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.