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!