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.