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.