fond as it is in his nature to be. He has been faithful to me, -and I will be faithful to him. I will do nothing that could pain or -humiliate him. Some day you too will feel glad that you have not injured -your benefactor.’ - -‘Then what do you want me to do?’ said Richard, still half sullenly, -though she saw by his face that her words had struck home. - -‘I want you to go away now—go quite away as you intended—as fast as you -can—before—before anything happens to make us change our minds.’ - -In the words, in her pleading eyes there was that same piteous confession -of weakness which had before touched Richard, and which now roused afresh -his most generous instincts. - -‘I will do what you wish,’ he said. ‘You are a good woman, Rosalie; -I—will go.’ - -‘To-night?’ - -‘Yes; now!’ - -She glanced at him quickly, opened her mouth as if to speak, and then -turned away without carrying out her intention. - -Thus they parted, without another word or a clasp of the hands. Richard -climbed up the bank and disappeared from view, and Rosalie remained -standing where he had left her. - - - -CHAPTER XI - - - [Picture: Music score from Hayden’s Surprise symphony] - -WHEN Richard emerged from the shadowy hollow where he had left his -mistress standing as if turned to stone, he found all the land about him -bathed with the rosy glow of sunset. The long ‘rollers’ of newly-cut -grass over which he stepped were touched here and there by arrows of -light, and the twigs of the hedge towards which he made his way were -outlined as by fire. - -He saw none of these things, however; but when, climbing the low bank and -passing through a gap in the hedge, he descended into the road, he was -suddenly recalled to actualities by the unexpected appearance of a -colossal figure which seemed to be mounting guard over his bicycle. - -As Richard started back Farmer Sharpe rose from his seat on the bank, and -stood square and determined before him, the ruddy light playing upon his -rugged face and shaggy hair and glorifying his white smock. One great -hand still rested on the saddle of the bicycle, which it almost entirely -covered. As Richard remained dumbly gazing at him, his fingers began to -drum an impatient tune on its smooth surface. - -The young man gazed desperately first at him and then at the bicycle, -filled with an insane desire to possess himself of it and ride away at -full speed. But whether because his courage failed him, or because -nobler and more manly feelings gained the ascendency over this momentary -cowardice, he did not put the design into execution. - -After gazing steadily at his nephew for what seemed an interminable time, -Isaac removed his hand from the bicycle and pointed in the direction of -the little dell. - -‘I seed ’ee there, Richard,’ he remarked in a sepulchral tone. ‘I seed -’ee there with Mrs. F.’ - -Richard braced himself, and looked him full in the face, but made no -rejoinder. - -‘’Ees,’ said the farmer, ‘I seed ye both; and I’ve been a-waiting here -for ye, Richard.’ - -Still silence. Richard, indeed, felt that it would be useless to enter -upon either explanation or apology. - -Mr. Sharpe’s hand crept back to the saddle and resumed its impatient -tune; he planted his legs a little more widely apart, continuing the -while to stare unwinkingly in his nephew’s face. - -When the tension had become almost unbearable, he spoke again. - -‘I thought I ’d wait for ’ee here,’ he said. ‘I thought ye ’d very -likely have summat to say to me.’ - -The young man bit his lip and clenched his hands; he could scarcely brook -the expectant look in those eyes. - -‘What am I to say, Uncle Isaac? I—what can I say? I’m going away at -once.’ - -The combined effect of sunshine and emotion had already intensified the -farmer’s usually healthy colour, but this announcement caused it to -deepen to a positively alarming extent. For a moment he seemed in danger -of suffocation; he raised his hand mechanically to the loose collar of -his smock and clutched at it; his eyes seemed ready to start from their -sockets, and, though he opened his mouth and rolled his head from side to -side as though about to fulminate against his nephew, no words came. - -‘Don’t,’ cried Richard, much alarmed—‘don’t be so angry, uncle—you really -need n’t be so much upset. I tell you I’m going away at once—to-night.’ - -Farmer Sharpe sank down on the bank, sliding his legs out before him -rigid as a pair of compasses; his head continued to roll threateningly, -and his eyes to gaze fiercely at Richard, but it was some time before he -could find voice. - -‘Ye can’t go to-night,’ he said at last, in husky, suffocating tones: -‘there bain’t no train to-night.’ - -‘Not from Branston, I know; but I mean to ride to Wimborne, and catch the -night train there.’ - -Somehow this catching of the night train at Wimborne seemed to be the -culminating point of Richard’s depravity. Isaac positively groaned -aloud; the fierceness went out of his eyes, and to Richard’s infinite -distress they filled with tears. - -‘What more can I do?’ he faltered, torn with remorse and grief as he bent -over him. - -‘I did n’t think it of ’ee, Richard—nay, if anybody had told me ye ’d go -for to do such a thing I would n’t ha’ believed ’em. To go off wi’out a -word to I—me as has been a father to ’ee—nay, not so much as a word!’ - -He paused, choked with emotion, and fell to wiping his eyes and shaking -his head disconsolately; while Richard, slowly straightening himself, -stood looking down at him. - -‘When Job Hunt did call me, and did p’int out as you was standin’—you and -Mrs. F.—hand in hand: both hands in both hands,’ he added, correcting -himself, ‘I didn’t let on to take no notice. I did send Job about his -business, and I did say to myself, “I’ll wait,” says I. “My nevvy ’ull -tell me all about it jist now.” And I did go and sit me down here. Says -I, “I’ll not interfere; I’ll wait,” I says; “Richard will out wi’ it all -to I—he’ll act straight,” I says. “He’ll tell me.”’ - -He spoke almost appealingly. Richard’s face, which had turned from white -to red, was now white again. - -‘I wanted to spare you, uncle,’ he murmured at last, falteringly. - -Isaac groaned, and shook his head; then drawing a long breath, and -peering anxiously at his nephew, he whispered pleadingly: - -‘What was you a-sayin’ to Mrs. F. when you was a-holdin’ of her hands, -Richard?’ - -‘Oh,’ groaned the other impatiently, ‘there are some things that can’t be -talked about! I should n’t have held her hands—I scarcely knew that I -was holding them. What does it matter now? We have said good-bye to -each other for ever; we have made up our minds never to see each other -again.’ - -Isaac’s jaw dropped; he brought down his fist heavily on the bank beside -him. - -‘Well,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘I’m danged! I can’t get no -satisfaction. Not a word!’ - -‘You know enough,’ said Richard fiercely. ‘Be content with what I tell -you—I will never darken your doors again.’ - -Isaac brought down his fist once more on the bank, and then slowly -hoisted himself on to his feet. - -‘If ye have n’t naught to say to I, I’ve summat to say to you,’ he -announced, speaking very slowly. ‘I bain’t a-goin’ to let ’ee go off -like that. ’T is my way to be straightfor’ard. I’ll speak my mind plain -to ’ee this night, and I’ll speak my mind to Mrs. F. Where be Mrs. F.? -Come along of I, Richard, and find her.’ - -He had squeezed through the gap in the hedge while still speaking, and -Richard had no choice but to follow him. A few strides brought them to -the dell, and, looking down, they descried Rosalie standing in the same -attitude as that in which Richard had left her. - -‘Mrs. Fiander,’ called Isaac, bending over the brink, ‘will ’ee oblige me -by stepping up here? The sides be a bit steep, and I bain’t so young as -I were—I can’t very well go down, but I ’d be obliged if you ’d step up. -I ’ve summat to say to you and my nevvy here.’ - -Rosalie had started violently at the sound of his voice, and now obeyed -his summons in silence; but she trembled so much, and the wet grass had -become so slippery, that she stumbled often, and it was some time before -she completed the ascent. Meanwhile both men stood watching her, -motionless, and in silence. Once or twice she had raised her eyes -towards the great white figure which awaited her on the brink, and it -seemed to her that Isaac’s face was grave and stern like the face of a -judge. She did not dare once glance at Richard, but she felt, even -without looking at him, that their secret was discovered. - -The farmer backed a little away from the edge of the dell when Rosalie -came forth, and stood looking from one to the other; then he spoke very -solemnly, and with some hesitation. - -‘Mrs. Fiander, as I was a-sayin’ to Richard jist now, ’t is best to be -straightfor’ard—’ees, ’t is best to speak out, even when it be hard to -speak out. I can’t get no satisfaction from Richard—he did acshally tell -I to my face as he had made up his mind to go straight off wi’out a -single word to I. He comes wi’out a word and he goes wi’out a word! -Now, Mrs. F., I did see you together jist now, and I did think as you ’d -have summat to tell me.’ - -There was a long pause. Isaac looked once more from Rosalie’s graceful, -shrinking figure to the other culprit, who stood with bent head, awaiting -the storm of reproach and vituperation. - -‘From the very first,’ pursued Isaac, still in that solemn and somewhat -stern tone, ‘I did tell ’ee my mind plain, Mrs. Fiander. I did tell ’ee -straight out, did n’t I? as I had n’t never fixed my thoughts on -materimony. ’T was you as was set on it—’ - -‘Oh, I know,’ interrupted Rosalie. ‘I know it too well. Do not throw it -in my face now!’ - -‘Throw it in your face, Mrs. F.! Who’s a-throwing o’ what in your face? -All I do say is I did al’ays do my best for ’ee—don’t you go for to blame -me, for blame I do not deserve.’ - -Both raised their heads and looked at him, astonished at the change of -tone, for now the old man seemed to speak more in sorrow than in anger. - -‘I did al’ays do my best for ’ee. I did al’ays think and act as kind as -I could, and you did never once think of I. ’Ees, I did never -interfere,’ he went on, more emphatically; ‘I left ye both to -yourselves—did n’t I? I never comed in your way. But ye mid ha’ given -me a thought.’ - -The penitent heads drooped again. What need had they to be reminded how -guileless he had been, how unsuspicious, how chivalrous in thought and -deed! - -‘’Ees,’ went on Isaac, ‘I did leave ye to yourselves—I did ax ye to make -friends. Do you mind how often I axed ye to be friends?’ - -True indeed; only too true! They had taken a base advantage of his -confidence; they had profited of the opportunities he had given them only -to be more and more unfaithful to him in their hearts. - -‘I thought you ’d be different to what you do be,’ he continued, with -increasing severity. ‘When Sam’el Cross did tell I as you ’d snap up -Mrs. F., Richard, what did I say? Says I, “My nevvy bain’t a snapper!” -D’ ye mind? I said the same thing to you. Well, I thought maybe you ’d -say summat then—but not a word!’ - -‘Uncle, I—it is n’t fair to reproach me like this. I kept away from -Littlecomb as long as I could; you know that.’ - -‘’Ees, I do know it, Richard—I know it very well; you would n’t come with -me when I did ax ’ee that Sunday. You would n’t come along o’ me to -Littlecomb; nay, but you went out by yourself that night, and when you -comed back ye would n’t so much as sit down and smoke a pipe like an -honest Christian; and next day you must get up and go off wi’ yourself -before ’t were light. And what did I do then—what did I do, Richard, -though you ’d gone off and left me wi’out so much as a line? I did n’t -give up hopes of ’ee yet. I went and wrote ’ee a letter and told ’ee to -come back, and all ’ud be forgive and forgot. There now, and what do ’ee -say to that?’ - -His face was working with emotion, his voice tremulous for all its -strength. Never in his life, probably, had Isaac Sharpe put so many -words together, and every one of them came from his heart. To the young -people it seemed as though all their struggles had been futile, their -good desires vain, their great sacrifice useless: for all their days they -would be branded with infamy. They had, indeed, stopped short of the -breach of faith to which both had been so strongly tempted, but they had -nevertheless violated trust. - -‘And even now,’ said Isaac—‘even at the very last, when you were for -cuttin’ off wi’out no explanation, I did give ’ee one more chance—and you -would n’t take it.’ - -‘What in Heaven’s name do you want to say?’ cried Richard, goaded to -desperation. ‘Do you want me to tell you to your face that I love the -woman you are going to marry?’ - -‘Nay now,’ returned his uncle in an expostulatory tone, ‘I would n’t go -so far as that. I bain’t onreasonable. All I did ever think o’ axin’ ye -was for you and Mrs. F. to see if ye could n’t take to each other. That -were my notion. Ye might ha’ gived each other a fair trial—a fair -trial!’ - -The young couple stared at him blankly, hardly believing their ears; then -Richard cried out with a gasp: ‘Rosalie, do you hear—do you understand? -He _wanted_ us to love each other!’ - -‘Nay,’ interrupted the farmer, in a tone that was at once dignified and -explanatory, ‘I did n’t expect so much straight off—Love! No, no, not -love—but ye mid ha’ jist tried to fancy one another! Ye mid ha’ had a -bit o’ consideration for me, I think. Ye knowed, both on ye, as -materimony would n’t come easy to I; and seein’ as you did tell me plain, -Richard, the very first night you come home, as you was on the look-out -for a wife, why not Mrs. F. so well as another?’ - -It was Rosalie’s turn to gasp now, and her face bloomed like a rose in -the evening light; but neither she nor Richard spoke; both were so -suddenly brought down from their heights of heroics that it was natural -they should feel somewhat dizzy and confused. - -‘I’m a man o’ my word,’ said Isaac, ‘and if ye have made up your mind and -fixed your ch’ice on I, Mrs. F., why’—drawing a deep breath—‘I’ll keep my -promise, my dear. But if Richard ’ud do so well as me ’t ’ud be a deal -more convenient, d’ ye see? It ’ud seem a bit queer to change my state -at my time o’ life, and to leave the old home where I was born and bred. -And Richard, he has a very good notion o’ farmin’, and he ’d be willing -to carry on the work in the old way, and to take advice from I, d’ ye -see? Ah, the notion did come to I soon arter he comed here. Thinks I to -myself, I wonder if Richard ’ud do—’t ’ud be a deal more suitable, thinks -I; and more satisfactory to all parties.’ - -Here Isaac was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from his -nephew—laughter which was indeed the outlet of such an extraordinary -mixture of emotions that they had nearly found vent in tears. The -exquisite sense of relief, the unhoped-for joy stirred his very heart’s -depths; but, on the other hand, the humour of the situation struck him -with almost equal force. After the overwhelming remorse, the bitter -sense of shame which but a few moments ago had tortured them, to discover -that their contemplated sacrifice had very nearly set at naught good old -Isaac’s dearest wish! - -‘Oh, uncle, uncle!’ he cried as soon as the first ecstatic outburst of -mirth had subsided, ‘why did you not speak before?’ - -‘’T would n’t ha’ been very becomin’ for me to speak,’ returned the -farmer, still with great dignity. ‘I knowed my dooty to Mrs. F., and I -were n’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ as mid hurt her feelin’s. But I did try -and bring ye together, Richard; and I did try to give ye so many hints as -I could. D’ ye mind how often I did say what a dear woman Mrs. F. were, -and what a good wife she ’d make? Ah, many a time I did. And d’ ye mind -how I used to tell ’ee it was bad to hurt a woman’s feelin’s? And you -would n’t take a bit o’ pains to be friendly and pleasant wi’ her! I did -look for some return from ’ee, Richard, and I were disapp’inted. And I -did expect at least as ye would tell me straight whether you could take -to the notion or whether ye could n’t. ’T was the least ye mid do, I -think. I were that anxious, and that upset—I don’t see as it’s any -laughin’ matter,’ he continued with gathering wrath, for Rosalie’s face -was now dimpling all over with smiles and Richard’s hilarity seemed to -increase rather than diminish. ‘Come, I’ll have a straight answer one -way or t’ other. Will ye give up this here stupid notion o’ going out o’ -the country, Richard, and bide here and see if you and Mrs. F. can’t make -it up between ye? And you, Mrs. F., my dear, will ’ee jist think over -this here matter, and see if Richard would n’t do as well as me?’ - -Richard suddenly ceased laughing, and stepped to Rosalie’s side. - -‘Will you, Rosalie?’ he said, very gently and tenderly. ‘Will you try to -like me a little?’ - -And, without waiting for an answer, he took her hands and laid them -softly about his own neck, and stooped and kissed her. - -‘Dear heart alive!’ exclaimed Isaac, clapping his hands. ‘That were n’t -sich a bad beginning, Richard, I will say! You bain’t very slack once -you do make a start.’ He paused to laugh, long and loud. ‘Well, I -never!’ he cried. ‘Nay, Richard, ye don’t do things by halves. Well, -Mrs. F., my dear,’ he added, more anxiously, seeing that Rosalie did not -speak, ‘what d’ ye say?’ - -‘I suppose,’ returned Rosalie faintly, with her face half hidden on -Richard’s shoulder, ‘I suppose I’ll have to try.’ - -‘Do ’ee now, my dear,’ cried Isaac, much relieved. ‘Ye’ll find ye won’t -_re_-pent it. And ye’ll not lose nothing by it neither,’ he added as an -afterthought. ‘Richard be jist the same as a son to I—he’ll have all as -I ’ve a-got to leave when I be gone. I don’t want for to seem unkind, -but it ’ud be a very great comfort to me if ye could make up your mind -to’t.’ - -‘Oh, I think,’ murmured Rosalie, ‘that I can make up my mind to it.’ - -‘Well, then,’ cried Isaac, chuckling and rubbing his hands, ‘all’s well -as ends well! ’Ees, we may say that—all’s well as ends well! We’ll be -the best o’ friends as ever; but I do think as Richard ’ull be more -suitable as a husband, my dear. Ye mid as well see Mrs. F. home now, -Richard. I think I’ll go back to my bit o’ supper; ’t will be cold -enough by now, I reckon.’ - -With a nod and a broad smile he left them, and pursued his homeward way, -pausing ever and anon to look backwards at the two lithe young figures -which moved slowly along above the dark irregular line of hedge—the bent -heads, very close together, outlined against the lambent evening sky. -Once, after one of these backward glances, he began to chuckle. - -‘They’ve a-took to the notion nicely,’ he said. ‘’Ees, I reckon they’ll -do!’ - - * * * * * - - THE END - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIANDER'S WIDOW*** - - -******* This file should be named 66622-0.txt or 66622-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/6/6/2/66622 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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