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.